PART 2 TEASER: Darren Lawrence, seemingly now trapped within the body of a teenage girl, copes with an adult world that no longer sees him as one of their own. As Darren begins to defiantly push back at the world that has rejected him, he experiences surprising success and crushing failure. His marriage is tested further with a decision that will challenge the fledgling union. Worse still, his actions, once firmly grounded in logical and reasoned thought, show a surprising lack of judgement. Do they represent the actions of a man desperately clinging to the adult world, or has something more sinister nestled within his mind? Through all of this, his music may be the only thing that keeps him sane. (This is part 2 of 9, part 1 is required reading)
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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story is my thank you to a community that has provided me free fiction for years. It is also my first story (and probably my last), and I will warn you- it is long. My intrepid editor, Robyn Hoode, slaved through the drafts of the story, providing insightful and helpful commentary. His enthusiasm for the subject material kept me motivated. Honestly, without him and his constant feedback, this story wouldn’t exist. So, if you enjoy this story, you have him to thank, as much as me.
This story is very much a slow-burn, character-driven transformation. As I said, it is lengthy, but I hope you will stay for the entire ride.
Please feel free to leave a comment or to send feedback to the following e-mail: oneshot20XX [at] gmail.com
DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
PART 2
Chapter 20

The alarm on Amélie’s phone jolted me awake. I shot up immediately, eyes wide and mind buzzing from the dream. Amélie groaned as she turned over to face me. “Darren, you hit me in your sleep again. You were screaming too.” Tenderness washed over the gravelly tone of Amélie’s morning voice, “Are you OK? You look freaked out.”

I nodded slowly, “I think so, another weird dream.” I looked down at myself, half expecting to see that I was dressed like I was in the dream. I peered into the mirror on the bedroom closet, and my face was devoid of makeup. My hair was messy, the bangs dangling in my eyes, and thankfully, I was still wearing a pair of my pajama pants and the same white t-shirt I wore to bed. I breathed a sigh of relief. Still, the dream stayed with me. I wasn’t sure if it was just my paranoid mind playing tricks on me or if it would actually be prophetic. In any case, I had no interest in meeting any guy after my run-in with Brad, let alone dressing like a whore to gain his attention.

Amélie started pulling all manner of professional clothing out of her side of the closet- skirts, blouses, suit jackets, which she threw on the bed. “You’d better get in the shower, Darren, it’s going to take a while to dry your hair. Plus, we’ll need to shave your legs.”

It was no use fighting Amélie. She had volunteered to help, and as much as I did not want to run the gauntlet of shaving, curling, plucking and primping- I had put myself in this corner. If I didn't want to be treated as a teenager then this was what I needed to do. I had to look like a young professional woman and professional women dressed this way. If I could convince someone outside my family that I was at least in my late teens to very early twenties, I could also regain some of the ground I had lost in this war. Clearly, Samantha and Rachel thought that I was a teenager, and my sister figured that I was only fourteen, but I planned to prove them wrong.

I knew the inner workings of law, information that only came from experience. Those interviewing me would surely realize this. They would not be able to use ageism to deny me this job. If I could have this victory, then I could stop the indignity that was my slow and painful expulsion from the adult world.

I finished showering. I had learned how to properly wring out my hair to avoid creating puddles that only a sock-wearing Amélie would step in. Even wringing it out, because of the length and thickness, it took nearly half an hour to dry my hair thoroughly- because apparently just moving the blow dryer around to random spots on my head didn’t actually do the job.

Afterward, Amélie sat me on the toilet and proceeded to shave my legs. My leg hair was fine, and Amélie commented on this, but I was indifferent. I was more concerned with hiding what was between my legs, or rather, what wasn’t.

Amélie raised a brow at my behaviour, “You know I have one of those too. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Darren.”

I frowned, trying to keep my legs closed, “It’s just embarrassing, Amélie. I don’t want you seeing me with-well…”

Amélie stated matter-of-factly, “A vagina.”

I nodded, and I felt my cheeks redden, “Yeah. That.”

Amélie didn’t say anything more. She was going through the process of getting me ready in a clinical manner. I was pleased that she wasn’t enjoying it, but I also didn’t want her to be mad at me. I wanted to go one day without us fighting. Amélie finished my legs and then did my arm pits.

Amélie frowned, “It’s almost six, and I haven’t even started getting ready. Plus, I need to get Chloe up. Think you can pick something out to wear that will match?”

She put emphasis on the last word, knowing that while I could dress my male body, since almost everything matched with black, I might have difficulty once I entered the world of pastels. Amélie often poked fun at my inability to dress Chloe in matching clothing.

I nodded and then immediately regretted my decision as Amélie left the room to take her own shower. I picked up a tan-coloured skirt and then a pale pink blouse. I then grabbed a black suit jacket. I put the skirt and blouse against my body as I had seen Amélie do. I had no idea if they matched. I rummaged through the pile and found a simple black skirt. I pulled the skirt over my hips and then zipped it up from the back.

The clothing that Amélie had chosen would fit because it was part of her “skinny” wardrobe. I wasn’t complaining about the skirt’s length, which on Amélie was knee-length, but on me it was four inches lower. The less skin I showed the better. I chose a simple white blouse. I fumbled with the black bra that Amélie had chosen. I was never a wizard at unhooking a bra. I hadn’t had any practice in high school and only some in university. I kept twisting around to try and see the fastenings in the bedroom mirror.

I heard Amélie’s voice behind me, “You're really are terrible at that.”

I shot back, “You’d be happier if I was a pro at putting on a bra?”

Amélie walked up behind me and hooked the bra seamlessly. She frowned at the suit jacket on the bed. “This is navy blue. The skirt is black. And this blouse doesn’t go either. You can’t wear this with that thin suit jacket. It’s got ruffles. The idea is that it needs to be a smooth line. The ruffles will make you look-“

Amélie stopped. I could see her looking at my skirt. “OK. So, you want to be taken seriously in an interview, and you wear boxers. They are so bulky. I figured you would have worn panties at least. You can’t have it both ways, if you want to be seen as an adult woman- you have to dress the part.”

She made me undress completely and put on a pair of panties. I was thankful she didn’t suggest a thong, but then, I doubt she wanted to be sharing thongs. So women, just to avoid a panty line, needed walk around all day with a string up their butt. I was beginning to understand Amélie when she said that that women sacrificed comfort for appearance.

Amélie did my makeup next. She did it tastefully, hardly the tramp paint from my dream. She then moved to my hair, which took the longest. The issue was that Amélie sucked at doing anything resembling an up-do. She put pins in it to keep the hair in place, but when the strands started coming loose, Amélie started swearing at my hair. She swore at her computer, at other drivers and the tax man, but my hair was a new target.

Eventually, as it neared 7:30, she was finished. She took no time to admire her creation. She whisked Chloe into her arms and hurried out the door. I shouted that I had no shoes to wear, but she didn’t hear me. She was going to be late for work. I sighed at the time lost to create something that might work. I mourned the fact that previously I could wake up a half hour before it was time to leave and still had time to make my lunch and even watch a little TV. If I stayed in this body and got a job that was remotely professional, I would have to go through a similar routine every day.

I peered at myself in the mirror. Amélie used cover-up to hide the freckles underneath my eyes. She also brought out my cheekbones to disguise the roundness of my cheeks. Unfortunately, the fact that my hair was off my face accentuated the roundness of my chin and jaw. The baby fat was still visible. Amélie was no hair dresser, and if I had paid for the styling she did, I would have asked for my money back.

While the hair was off my face, a few loose strands tickled my neck in places. Still, perhaps my clothing would convince the interviewers that I did not belong in second period tenth grade Algebra. Amélie had chosen a pale pink blouse with a black skirt and suit jacket. The blouse was fully buttoned with the jacket outlining instead of emphasizing my breasts. Amélie lent me her watch to complete the ensemble. It was dainty and very feminine.

My face was still the weak link in my plan. My height did not help, and because I had no experience walking in heels, I opted for a pair of black shoes with only a half inch heel. Wow, I was a full half inch taller. I chose one of Amélie’s more stylish purses, a burgundy coach bag knock off. How did I know that? Well, apparently I listened when Amélie told me things that I really had no interest in.

I scrutinized my appearance. I could pull this off if they didn’t kick me out of there immediately, laughing and pointing at the little girl trying to act all grown up. I would pull it off with what I had to say, not my appearance. As I looked closer, I had reservations. The suit jacket was made for someone taller, so it hung too low, cinching below the waist instead of on it. I frowned. It looked like I was wearing my older sister’s clothes, especially because the skirt was too low. The sleeves of the blouse were too long. I had to roll them slightly to avoid them hiding the palm of my hand. Also, I wasn’t sure, but I think the purse may not have matched. I looked at the watch and saw it was already ten minutes to 8, so instead of walking, I was going to have to run.

It was unlike me to be even close to late for a job interview, but with the parade of humiliation that I had to endure, the time slipped my mind. I was thankful that the law office was close. I smartly removed the heels and put on the tennis shoes, carrying the heels with me as I locked the door. I pumped my legs like I used to, shocked at just how slow I was. When I was running from Brad, all I felt was the adrenaline and the instinct to flee. I noticed my steps far more that I actually had time to analyze what must have looked like a ridiculous run. A teenage girl, dressed in slightly ill-fitting work clothing, wearing tennis shoes with loose strands of hair flapping behind her with a purse that may or may not have matched.

Because of my skirt, I had to take short mincing steps. As a man, I used to glide as I sprinted, my feet barely touching the ground. Now, my steps were less fluid and definitely heavier. I had lost weight compared to my male body, but much of it was muscle. This body was not as coordinated as my slim but athletic frame. Basically, I ran like a girl, and as stereotypical and possibly sexist as they may seem, it was true. I had seen women run that way because of the limitations of their clothing. I had a double whammy of short not exactly muscular legs and the constricting nature of the skirt.

I arrived at the law office with two minutes to spare.

It was in a small, modern looking building next to a skate park. The outside had windows all around, and I could see that even the lawyer’s offices had an open concept with glass doors. Even from the outside, I saw no hint of cubicles. There were workstations with walls no higher than three feet. I hurriedly pulled off my tennis shoes and put on the black dress shoes. They were Amélie’s and didn’t fit very well, but I would only have to wear them while I was inside.

There were a few skateboarders, who likely should have been in school, and one young man with a battered acoustic guitar. He wore a leather jacket, but his other clothing, a suit jacket and tie with black dress pants, showed that he went to a school where uniforms were the norm. There was no room in my purse for the tennis shoes, so I threw them in a bush that made up a small garden in front of the office. It was not an elegant solution, but I doubted that any real woman would carry her shoes into an interview.

I was annoyed when I realized that I could have put the shoes on the shoe rack just inside the door. I was surprised at my impulsive decision to leave my shoes outside, but I had to hurry and announce myself. Ideally, I wanted to arrive ten minutes early. I thought arriving one minute before might appear unprofessional, but it was too late to worry about that.

The office looked brand new. There was still protective plastic on some of the workstation chairs. The reception area, which was deserted, had an unopened laptop box and an unconnected telephone. The only contact I had was through e-mail- a woman named Stephanie Locke. She had the usual titles next to her name in the e-mail, so I knew that she was a lawyer. I had done some research on the firm, but was unable to find much. I knew that Stephanie practiced different aspects of law, but her speciality was constitutional law and human rights law. Her husband, Anthony, the other partner, specialized in administrative law. This would be a perfect match based on my work as a paralegal- if I could get even one word out without being sent home.

I took my resume out of a shiny black plastic jacket. I had no idea how I looked because I hadn’t brought a mirror or even a compact. I knew that more strands of hair had come loose. Amélie had done her best, but I knew that I had to impress them with my knowledge before my appearance affected their judgement.

A heavy set thirty-something woman opened her office door. She had mousy brown hair and a serious, intelligent face. She was dressed in a grey pants suit that hugged her curves. She dressed for her size, and her choices were flattering. She greeted me with a smile, and I shook her hand more firmly than she expected. Either that, or she was scrutinizing my appearance.

“Abigail is it? Sorry, we just moved here, and we are still getting things in order. That will be part of your job, should you get it of course.”

While the woman was pleasant, she was forthright. She had a strength to her voice that no doubt helped her in court. She was still looking at me as I ended the handshake. I could see her mind working, removing parts of my disguise, piecing together the evidence to reach an eventual conclusion. I maintained eye contact and continued to meet her smile with one of my own.

“Yes, Abigail Lawrence. I am here about the legal assistant position.”

I felt awkward walking around in the skirt, but I tried to move gracefully. I felt, generally, very uncomfortable in women’s clothing. It was like wearing a Halloween costume to a job interview. I thought that at any moment, I would be declared a fraud, not only regarding my age, but my gender as well.

As Stephanie brought me into her office, I sat and crossed my left leg over my right. I knew that at least, and it made sitting in the skirt more comfortable. Stephanie was still smiling, but it was calculated. I needed to begin this interview before she ended it.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly Ms. Locke. As you will see from my resume, I have experience in constitutional, human rights and administrative law. I am also familiar with the court system regarding the filing of documents. I am well versed in the creation of disclosure packages and the binding of material such as books of authorities. I can also use a number of different methods to conduct research including both electronic and traditional means such as Black’s law and Herald’s Interpretation of Statues. I can also edit and draft simple contracts.”

If Stephanie was expecting such a concise yet detailed summary of my experience, she certainly didn’t show it. I saw her eyes widen, and her head even moved backward awkwardly. She was amazed, just like Dr. Alberts.

Stephanie replied, still bearing a semi-astonished look, “That’s very impressive, Abigail. You are telling me that you gained all that experience working for this- Amélie Grenier?”

I nodded my head, “Yes, I am a very fast learner. I started as a clerk, but once they saw that I could do the work, well they gave me more. They were pleased with it.”

Stephanie nodded, “Ok, but Ms. Grenier is a tax lawyer- she-“

I interrupted her. This is usually the cardinal sin of interviews, but I needed to fill in the blanks of my resume. “She works at the tax court yes.”

Stephanie furrowed her brow, “How did you gain experience in human rights and constitutional law? Isn’t the tax court an administrative tribunal?”

I knew this was a test. It was to see if I had padded my resume just to match it to the partners at her firm. I nodded my head and smiled confidently. “Because there were times when an individual would argue that a particular portion of the Income Tax Act was unconstitutional or that it violated their human rights. Usually, it was section 15 of the Charter, but the defence was never successful because they were unable to prove they belonged to a disadvantaged group. That is what the Supreme Court has ruled each time.”

I knew my stuff, and Stephanie was clearly impressed. She leaned forward and placed her hands on the desk. She wore a half-smile, but it was the eyes that revealed just how awe-struck she was by my performance. I usually did well in interviews.

Stephanie said warmly, “You are a very impressive young woman, Abigail. I certainly didn’t know any of what you know at your age.”

I raised an eyebrow at this, my eyes jetting off to the side as I tried to formulate a response. Stephanie broke in before I could speak, “The position we are looking to staff is for a full-time legal assistant. I’m afraid that’s mostly getting coffee for clients, paperwork, photocopying, and light bookkeeping. You would prepare some court documents, but there wouldn’t likely be any research.”

I piped in eagerly, “But it doesn’t bother me. I just enjoy working in law. I like the atmosphere and the continual learning. I enjoy the evolution of law, Ms. Locke, the idea that one interpretation can change the very foundations of a country. Look at Roe vs. Wade or R. v. Morgentalier. These are monumental cases.”

Stephanie nodded her head slowly and said softly, “They are Abigail. Listen though, I was like you once, in a hurry to grow up. I think you will make a fantastic lawyer one day, but you can’t rush things. You should enjoy these years. Keep the law in your back pocket and get all the experience you can, but don’t do what I did.”

As she continued, I knew that my disguise was blown, “I spent all of high school with my nose in a book, and when I got to university I turned into a party girl to make up for it. Nearly failed my first year. Alcohol poisoning multiple times. I think if I had balanced things, you know gone to dances and tried to be social at school, it would have been easier to get used to university life. You are a super smart girl, Abigail, but I can’t hire a high school girl as my full-time receptionist. Mostly because, it would be illegal.”

I just stared at her, my eyes threatening to form tears as the emotions threatened the flood gates, teasing at them with each word that sunk a dagger into any hope of my being treated like an adult in this body.

“Oh Abigail, I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. I’m sure you are terribly bored in high school, but if you want to be a lawyer, you need to put the time in. Listen, I want to recommend you, no, invite you to our summer outreach program. I don’t think I will get a better candidate than you. It’s a paid internship that we usually give to pre-law students, but with your knowledge and ability, I doubt any of them could compete. I will need to talk it over with my husband, but I am sure after he meets you that he will agree.”

I was crestfallen and Stephanie could tell. I felt like I could fall through the floor. She put her arm on my shoulder, “I was where you are, Abigail. Just trust me. What does Ms. Grenier say about this, you worked with her last summer I am guessing? I know you padded this resume at least slightly- most lawyers do it, but most can’t talk their way out of it either.” She beamed at me, but I thought she was being patronizing.

“She thinks I am ready.” I answered firmly, but I sniffed lightly, trying to contain the tears that threatened to flow.

“Well if she is any kind of lawyer, she would know that it is against the law to hire a teenage girl in a full-time position that would impact her ability to attend school. She didn’t say that, did she Abigail? That you were ready.”

Now I was being chastised for my lie, but if I wanted to be considered for the very distant second prize in this game, I needed to come clean, “She didn’t. She said,” I sighed, “that I would be more than ready one day.”

Stephanie smiled and patted my shoulder- just like Dr. Alberts. My eyes flashed with anger, but Stephanie did not seem to notice. “I don’t blame you for trying this. And I am serious, Abigail, you will make an amazing lawyer one day. But you need to take your time, experience life. Because there will come a time when you will hate adulthood. Usually around tax time.”

She squeezed my shoulder, “Are you going to be OK? Do you need me to give you a ride to school? And I was serious about the internship offer. Your parents will have to approve it of course. We deal with some unpleasant issues here. Some of the human rights abuse cases can be very difficult to read. A parent or your legal guardian will need to sign this form.”

She gave me the document, and I put it in the purse I had brought. I said, “I will be OK.” The hurt in my eyes told a different story.

Stephanie said, “I want you here the second you finish your final exams Abigail. That’s in June usually right?”

I nodded and sniffed, “Yes. I think so.”

Stephanie added, “Don’t forget to get your parents to sign that form, Abigail. I’ll see you in a few months!”

I trudged out of the law office. My head was lowered. I was defeated. Would I try again in a different office? I began to think of my next step, but my thoughts were interrupted by an obnoxious voice.

“You get the job Doogie Howser?” I turned. It was the leather jacket clad prep school boy.

I don’t know why I allowed him to goad me, but I bit, perhaps because the interview, which had started extremely well, had not ended well. “How do you even know that show existed kid?” Doogie Howser was a television show that ran in the late eighties to early nineties about a sixteen year old boy who becomes a doctor.

He scoffed and furrowed a brow at me, “Kid? I look older than you. And haven’t you ever heard of Nick at Night? We have it on satellite.”

I sat down on the low rock wall in front of the garden and put on my tennis shoes, “Ooh privileged class. Lucky you. Let me guess, your parents have high-stress and high-paying jobs, and that’s why they don’t pay any attention to you. So you act out by skipping school and bothering strangers.”

The boy wore a lop-sided smile, “Actually, I had a dentist appointment, but close enough. You also forgot the part where I started a lame emo band to get out all my feelings about being unappreciated and unloved.”

I replied, “So you’ve discovered sarcasm- good for you.”

I had to admit, if I hadn’t been in such a dreadful mood, the boy might have been half funny. Before he could retort something equally sarcastic I said, “Wait a minute, how did you know how old I am?”

If he could provide some useful information, it might be helpful if I managed to score another interview in the near future.

The boy smirked and sat down next to me on the short garden wall. I inched away, so that my bubble, which had grown since my encounter with Brad, was not invaded. “A couple of things. First, you look like you are trying too hard. Believe me, I have an older sister, and I have seen what she does to try and get into clubs.”

“Next, just the way you walk in those clothes. When I saw you walk in there, you looked really awkward, like you would probably be more comfortable in jeans, and that you likely don’t have a lot of practice wearing clothing like that. ”

He looked down at my hands. “And now that I see them- your nails. They make you look really young. I can’t imagine anyone going to a job interview with nails like that unless it was a clothing store or something.”

He looked me in the eyes. I studied him. I had taught boys like him. I thought he looked like a rat or a weasel with little beady eyes and a somewhat hooked nose. He had straggly dark brown hair that hung down to his nose, partially obscuring his eyes. The acoustic guitar he had been plucking when I arrived was strapped to his back. Basically, he was a little punk kid, probably only fifteen at the most. They were the type who always came in late, never did any work in class and did everything at the very last minute.

I stood up, and he did the same. He was only a few inches taller than I was. Amélie might have been taller than him. “Don’t you want to know the last reason?”

I rolled my eyes and then turned back to him, “Fine. What is it?”

“Your face. It’s a dead give-away. Even with the makeup. So are you going to tell me why you were trying to get a job there? How come you aren’t in school?”

I turned away from him again and started walking toward home. He followed me like an unwanted puppy dog. “Hey, I played detective with you. The least you can do is answer some questions for me. It’s the polite thing to do.”

I turned on him and barked, “Oh like yelling sarcastic comments is really polite. I don’t have to tell you anything kid. Just leave me alone.”

I wasn’t feeling in high spirits exactly and the punk was the target of my ire because he just happened to be standing there.

“Hey come on I’m curious. What does it matter? My mom will be here soon to pick me up, and we’ll probably never see each other again. Just humour me.”

I walked toward home again, turning my back to the persistent annoyance. “What school do you go to? I go to St. Jo’s.” He moved in front of me and pulled his jacket back to show a stylized ‘SJ’ embroidered over his heart. “It’s a generally lame school, but there’s two coffee houses usually. It’s pretty easy to start bands too. I have been in three this year already.”

My eyes widened. I stumbled and the boy reached out to catch my arm. The stylized ‘SJ’ from my dream was the same as that sewn onto the boy’s suit jacket. It was at this point that I realized that the outfit I had been forced into in my dream was a cheerleader outfit. Over my dead body. First it was the pop star, and now a cheerleader. Whoever or whatever had done this to me knew nothing about me, apparently.

I regained my composure as the young punk helped me to stand. He asked, “Hey are you OK? You looked majorly freaked for a second there.”

I saw a black BMW pull into the parking lot of the dentist office. The kid said, “Weak. My mom is here. Well I gotta go, sick talking to you teenage girl- attorney at law. Hope I’ll see you around. Name’s Ethan by the way.”

Apparently, the kid watched reruns of Saturday Night Live as well. He had referenced the old Phil Hartman skit Unfrozen Caveman- attorney at law. I always liked those skits.

I shook my head, “Uh, yeah. Bye.” What a weird kid. I watched him go off and thought for a moment that maybe he didn’t look as weasel-like as I first thought.

***

So how did the interview go, Darren?” Amélie was sitting at the kitchen table eating the spaghetti Bolognaise I had prepared.

I sat across from her. My posture showed how the interview had gone. I sat with my shoulders slumped, my head downcast. My long hair was unbound and nearly dangling in my supper.

“Ok, so not well. You’ll just keep trying, like you always do, right Darren? That is one of the things that I admire about you. You are driven, whether it is music or your career, you push yourself.”

I was surprised by Amélie’s words because I thought she felt that I had made a mistake putting myself out there even though we needed the money. We could have asked our parents for help, but Amélie and I were fiercely independent. Amélie would not accept handouts from either set of parents. Our parents were not well off, but if need be, mine could have paid my half of the mortgage. I also had savings. We were not in terrible financial shape, but couldn’t continue to hemorrhage money indefinitely.

“I was offered a summer internship Amélie- at that same firm. It is paid, but it won’t start until June. After my ‘exams’.” I raised my head, realizing that Amélie still accepted me and supported my decision. Her support was vital to my morale, especially considering that my parents had still not called.

“That’s something, Darren. I think that we’ll be OK until then.”

“Yeah but it’s for a kid, Amélie. It’s an outreach program meant to bring pre-law students into the field to gain experience.”

Amélie replied, “The way I see it, you continue to gain experience if you work there. The woman who interviewed you seemed very nice from what you described. This is not a terrible outcome. It means money, Darren. Just do what you always do.”

I raised a brow, “Work so hard that they feel obligated to try and keep me?”

Amélie nodded, “Exactly. And this is a private firm as well as new. They can hire you if they like you. They don’t have to go through lists of dead wood permanent employees who have been laid off like they do in government."

If you had a permanent position in the government, it was nearly impossible to fire you. Even if you were laid off due to shortage of work, you were placed on a list where other government organizations were forced to consider you, even if you lacked the ideal credentials.

I didn’t tell Amélie about what Stephanie had said about it being illegal to hire me. The law had changed since we had gone to school, and I was only aware of it because I had been a teacher.

I was not heartened by the day’s events. My failure to convince a potential employer that I was even out of high school stayed with me as I fell asleep that night, but I at least could look forward to working in law soon, even if I had to do it in skirts.

That night, I slept terribly. It felt like my stomach was in a vice. I was worried that the stomach flu had returned.

Chapter 21

“Need you home now.”
“So much blood.”

I texted Amélie those words when I realized that the pain in my abdomen wasn’t from a flu bug, it was something much worse.

“Do you need an ambulance, did you cut yourself?”

My phone rang, but I didn’t pick it up. I texted her back.

“Come now I need you.”

Amélie texted back a few minutes later.

“I took a taxi. I will be there in 20 mins.”

I was thankful that Amélie had opted for a taxi. The buses after rush hour were hit and miss. If she missed the bus, it often took up to an hour to catch the next. I was laying on the bathroom floor, exactly how I had been between bouts of throwing up when I had the stomach flu. I actually wished for the stomach flu compared to this.

I was crying uncontrollably. I had rarely been in a position where I could not control my emotions to this degree. Certainly, I had been wronged on the hockey rink before, but I could channel my emotions into a devastating body check. I can only remember twice before when I was like this, when my grandmother died and when I thought I was going to lose Amélie to the other side of the love triangle that had developed.

I banged my fists against the wall in rage, and then seconds later I was back on the floor bawling my eyes out. I was glad Amélie was not there because it would have been extremely unattractive, not to mention disturbing, to see her husband crying hysterically. I knew what this was, but I denied it happening because it only confirmed what everyone who looked at me knew- I was a girl, and a fully-functioning one at that. I clenched my teeth as my abdomen tightened painfully.

I heard the front door open, feet stomping up the stairs, and then my wife saw me sprawled on the bathroom floor, my face streaked with tears and practically hyperventilating. I realized that I may have overreacted to a situation that millions of women faced on a monthly basis from adolescence to middle age. It was unwanted, unexpected and I knew what it meant. I could get pregnant.

It felt like I was going insane. My brain was on fire. The hormones coursing through my body filled me with anger, sadness, indifference, and joy, the latter being a speck of dirt compared to the planet of my ire and depression. I let the emotions consume me. They ran rampant through my mind. I am sure it would have been different had I been born female, where the ritual meant blossoming into a woman. It meant that everything inside was working as it should ... for a girl, certainly, but for a thirty year old man? Hardly.

Maybe I was over dramatizing the whole thing, but menstruation to most men is an enigma. It is a mystery best kept buried, so to experience it while I was already dejected because of my failure at the law office, was like a double-barrelled shotgun blasting alien hormones into a mind already weakened. It took me by surprise, and I had no defence against the onslaught.

I heard Amélie’s voice, but I didn’t look up. “Oh my god, Darren, I had no idea, I thought you were just sick. I would have stayed home had I realised.”

While Amélie sounded supportive, I didn’t hear her come any nearer. Her presence exacerbated the problem, my hyperventilating increased. Was she ashamed of me? I couldn’t bear the thought.

“Sorry Darren, I’m not sure what to do.”

I hoped that Amélie’s mothering instinct would supersede the revulsion she felt at having to deal with another of my crying fits. The first time I cried in front of her in this body, it was extremely awkward because she held me with wooden arms.

I felt her kneel down beside me, “Deep breaths, Darren.” I knew that Amélie was conflicted, but appreciated that she could still help. She gently rubbed my back, and my breathing normalized. I still sniffled now and then, but I knew I needed to regain control of my emotions for her to help me.

“I’m sorry that I’m being weird about this, Darren. I can’t help it. This is not something I expected to be doing. I just didn’t figure that whatever did this to you would give you all the working parts. Is this normal? I don’t even know. Maybe we should take you to Dr. Alberts.”

I leaned up against the bathroom wall, my blood-stained boxer shorts clearly visible as I sat with my legs open. “What? So she can tell me I am a perfectly normal teenage girl?” The words echoed in my head, and I could tell they caught Amélie off guard.

“Yeah. I suppose we should look at it that way. As long as you are like this, it will happen every month.”

I replied, “You have no idea how much it means to me that you didn’t run out of here. Like my parents. I need you so much right now. I need you in my corner, Amélie.”

I reached out my arms, and Amélie embraced me. I have never been a ‘hug person’ person, but because Amélie and I had not been intimate often, this was the only contact we could have that did not make her uncomfortable. I still caressed her butt and massaged her legs now and then, but even that was becoming rarer.

I was worried that Amélie would eventually see me as a different person. We were married though, I was her husband, and she my wife. Now we more often acted like sisters. Nothing could have illustrated better my fears concerning how Amélie saw me more than when she took out a tampon, put it in my hand and helped me guide it into my vagina.

I slept downstairs that night because I couldn’t share the bed with Amélie. I felt too ashamed. I knew the next time would be easier, I would likely have a tighter grip on my emotions because I wouldn't be taken by surprise. The experience helped to reaffirm my desire to find a cure because I never wanted Amélie to look at me like that again. Like I was really who I appeared to be.

The next day was easier, although needing Amélie to show me how to change the tampon was not the highlight of my life so far. She was at least more receptive and understanding and less horrified by the whole thing. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, like she had accepted that her husband would be menstruating from now on.

I couldn’t get over the feeling of general discomfort - both emotionally and physically. Even after showering that morning, I still felt unclean. I found myself rubbing my body more vigorously, but the feeling never disappeared, even as the soap ran down my legs and drained with the water.

Amélie explained it best after I asked her, “You won’t feel clean even after eight showers. You will probably feel bloated, and from what I can tell, you are having a heavy flow with some very bad cramps.”

I threw my hands over my ears and danced away from Amélie into our bedroom. Despite experiencing it, I still didn’t want to hear the gory details.

Amélie shook her head and glared at me, “You know, you’d think after having one yourself, you’d be a bit more mature about it. Besides, you were the one who asked.”

I shot Amélie a dirty look, “I didn’t ask for the life story of menstruation. Maybe you'd like us to have a discussion about my favourite brand of feminine hygiene product? Or maybe we could share stories about our first time? Well, here's mine. I had my first one yesterday- it sucked.”

Amélie frowned and then changed the subject, “Darren, I want you to come with me this weekend to my parents place for Easter. I don’t think it’s a good time for you to be alone.”

We had previously discussed it and decided that I would stay behind. I planned band practice on Saturday with Andrew and Steven, but I still hadn’t had a chance to get a new, smaller guitar. I had been planning on going today. “And what about band? You know how important that is to me, especially now. It’s about the only normal thing I do.”

Amélie’s firm expression softened, “You could have it during the week. Maybe Tuesday?” She looked into my eyes, “I really think it best you don't spend the weekend alone.”

I narrowed my eyes, realizing that we were heading for another fight. “Why? I am not going to do anything stupid. I love you and Chloe too much to even consider hurting myself. Don’t you trust me?”

Amélie shook her head, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Darren. Even you have to admit that you haven’t had the best week, though. And I know you wouldn’t hurt yourself. You are too strong for that. But-“

I was growing angrier as Amélie tried to reason with me, “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t trust me because you think I’ve changed too much?” Amélie was never a nagging wife. She was not the type who was upset if I missed dinner, as long as I told her, and she never expected me to ask her for permission to go out with friends. I felt like the dynamic of our relationship was changing, and that this was the first test.

Amélie replied, “I trust you. I trust you with Chloe, and I trust that you will make the right decisions. It’s really about this though, you said you want me in your corner, well I am here now. I want to help you, but I’m not going to be here over Easter, and I will worry about you.”

Before I could break in she added the deathblow to my argument, “It really comes down to this, Darren, and believe me I didn’t want to say this, but do you want me or your mom to help you with your problem?” She pointed to my crotch.

My eyes widened and whatever words on my lips were immediately forgotten. I stammered, “Well, I saw you do it ... it didn’t look too hard.”

Amélie raised a brow, “Okay fair enough, but what if you have questions? What if something happens that you can’t handle? I will be 500 KM away, and your mom isn’t talking to you. Do you think you’ll be able to call her up and ask her to come help you with your period? Or even your sister, can you see yourself doing that?”

Amélie sat me on the bed. I was speechless. I knew I absolutely could not ask my sister or my mother about any of what Amélie was suggesting. I would rather have crawled under the house and never come out.

I nodded my head sullenly. I texted the guys that I wouldn’t be able to do band during the weekend, but that I could probably do Tuesday. I didn’t tell them my wife was making me go see my in-laws, but when I told them it was personal stuff, they understood. Both of them had texted me back and forth throughout the week asking how I was doing and when I was going to get the new guitar. They were being as supportive as they could be. Anyway, I didn’t feel much like guitar shopping today.

That time of the month, Aunt Flo, menses, whatever you decide to call it, is unpleasant. I knew why most women did not bring up their periods in polite conversation because honestly it is disgusting. Amélie had gone to the pharmacy to get me something for the cramps. My heart sank as I took the bottle of Midol. My cramps were worse than Amélie’s, I knew that, but was I such a goddamn girl that I needed such a stereotypical means of relief? I knew that it would get easier to deal with, but part of me was happy that I was overreacting. What man wouldn’t act the extreme drama queen if this happened to him? Look at us as a gender. A cold can have us calling for our mothers, the so-called ‘man cold’. Can you imagine if every man menstruated? I shuddered at the thought.

I spent the day watching old wrestling matches on Netflix. I watched professional wrestling as a kid, but as a teen, I was caught up in the furore of the Monday Night Wars, which involved two rival companies. I wasn’t watching because it was the most macho thing I could find. If anything, considering the hormones having a field day in my body, watching two greased up muscular men in spandex tights could have been a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the nostalgia. It took me back to when I only needed to worry about getting school work done, playing hockey and video games. I was actually a generally happy teenager, despite some of the bullying I faced. I hardly rebelled. I was a good straight-edge kid, no drugs and no alcohol.

I suppose this was the equivalent of a woman watching a sad movie trying to ignore the unpleasantness of her period but enjoying the amplified emotion from the melancholy on screen, but I was no woman. A steel chair cracked into the heel’s (read: villain of the soap opera that is professional wrestling) skull. I smiled and all was right with the world.

Chapter 22

Amélie arrived home, and I realized that I hadn’t packed. I quickly threw some clothes into a small suitcase as usual. I used to pack clothes in a plastic bag, but for some reason this bothered Amélie. The bag took less room than a suitcase once emptied. Amélie had packed her massive suitcase the night before. It held her clothing and Chloe’s, plus toiletries and whatever else a woman needs for four days away from home. In contrast, my suitcase was less than half the size of hers and probably thirty pounds lighter.

Amélie entered in a flurry, carrying McDonalds and Chloe depositing them both at the top of the stairs before entering the bedroom. “I need you to set up the DVD player for Chloe, Darren and then to - ”

I nodded, “Pack the car. We go through this every time. I always pack the car.”

We planned to leave right after dinner. It meant that Chloe would sleep most of the way, hopefully. I set up the DVD player to keep Chloe’s attention during the long trip. Five hours was long for us but I couldn’t imagine how long it felt to a toddler. I began packing the SUV, putting in bags, toys and other items we would need throughout the weekend. It was like a game of Tetris, finding the perfect space for each item.

I re-entered the bedroom and reached down to grasp the handle of Amélie’s suitcase. I usually carried it with one hand, but I knew now that it would need two. I gripped the handle with two hands and then lifted. The suitcase had wheels, but this is how I had always done it. The case didn’t budge. I lifted again, and I managed to lift it an inch before my knees buckled and the enormous case fell heavily to the floor.

“Are you okay in there, Darren? Do you need help?”

Clearly, the suitcase was too heavy for me to carry alone, but something in my brain, either my masculine ego or whatever it was that made me smash Brad’s television, caused me to grip the suitcase handle and drag it down the hallway. I then proceeded to lug it down the stairs to the entryway. It thumped loudly down each step. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Darren, what the hell are you doing? Just ask for help!” Amélie was yelling at me from the kitchen. She was washing my lunch dishes, which I should have done, but I was suffering through my first period and, to me at least, it was the perfect reason to be lazy. I really didn’t want to do much of anything, except sit in front of the television.

“I’ve almost got it.” I was three steps from the bottom.

“And how are you going to lift it into the car?”

I ignored her and dragged the suitcase outside. The wheel on the left side was bent now, so it handled like a typical grocery store shopping cart. Good, serves her right for making me come with her this weekend. My thoughts were incredibly immature, but rather than feeling bad for damaging Amélie’s suitcase, I felt it was justified- for a moment. I shrugged off the selfish and juvenile thoughts and then opened my arms wide in an attempt to embrace the suitcase, but my arms weren’t long enough. I heard the other door open and moments later, as I continued to struggle, the burden eased. Amélie was helping from the other side.

Amélie frowned, “I should have packed it lighter. Sorry, Darren, I wasn’t thinking.”

I had been expecting a fight, especially since the wheels on the very expensive luggage were damaged, but Amélie apologized and then handed me the McDonalds bag.

“We’ll eat in the car. Are you ready?”

The trip was uneventful. Amélie drove halfway, but I had better night vision, and now better vision overall, so I continued the trip until we arrived. The small town in northern Ontario is quaint - one grocery store, one Laundromat, one church, and one beer store. It was originally a logging town, but like many small towns in the area, once the resource dried up, people left. Thankfully, it was also a mining town, but that did not stop the exodus. Young people wanted to experience the big city, and if you were either not good with your hands or ambitious, you looked elsewhere. Amélie herself told me that she couldn’t wait to leave. She loved her parents, but she could not stay there. She had greater aspirations than being the wife of a miner or logger. I liked the small town because while it is quaint, the people are pleasant, and I also really enjoyed the company of Amélie’s parents.

They were two of the nicest people you could meet. They were the type who would give you the shirt off their back if it meant you would be more comfortable. And amazingly, despite my change, the visit went very well. Amélie had told them what had happened, and apparently, she told them to treat me the same way. It was a very pleasant weekend, filled with crossword puzzles, board games and hockey games. None of the conversation revolved around my change, my employment situation or anything equally dismal. It was as if nothing had changed.

I didn’t feel like a freak in front of them because they made me so welcome. Even before I was dating their daughter seriously, but had aspirations to do so, they made my stays more than hospitable. My favourite foods and drink were present, Orange Crush pop and a box of sinfully good but terribly unhealthy Count Chocola cereal. This was cereal that turned your milk chocolate, but I loved it, even as an adult.

There was only one slightly embarrassing moment the whole weekend.

“Darren, you need to put a bra on around my dad. You are not exactly flat, and things ... move around. Last night during the hockey game, when the Canadiens scored and you jumped up and down. Well let’s just say, you really need to wear a bra. Poor guy turned all red.”

I was thankful that Amélie and I hadn’t had the bra talk yet. She hadn’t pushed me into wearing one since my interview, but I didn’t need a lot of coaxing there. I didn’t want to make her father uncomfortable, so I wore one for the rest of the weekend. I had to admit that it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, especially considering I wasn’t tiny either. It was more comfortable to have them supported, but it felt like a gateway garment. Would I be wearing daisy dukes or bikinis or something equally revealing if I took to wearing bras more often? As ridiculous as such a notion might seem, I could imagine myself falling prey to the seductive feel of silk against my skin. It would make more sense, too, because clothes certainly would fit better. However, it really came down to a mindset, I still considered myself a man, and men, don't wear bras. Still, if I didn’t manage to find a cure before I started at the law firm, I would be in a bra every day.

Other than the bra incident, there was only one noteworthy event. Amélie’s father had invited me to watch the hockey game at a local restaurant. Halfway through the second period, I realized I had forgotten to bring my wallet, so I returned to the house. Everything was within walking distance, so it was a quick walk back. I entered through the back door, but as I did, I could hear Amélie and her mother discussing my situation. I crept into the house and hid in the living room.

“He’s dealing with this the best he can Mom. It was just so unbelievable at first, that it took a few days to even accept that it happened. That it wasn’t a dream.”

“And you still have no idea what caused it?”

“No, just the dream, but that’s farfetched. We don’t really have any leads. We can’t go to a doctor because Darren is worried he will become some kind of medical experiment.”

“Have you thought about a natural solution? Healing crystals might work.”

Amélie’s mother was a strong believer in using nature to cure her minor medical issues- rashes, warts, aches and pains- nature had the remedy. She would still go to the hospital for serious conditions, but she tried to use natural methods as much as possible. I had to admit that some of what she had suggested in the past worked very well, but I did not believe in the healing power of crystals. Still, considering my situation, I was willing to try anything.

Amélie responded, “Nothing like that, but Darren is desperate, so he will probably try them.” There was a tinge of fear in her voice, likely the memory of what occurred with the fraudulent wizard.

“Have you thought about what you will do if you can’t turn him back? You know that we love Darren, and we’ll accept him in the family either way, but you can’t exactly be married to a teenage girl. And what about Chloe, would Darren still be her father?”

“I think about it every day Mom. I look at him, and I can see Darren in there. I know it’s him, and he has asked that we treat him the same way, but it’s going to be hard. It seems that the harder he pushes the world to treat him differently, the harder it pushes back. As for Chloe, well she won’t call him daddy. I think it’s tearing Darren up inside. He’s a lot more emotional, with good reason, but sometimes I see him differently.”

“Different how Amélie? From what I have seen, your husband is inside that body.”

“I don’t really know how to explain it exactly. Some of the decisions he makes aren’t good.”

“You said that he was desperate though, right Amélie? He wants his life back.”

“I know Mom, but sometimes I worry that I can’t leave him alone. That’s why I wanted him to come this weekend. I don’t know what he’s going to do half the time. And we fight so much now.”

“You are going through a very stressful time in your marriage, so you are bound to fight. The best you can do for Darren is to trust him, and show that, despite this change, you still love him. I will admit that what has happened is unbelievable, but you are right, I see Darren in that girl’s body.”

“But Mom, what if I stop seeing Darren in there?”

“Then love him a different way, Amélie.”

I crept back outside and returned to the restaurant to watch the rest of the game. I had forgotten to retrieve my wallet from the house, but I needed to get back to Amélie’s father. A few tears ran down my cheeks as I walked back. I was pleased that Amélie and her mother still believed I lived inside this soft body, but I was fearful that Amélie’s concerns might become a reality. Still, I knew who I was. If I had all my knowledge and memories, I would be the same person, right?

The next day we said our goodbyes to Amélie’s parents, thoroughly relaxed and pleased that Chloe had actually slept decently. Her parents were such saints that they got up to take care of the baby in order to let Amélie and me sleep longer. The last few weeks had been draining, so I was grateful for a stress-free holiday. Other than the conversation I overheard last night, it had been perfect.

We left with Easter chocolate, new clothing and toys for Chloe, and probably a pound or two heavier. They fed us very well, and because we were on holiday we ate with abandon. I found I could still eat more or less the same way I had before. I liked meat less, but I had a stronger sweet tooth. Amélie swore she would return to the gym on Tuesday, while I made plans to visit the music store. I had never really worried about my weight as a man. I was blessed with a fast metabolism.

The ride home was not as idyllic, unfortunately, as the trip out had been. Chloe decided that she wanted out of her car seat, so she proceeded to make a high-pitched wailing noise. Amélie couldn’t stand it, and while she usually drove home the entire way (apparently I drove too slowly), she asked that I drive while she attempted to distract Chloe. Mommy still had the magic touch when it came to quelling Chloe’s screams, so I was relegated to chauffeur.

Not even Amélie’s soothing tone, funny faces or offers of milk and crackers calmed Chloe.

“I think something is wrong with her. She usually stops crying by now. Maybe it is her ears. We need to put the ear drops in.”

I was busy driving, and I only heard some of what Amélie said.

“Didn’t you hear me, Darren? We need to stop.”

We were on a long stretch of highway where the only place to stop was the side of the road. Chloe’s shrieks had reached an ear-splitting frequency. I could also hear her cries becoming more frantic as she thrashed in her car seat.

“Darren, we need to stop now! There’s something wrong with her! Stop the car now!”

I will admit that I am a bit of a nervous driver. It comes from my general anxiety. So when someone is yelling at me, and there is a crying baby, I don't pay attention to the road or my speed as much as I should. The baby’s cries had caused me to increase my speed. I was already 10 km/h over, but now it was 20, and soon 25 km/h over the speed limit. I desperately wanted to find a gas station because I felt that this stretch of road was too narrow to safely stop. Either that or one of the junctions where transport trucks were able to make turns. I saw neither of those as I passed a lurking police car.

“Darren, stop the car! I think she’s having trouble breathing! Wait, is that a siren?”

I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the flashing lights of a provincial police car.
There is an old adage that states bad events occur in threes. All three of my grandparents (my grandfather on my father’s side was dead before I was born) had died in the same year, so while I wasn’t overly superstitious, I still believed there was some truth to those words. My parents’ reaction to my change, the failure at the law office and now the police car was the third.

I immediately lowered my speed, hoping that the police officer was going to pass me to go after someone else. I was frantic. My left leg started to shake, and my grip on the wheel went from firm to death. I still didn’t see a safe place to stop.

I looked in my rear view mirror, and I could see the officer actually motioning me to pull over. I started to edge my way to the side of the road, decreasing speed, but as I hit the shoulder, gravel started spitting up underneath the car, and I thought I was going to lose control. I quickly veered back onto the highway, and the police officer continued his pursuit.

“Darren, are you listening to me? You’ve got to pull over. Please pull over.”

I barely heard Amélie’s voice. My sanctuary appeared on the horizon- a gas station. I put my turn signal on and quickly turned into the parking area. The police car followed me.

I had never been stopped by the police for a driving infraction. I considered myself a careful driver. If I sped, I usually stayed within the 10 km/h over threshold. Most drivers believed if they only sped a little, they would not be pulled over. At one point, I was going 25 km/h over the speed limit, so it could be a hefty fine and, potentially, demerit points. Amélie and I lived in Quebec, but the Ontario police officer could still ticket me. Beyond the fine and the demerits, the main issue was that I didn’t have a valid driver’s licence.

I had the licence issued to Darren Lawrence, but there was no way the officer was going to believe I was him. I thought about asking Amélie to switch seats, but the cop was already behind us, and he would definitely see if we tried to swap. My thoughts shifted to Chloe, forgetting about my predicament for the moment.

“Is she OK?” I had turned my head to the backseat. I could see the police officer walking toward the car. Chloe was still crying, but Amélie was in the process of taking her out of the car seat, so that would likely stop her cries.

The officer walked up to the driver’s side. I had already lowered the window, and had the insurance card in my hand, but I had not removed the licence from my wallet. The police officer was tall, wore mirrored sunglasses, typical of traffic cops, and had a buzz cut. He was thick-necked and broad shouldered. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties.

The officer stated, “Licence and registration, please.” He had a no-nonsense manner. It was professional and slightly intimidating. There would be no talking my way out of this, but I would likely try.

I produced the registration. The officer furrowed his brow, “Miss, your licence?”

I had two choices. I could lie and say I had left my licence at home, but I would have to produce it to avoid a fine, or I could come clean. I decided to tell the truth because I knew that I would not be able to produce something that didn’t exist.

“I don’t have one. Sorry officer.” I hoped that being truthful would yield a smaller fine.

The officer pulled off his sunglasses and shook his head. He then ignored me entirely and went to the passenger side where Amélie was sitting. He tapped on the window, “Ma’am, is that your daughter? Is there a reason you are allowing her to drive without a licence?”

I was angered by the officer’s blatant ageism. My view on what occurred was just as valid as Amélie’s. I wanted to shout at the officer, but maintained my composure.

Amélie replied, “Um, no she’s my sister. And, I’m sorry officer, she told me that she had one.”

The officer shook his head again, “Considering the infant in your care ma’am, I would hope you would check something so important.” Chloe had finally settled down now that she was in Amélie’s arms.

Amélie nodded, “I realize that officer, but she is normally truthful. I had no reason to believe otherwise.”

I was seething in the front seat. Once again, I was being left out of the conversation.

The police asked, “Did you ask her to pull over when she saw the sirens?”

Amélie replied, “I did. She said that she didn’t feel comfortable stopping at the side of the road, so she waited until we got to the gas station. You could see that when she hit the gravel she got scared, so pulled back on the road.”

The officer nodded and wrote in his notebook. He asked, “For an inexperienced driver that’s understandable. She did a good job keeping the car on the road after nearly skidding in the gravel.” His face grew more serious, “That does not ignore the fact that she was both speeding and driving without a licence. As the owner of this vehicle, you face a hefty fine and demerits.”

I blurted out, “Does my side of the story not matter at all?”

Amélie narrowed her eyes and then addressed my behaviour, “Hush Abigail! You are in enough trouble already.” I knew that Amélie was playing the part of my older sister, but it still hurt to have her treat me that way.

The officer frowned and then walked toward me, “Do you understand how serious an offence it is to drive without a licence, miss? Also, when I motioned for you to pull over, you didn’t. Do you know that failing to follow the instructions of a police officer can result in possible jail time?”

I sneered at the officer. I knew he was beginning the intimidation power trip. “Like my sister said, I didn’t feel that it was safe to stop.” My expression softened as I formulated an argument, “I knew that it would be safer for you as well if I stopped in a wider area. The guard rail made it too narrow. You would have been far more susceptible to being hit.”

“Miss, don’t tell me how to do my job. I felt that it was safe. You should leave those decisions up to myself and your sister. She told you to stop, and I motioned for you to stop. You could go to jail for six months.”

He was trying to scare me, but instead, his behaviour was making me angry. I said through clenched teeth, “Look, you’d have to prove that I was wilfully evading you without reason. It is a mens rea offence if jail time is involved. I’ve told you the reason why, I didn’t feel it was safe. You followed me for less than a minute before I pulled into a gas station. You can leave your attempts to bully people to the G8 protests.”

The G8 protests, which occurred only a few years ago in Toronto, were infamous for police brutality that saw peaceful protesters attacked by overzealous cops. People were incarcerated without being charged and without being told their rights. It was our very own international embarrassment, something that you might see in countries without a Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

I had struck a nerve. “Miss, I suggest you shut your mouth. I could make this very difficult for you.”

I responded snidely, “Does the Police Services Act allow you to threaten people like that?” The Act governs a police officer’s conduct, including use of force and whether threats can be used during interrogation.

Instead of fear, I felt elation. I was putting this cop in his place. I wasn’t an expert in criminal law, but I knew that this cop was treading the line between professionalism and mistreatment. Amélie whispered in my ear.

“Darren, please stop taunting him. He is going to give us a massive ticket. What about that guitar you wanted to buy?”

I had no idea what the fine would be, but I was enjoying being rebellious. As a musician, I had written songs about police misbehaviour before, the G8 protests in particular, but at the same time, I also wanted that guitar. Still, something was happening to me. We play out situations in our mind where we say the perfect words to authority figures, but more often than not, only after the event itself. This time I acted on them, and I didn’t feel like backing down.

I saw the officer’s brow furrow again. A vein was pulsing in his forehead and his teeth clenched. His instincts were pushing him to act, but his training and maturity stopped him. His breathing was heavier than when he had first stepped in front of my window. A ghost of a smile appeared on my face as he returned to his car.

Amélie shook her head and grasped my shoulders, “Darren, what the hell are you doing? That’s a cop. You are playing with fire. What if he decides to impound the car?”

I answered, “He would only be able to do that if there wasn’t an alternate licenced driver. It’s just common sense. Plus he would have to be pretty horrible to impound a car with a baby in it. Anyway, you’ve yelled at people like that before.”

Amélie wasn’t convinced, “Yeah at meter maids maybe because of parking tickets but not cops. What’s gotten into you?”

The officer tapped on Amélie’s window, “Ma’am, I am citing you for allowing an unlicensed minor to drive your car. I am citing your sister for speeding, driving without a licence, and failing to heed the instructions of a police officer, specifically, failure to stop when ordered. Since your sister is a minor, imprisonment is not an option, but juvenile hall is. See you in court.”

I was unimpressed with the list, and I was about to snap back, but the officer walked away. He turned around, “Have a nice day.”

I got out of the driver’s side and slid into the passenger’s seat. “Those are hackneyed, tacked on charges Amélie. He is just upset because a teenage girl showed him up.”

Amélie shook her head repeatedly. Her eyes were wide, practically bulging, “Darren, you do realize if you lose, you could end up in juvie? Was it worth it just to play bratty lawyer with him?” She looked at the ticket, “These tickets amount to more than a thousand dollars in fines. What the hell were you thinking of, acting that way? What happened to wanting to avoid a paper trail? Well they’ve got a file on Abigail Lawrence now, and you’ll get a summons to appear as her.”

“We’ll win. He’s got nothing beyond the speeding and the licence. We can get those tickets reduced.”

Amélie frowned, “I’m worried about you, Darren. That wasn’t like you. You remember when you told me about the time when you were sixteen and, during a dance, you walked your date to her car and they wouldn’t let you back into the hall? You were so mad you swore at the cop for making you leave before the dance was over. That’s what that reminded me of. It was something a stupid kid would do. Sure, you’ve got all this knowledge, but you made a really stupid decision there. What was going on in your head?”

Amélie’s words echoed in my mind. This is exactly how my parents, and in particular, my father sounded when I had done something foolish as a kid. I hadn’t been particularly rebellious, but being a teenager, I still made mistakes. The rest of the ride home was done in relative silence save for Chloe’s occasional whine.

I looked up case law on my charges when we got home, while thinking that what I had done was very irrational. What was going on in my mind?

Chapter 23

My concussion symptoms from the week before had finally disappeared, and even better, my period was gone. It had run its course during the holiday weekend. Unfortunately, Amélie was still not speaking to me. Over a thousand dollars in fines still rankled. Tax season was approaching, and I expected Amélie’s mood to worsen as the time to pay grew nearer. We are heavily taxed in our province, and it meant we always owed.

Band practice that week was set for Thursday, so I still had a few days to get my new guitar. I had my own money, and in fact, had significant savings. I could have gone out and bought a masterwork guitar that would make any guitar hero jealous, but I knew it was a bad idea.

Amélie and I did not have a joint bank account, except for an education savings account for Chloe. As long we could pay our respective bills and the mortgage, both of us were fine having separate accounts. I never questioned her on her purchases, and in turn, she did not ask about mine. I knew, however, that given recent events, I would be interrogated instead of simply asked about what I bought.

While I did have a job lined up for the summer, it would not pay nearly as much as my previous one. I would earn student wages. I looked at the form I needed to return to Stephanie and saw that it was, in fact, only a few dollars over minimum wage. Still, it was better than retail, and it was law-related experience, which was invaluable.

I thought about driving to my usual guitar store, but if I was caught again so soon, I would be sent immediately to juvenile hall. Repeat offenders are not treated lightly. I had no aspirations to end up in such a place. The store also tended to be a little pricey. They carried the top brands. Even my Gibson knock-off cost over five hundred dollars. If I spent that amount, Amélie would see red. She would probably make me take it back. I didn’t want to have to lie to her, especially given our recent rocky history, so I started looking online for used guitars in my area. I knew that I needed ¾ size, but unfortunately there wasn’t a lot of choice. I cringed when I saw some of them. One was actually shaped like a pink and purple butterfly. The neck was moulded to form the stem of a flower. It was the so-called Debutante guitar. I would be laughed off stage if I bought something like that. Another was actually heart shaped, aptly named the Heart Breaker. Girls who wanted an ounce of rock cred would not play guitars like those.

After that, I texted Amélie, asking her how much she thought I should spend on a guitar. I hated doing that because again, it was my money, in my bank account. But with the uncertainty of tax time and my tickets, we needed to watch our money. I was actually pleased that I had not just bought a guitar impulsively.

“Probably two hundred max. Sorry Darren, we really have to watch our money.”

“I know, it’s just that really limits me.”

She replied in a text, “Yeah.”

I sighed. She was right. I wasn’t about to punish myself though. I was sure I could find a guitar that didn’t make me want to throw-up at the very thought of playing it. I realized also that I could remove the pick-ups from my current guitar. Well I couldn’t, but I could take it to a guitar technician who could.

My search took me to a local dealer. I checked out his website and found that he actually built guitars, collected and sold them. I saw that he had a mini-version of my current guitar. The pick-ups would be easy to replace, and the price was within my budget. I thought about going there alone, but I knew that Amélie would be upset. The guy worked out of his garage. It wasn’t that I was thinking like a teenage girl, I was thinking more about Amélie’s concerns. She hated the fact that I saw Brad alone, so I e-mailed the dealer and asked if I could meet him outside of working hours. He replied that he would be willing to do that. I was looking forward to seeing his workshop and trying out his guitars. I could not recall feeling so excited since my change.

The rest of the day I was in high spirits. I was singing in the house. I texted Amélie about the guitar shop, and she said we could go. Of course we could go. I hadn’t asked my wife for permission, had I? I did not let thoughts like that dampen my mood. I was pleased, too, because I felt more in control of my emotions. I had made a good decision to include Amélie in this.

Amélie and Chloe arrived home. We ate supper, and even Amélie noticed that my mood had significantly improved. I was singing nonsensical songs, dancing about, and acting very much like myself. I acted that way before my change, and ironically, it looked less strange in this body than it did in my male body. I was the excitable type. It’s just that I hadn’t had anything to be excited about recently.

The shop was on the Ontario side, so we crossed the bridge and entered a large suburban area. It was actually near where I grew up, so I knew the area.

“Turn here. It’s on the right.” I pointed to a large turn of the twentieth century home. There was a long veranda separated by four beige pillars. It looked a little like my childhood home, except this didn't have a dilapidated garage; it had an extra room attached to the house. I hurriedly exited the car and rang the bell. It was linked to a voice system. Amélie trailed behind me carrying an agitated Chloe.

“Abigail. And this must be your sister, then. Great, well come on in.” I used Abigail as my name again because it was familiar. I actually answered to it, so it would not appear I had only been christened with the name recently.

I heard a click, the large metal door slid open and I entered guitar nirvana. The walls were lined with guitars of all shapes, colours and sizes. There was a workbench, separate from the main sales area. It was partly enclosed by walls to keep wood shavings from flying about and entering the electronics in the room. A wall of amps that rivalled most chain music stores formed the southern portion of the ‘garage’. This was a place I could die in and be very happy to do so. My eyes darted about the room, like a cat chasing a laser pointer.

“I’m John.” He reached out, and I shook his hand. The man, I guessed to be in his late forties, was balding with a slight paunch. He had long silver hair, which he wore loose down his back. He looked like an ageing rocker, but it wasn’t pathetic, like he was trying to hold onto a career in which he had long since failed. No, he was confident and his eyes spoke of someone who loved his craft.

“This place is amazing. Thanks for seeing us after hours.” I had brought my guitar with me to show him the pick-ups I needed removed. Based on what he told me, he could do the swap easily enough.

Chloe ran around trying to touch everything in the room, while Amélie tried to thwart her attempts. John smiled and pulled the cherry sunburst guitar we had discussed down from the wall, and put it in my hands. It felt exactly like my old guitar, just smaller. My hands could easily grip the neck, and I had little trouble navigating the frets.

“That’s the right size for you Abigail. Now tell me why do you have this one? Did you parents buy it for you?” He was motioning at my guitar in the case.

“It was my brother’s. He doesn’t play it anymore, but I realized I can’t play it either. I was hoping to be able to use the pick-ups. They make the sound a lot meatier.”

John grinned, “It’s refreshing to see excitement in a girl’s eyes when she speaks about guitars. My daughter used to play, and she used to come out here all the time to watch me work. She moved out of town a few years ago.”

He frowned, “Here I am reminiscing about this like an old man.” He smiled again, “Abigail, why don’t you plug it into that Marshall there? It’s close enough to the amp you described.” I was glad I hadn't needed to bring my amp, mostly because asking for Amélie's help to load it would have been humiliating. I didn’t want anything to ruin this day.

The amp John directed me toward was already on. I picked up the cable, and it hummed in my ear. I sat on a stool and slung the guitar over my shoulder. It sounded as I expected it would, it lacked the edge of my ebony monster, where power chords sounded huge, and picked notes were full and soft when the guitar was clean. I frowned, it sounded tinny. It lacked the robust strength of my guitar. Basically, it wasn’t as beastly and my band’s sound would suffer because of it.

John said, “I see you are disappointed. I will be able to replace those pick-ups, and it will sound nearly like your brother’s. But, I think with the type of music you play, you might want to try something like this.”

John went underneath the sales counter and pulled out a silver guitar case. On the case was a number of stickers from bands I recognized: SLAYER, Metallica and Megadeath. These were all heavy metal bands, so I assumed the guitar would be equally beefy.

“When my daughter was thirteen, she went through a metal phase. Instead of liking Backstreet Boys or some boy band, she liked the heaviest, fastest and most hardcore metal. I am talking early Metallica, speed metal. I know you aren’t in a metal band, but since you are the only guitarist, this will definitely fill your sound.”

He opened the case, and I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. The guitar was hot pink.

A bed of roses lay along the far edge, but this is where the girly nature of the guitar ended. Amidst the roses, black tendrils erupted, attempting to pull human bodies that clung to the upper edge of the body of the guitar. Overlooking it all, just before the neck of the guitar started, was a skeletal prince. It was a metal masterpiece.

“I will admit I got carried away with the design, but it plays better than it looks. Trust me.”

I took his word, and was happy I did. While it looked like the axe of the queen of metal, the sound it made was unbelievable. I had never played guitars before that I could not afford. For the same reason, you don’t test drive a car you cannot afford. Because once you do, everything else is compared to that moment, to that feel, and to that touch- you know it was better. Clean, the guitar sounded angelic, with full sounding notes emanating from the hollow body. Distorted, it was a lumbering monster, pillaging with raking claws and saws for teeth. The riffs I played drop D sounded ferocious. Little bends sounded cleaner and each hammer-on was distinct.

It fit me perfectly. My hands danced over the strings. With the thinner neck, my smaller hands had no problem gripping the guitar. The frets were narrower, which meant that I could form chords easily.

John smiled and joined me by the amps. “You are a really good guitar player, Abigail.” I expected him to say ‘for a girl’, but the words never came. Chloe was enthralled with the design. She just watched me play, alternating between staring at me and the guitar.

“My daughter looked that way when she played it. It doesn’t even fit her anymore. Listen, Abigail, I can see it in your eyes. You love this guitar. I want to sell it to you, but I will only sell it to you as is. And you have to promise me you won’t get it repainted.”

I thought about what Andrew and Steven would say if I used this guitar. First of all, it was pink, and while it sounded amazing, it looked a little ridiculous. But the sound, I couldn’t get over it. It was like an ugly woman with a beautiful voice. Actually, the design wasn’t ugly, it was too much- and pink. So pink. I looked at John, and the poor guy looked as if he was about to cry.

“I don’t know…it’s just so pink. I’m not really sure it fits the image of the band. Plus, I probably can’t afford it. It’s custom made.”

John shook his head, “Maybe I was wrong about you. In rock, image shouldn’t matter. Look at Mick Jagger. He is one ugly-looking senior citizen rock star, but he still wears the same stuff he wore twenty even thirty years ago, and he doesn’t give a shit. He has so much charisma, no one notices how old and decrepit he looks, as long as he puts on a good show.”

“Here you’ve got an amazing sounding guitar, and you are willing to throw it away for some shallow image reason. Are you in a rock band, or are you some wannabe pop princess? You were meant to take this guitar out of here, Abigail. You are the first young woman to set foot in here since my daughter. I know she would be happy knowing this old thing is going to be played.”

Doubt gradually morphed into resolve. I knew what John was doing, but it worked. I knew that anything I played after this guitar would not sound or feel as good. I knew it was pink, but I knew he was right, sound is more important than appearance. Plus, it was pretty badass- just so pink.

“OK, you’ve convinced me with your old-time rocker wisdom. I’m interested, but I can only spend two hundred.”

John replied, “That’s fine. I doubt I will be able to sell it to anyone else, and if it gets used again, then it will be worth the-,” he cleared his throat, “loss on this sale.”

I smirked, “Are you a rocker or a capitalist?”

John replied with a smile, “I’m both, but I am still willing to make the deal because I can tell this guitar will have a good home in your hands, Abigail.”

I paid for the guitar and then John shook my hand, “Thank you. Now when is your next show? I want to see that thing in action.”

“Uh, we don’t have one yet, but I’ll let you know.”

He shook his head, “You know there is a world outside of the basement. I’m sure you’ll get one soon enough. I know a few promoters in a couple of different cities. They won’t book you unless you have at least a small following, but something to keep in mind.”

Later in the car, Amélie questioned me on my purchase. “So you bought a pink guitar. Why did you buy a pink guitar, Darren?” I couldn’t tell if she was worried or not. There didn’t seem to be amusement in her eyes either.

“Because of how it sounds. It’s the best guitar I’ve ever played.”

“Right, but it’s pink. You couldn’t have tried another one?”

“They wouldn’t have been as good. I just had a feeling. I know it’s a bit flashy, but look at it this way. Would you wear a dress that fit you perfectly, flattered your every curve and made you feel like a million bucks, but it was an ugly colour. Like it was puke green.”

“No, I wouldn’t wear a dress like that. I am sure I could find something that fit me and didn’t look like I’d been barfed on.”

“What about a car? Like if you got an amazing discount on a BMW coupe, and it was fully loaded. But it was old man beige. Would you drive it?”

Amélie begrudgingly said, “Maybe.”

I nodded, “OK that’s similar. I know it’s pink. But whatever. Am I less of a man for playing a pink guitar?”

Amélie asked, “Do you really want me to answer that?”

I just shook my head, “You just don’t understand musicians.”

Amélie frowned slightly and pulled into our driveway, “I guess not.”

Chapter 24

Thursday came and I had to admit, I wasn’t really looking forward to showing my band mates the guitar, but I knew once they heard it, they'd love it because of how it sounded. Steven might be a problem. He was typically very anti-pop, and while the guitar wasn’t shaped like a butterfly or a heart, it was still pink. I had once suggested we do a hard rock cover of a pop song, and Andrew joked he would leave the band if we forced him to play anything pop sounding. I reminded him that such covers could be very popular, and it was a good way to get an audience into your set, especially if they weren’t familiar with you. I gave the example of “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics, an 80s pop anthem that was successfully and very disturbingly covered by Marilyn Manson, a 90s shock rocker.

I had to admit that part of the reason I bought the guitar was because of its story. I felt sorry for John. He clearly wanted someone to take that guitar from him. I knew that it was just an object, but it had meaning. He was saddened that no one was playing the guitar he had hand crafted for his daughter.

I understood very well that it is possible to have a connection, or to show affection toward an object. When my parents moved from my childhood home to the cottage where I had spent my summers, they gave me some bowls they received as wedding presents. They were not fine china, but they were the bowls I ate cereal from every morning, first as a kid, and then as a young man until I moved away. Whenever one of those bowls gets broken, it upsets me. I know it is just an object, but it has significance. Amélie usually teases me for having such feelings toward something that doesn’t live and breathe, but those bowls were very important to me. They reminded me of my childhood and my parents. So, I could understand how important it was to John that I take that guitar.

As I was waiting Amélie to get home, I received a call from my parents. I had not heard from them at all since I revealed myself. When I saw the number on my phone, my heart jumped. Had my message worked? Had I convinced them who I was? Were they ready to accept me? My father told me that they would come in on Friday to see me. The call was more abrupt than I was hoping, but I was glad that my parents hadn’t disowned me. I was both excited and anxious to speak to them. They had hopefully finished the processing stage in this mad drama and the next stage was acceptance. Having a son for thirty two years who changes not only age but gender, required a monumental amount of understanding to achieve acceptance. I was hopeful they would reach that point.

Amélie arrived home, and we discussed how Friday would likely unfold.

“See Darren, I told you they would come around. It just must be incomprehensible to them. You showed everyone in the room the magic, but that is still a lot to absorb.”

I dug into the dinner I had prepared. Steak and potatoes, and broccoli. I nodded, “I am just glad they are talking to me. Well you saw me, I don’t want to go to that place again.”

Amélie frowned as she chewed the steak, “Something else we should discuss though is your cooking. It sucks. You still cook like you did in university. You’ve got the whole day at home, and you don’t use any spices or anything.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “And here I thought I was a gourmet chef. It’s edible isn’t it?”

Amélie shook her head and smirked, “Yes, but something being edible doesn’t make it good. You know why my meals taste better? Because I spend the time on them. I look up recipes.”

“You want me to wear an apron too? I know that men can be amazing chefs, but I’m just not interested in doing that.”

Amélie frowned as she bit into what I imagined was a tasteless piece of broccoli. “What do you do all day then?”

I smirked, “You caught me. I’m on Justin Bieber’s fan site the second you leave until twenty minutes before you come home. That’s why dinner sucks.”

Amélie shook her head, “Darren, you are such a goof. Can you at least put some effort into dinner a few times a week?”

I shrugged my shoulders again, “I guess. You want radish rosettes, Cornish hen and a soufflé tomorrow?”

Amélie rolled her eyes, “Just give me something that isn’t merely edible. And can we not have potatoes three times a week?”

Amélie had a point. Before my transformation, she had done most of the cooking, except for the barbecuing. Her meals were on a level far and beyond mine. After all, she utilized spices other than salt and pepper.

I looked at my phone, “Damn, I need to leave to go get Steven.” Steven did not have a car, so I needed to pick him up. Thankfully, he lived nearby. I put my shoes on and my leather jacket, but Amélie was standing in front of the baby gate, blocking my exit.

“Darren, are you crazy? What if you get caught again? You have no licence and no insurance. They’ll bring you right to the police station. Plus, how would you explain that you have this car? You can’t legally drive it.”

I blinked slowly, the enormity of the situation crushing my confidence. My shoulders slumped. “It’s only ten minutes.” I saw the look in Amélie’s eyes. It was like I was a drunk driver. She was going to snatch the keys from me, but I relented.

I sighed deeply, “I’ve been driving since I was sixteen Amélie. This isn’t right.”

Amélie went back into the kitchen without saying a word. She didn’t need to say anything because from her slight stomp into the kitchen, I knew that I wasn’t going to be driving tonight. I suppose she was right, but I didn’t appreciate being lectured like a kid.

Andrew arrived a few minutes later, and I met him in the driveway. “Uh listen, we’ve got some problems. Can you go and get Steven? I’ll come with you.” This was actually a lot to ask because Andrew lived about forty minutes away. He readily agreed though.

I slipped into the passenger side, and Andrew backed out.

“I guess you don’t technically have a licence. Or insurance.”

I nodded, “Yeah, it wasn’t a fun trip back. But I’ve got more song writing material at least.”

Andrew laughed, but it was an uncertain, nervous laugh. He then grew more serious. “How have you been, Darren? You know we can wait a bit to play shows. I know we talked about it, and Steven is really psyched, but we can hold off. I can’t say anything I’ve been looking into has really panned out regarding a way to turn you back. It’s just amazing to see what we saw, and then no mention of it anywhere.”

I smiled, “I appreciate your looking. And yeah, it hasn’t been easy, and that’s why I need the band. I need that escape, that outlet. But I need to feel like we are getting somewhere too. Not just spinning our wheels, as Steven says.”

I told Andrew about the guitar and John. Andrew was supportive in my choice, even though he hadn’t seen it yet.

Andrew explained, “You know I get that, plus once you turn back, well you’ll just go back to using your other guitar. Remember when we played with that one band, and they wouldn’t even talk to us because I used a Squire bass? Like we were amateurs because we used cheap equipment.” Andrew and I had played in bands together before, it’s just in this most recent band, we had yet to play a show outside of the basement.

I nodded, “Yeah those guys were such tools. They were a shitty pop punk band. Really generic.”

We were stopped at a red light, and Andrew turned to look at me, “It’s still amazing that you are in there. I mean, I look at you and I see- well a kid. But when you speak, I know it’s you. I guess what I am saying is, it’s still you above all else.”

I smiled again, “After this weekend, I actually really needed to hear that.”

We picked Steven up, and returned to the house for practice, warming up our voices on the way. Once we got to the practice space, I unveiled the guitar to my band mates. I took it out and turned my back to them, playing it before they could actually see it.

Andrew said, while tuning his bass, “I don’t care if that thing is shaped like a strawberry. That is one of the best tones I have ever heard from a guitar. It must have cost a fortune, Darren.”

Steven added, “Yeah that thing is a beast, even though it is so tiny.”

I turned around, and I looked at my band mates expectantly. “Guys, it was such a sad story, it was his daughter’s. Plus, he is coming to our show, whenever that is. And he knows a bunch of promoters in other cities. Maybe Montreal or even Toronto.”

Steven peered at the guitar from his drum throne, he smirked, “What? Was it his dying wish or something?”

I nodded, “Something like that. Check out this skeleton though, and the vines. I mean this thing is a masterpiece, it sounds amazing, and who cares if it’s pink? It’s going to improve the sound of the band.

If anyone had been watching this exchange, they would have thought it was three guys ragging on each other. It’s what we did. When our favourite teams played, we grew competitive. When one of us made a mistake in practice, we would joke about it, usually stupid stuff and always harmless. That is the reason I liked Steven and Andrew so much, they were musicians, but they weren’t cocky, and they were good guys. I mean it’s not like one of them said- I’m not having a chick play guitar in my band. They were my band mates, but they were also my friends. They were also my creative partners.

Steven and Andrew had instant chemistry when they first played together. Bass and drums need to be in sync, but these two played as if they had played together for twenty years. My guitar, simplistic in places, but heavy and filling, complemented the sound. It wouldn’t have worked if we had Jimi Hendrix in the band. It was a bass, drum and vocal band first.

Before starting the set, I went into the downstairs bathroom and clipped my nails to the nub. I didn’t want to do it front of my band mates because I still felt frustrated and humiliated about the whole process. Why could I see magic in front of my eyes, but not anywhere else? I had done a bit of research about girl guitar players. Before my change, I couldn’t name even one female guitar player, except maybe Courtney Love, but I disliked her immensely, so she didn’t count. She had ruined my favourite band of all time.

Most girl players kept their nails short because forming chords with long nails was very difficult. But what if I couldn’t keep my nails shortened? I actually found a video of Dolly Parton, of all people, strumming with nails longer than mine, but she used an open ‘E’ tuning which wouldn’t work with my band’s tuning. I wasn’t about to ask Andrew to retune his bass because of my ridiculous finger nails. Every thirty minutes, I would have to take a break and cut them again.

We started into the set like we did each week. I had been practicing with my new guitar, finding all the sweet spots, but I was still having a little difficulty finding all the frets. I was used to my ebony monster, even in this body- so, I would slip a whole fret over to compensate for what had been tiny hands playing a large guitar. Again, Andrew and Steven said nothing about my guitar, but plenty about my voice and how amazing it sounded.

Halfway through the set, we realized that Steven’s speaker had to be moved. Our setup could be finicky at times, and it was causing a lot of acoustic feedback from his vocal mic, not the good kind either, the type that comes in on a similar frequency to a baby’s cries or the high-pitched yip of a dog. That sort of feedback was the bane of any basement setup because it meant either turning down or moving something around to avoid the waves hitting at awkward angles. Turning down was never an option because Steven was simply too hard a hitter. He and Dave Grohl could have had a competition to see who could bring the police to the house the fastest.

Steven’s drum setup left very little in the way of access to the speaker, but I was able to squeeze in behind him. Andrew adjusted the vocal mic from the board to remove the feedback. Steven was still sitting on his drum throne, but as I passed him, my boobs pressed up against his back. He turned around and looked apologetic.

I shook my head, “What’s the matter with you? Here, you take this side.” I pointed to the right side of the huge 350 watt speaker. After a minute or so, Andrew had isolated the problem and removed the feedback. Steven let me get from behind the speaker first, and I returned to my guitar.

What was Steven’s problem, had he noticed I wasn’t wearing a bra? I had to admit, that when I got into the songs, I jumped around a lot and head-banged, which flayed my long hair into furious motion. Beyond my hair, there were my boobs, and they moved ... a lot! But, were they distracting? I wondered who was going to have the bra-talk with me first, my band mates or Amélie.

Practice ended, and we started talking about shows again.

Steven said, “A friend of mine went to a bar here in town last week. They let local acts play there a few times a month, if the band can bring in some people, they can play. I’ve got inventory at work this weekend so I-”

I jumped in, “I’m on it. I’ll talk to the owner, play him a few tracks, and see if I can get us in.”

Steven frowned slightly, “It’s kind of- well it’s not seedy exactly. You’ve probably driven by it. There’s always a bunch of motorcycles outside. I’m not sure-“

I narrowed my eyes, staring straight into Steven's, “I’m going to get pretty pissed off at you guys if you start treating me like a girl. I’m going into this place, and I am going to get us this show.”

Steven and Andrew exchanged nervous glances and then Steven replied, “OK Darren sorry, I just wanted to say that you should play them the hardest stuff we’ve got. We got some good takes today with your new guitar.”

I nodded, and my band mates left. I hadn’t thought much about the weird incident with Steven and my boobs, but I definitely thought about Steven’s treatment of me after. Had he meant to just suggest I play our harder stuff, or was he insinuating that I would be a poor choice to get us this show? Or even worse, did he think I shouldn't even be going into the bar? The thought stayed with me as I fell asleep that night. I was going to have to nip this in the bud, by ripping the bud clean off the stem.

Chapter 25

“Alee, Alee, Alee, Alee!”

“Daddy’s coming Chloe, just wait!”

Chloe was calling for me, and while I knew that answering to the name she had given me would not exactly help to convince her to call me ‘Daddy’, I could not exactly ignore my daughter either, but I could correct her.

She was making the international sign for 'feed me', which involved putting her fingers near her mouth and making chewing noises. I lifted her into her high chair.

“When are your parents coming Darren?” Amélie was dressed in jeans. I watched her butt while she did the dishes. I was not an ass man before Amélie, but she had introduced me to that wonderful world. I still found her incredibly attractive, so hopefully the millisecond of attraction I felt toward Ethan was a fluke.

“They should here by six.” I was dressed in a loose fitting hoodie and jeans Amélie had bought. They were form fitting, but not overly feminine. My hair was hanging unbound, my bangs in my eyes.

“Darren, your hair looks awful.”

I shook my head, “I don’t want to make it seem like I am accepting this. I want my parents to see that I still dress the same, act the same. And I don’t want a girly hair style.”

Amélie shook her head, “There’s a difference between having a girl’s hair style, and looking like you were attacked by pigeons in a wind tunnel. But suit yourself, still I bet your mom says something about it.”

My parents arrived just after six, carrying pizza from a nearby restaurant. We all sat in the dining room, and I tried to act as much like myself as possible considering how I looked.

There was no small talk. There were too many questions left unanswered from our last visit.

My father spoke up, “First, we are very sorry for not speaking to you Darren. It’s just that your mother hasn’t been coping well with this.”

It was bizarre to see my mother next to the baby and not be smiling. My father said that she woke up every morning asking him, “How do you think Chloe is doing today?” So, the fact that she was not glowing in Chloe’s presence meant that the road to acceptance might be more arduous than I thought.

My dad continued, “Your mother believes that it’s you Darren, but it took her a long time to accept it. At first, she thought that you were hiding on us, that you had done something terrible, or that you were really dying, and you had hired that girl to be you. When you consider what we saw two weeks ago, well it’s actually not that farfetched. Basically, she thought anything that was equally implausible.”

My mother broke into the conversation. She looked at me, but there was a distance in her eyes that I had never seen before. It scared me. “I do believe it’s you Darren, but it’s like you were ripped away from us. Ever since I saw you like that, well I haven’t been able to sleep, even with my pills. I just feel so bad, because everything has been taken from you.”

I interjected, “Not everything Mom, I still have you guys, and Amélie, and my closest friends and Chloe, of course. The fact that you believe me is so reassuring. I was beginning to feel you thought I was a freak or something.”

My mother shook her head, and I had an urge to hug her. She was so sad, but not for herself, for having potentially lost a son. She was more upset over what I'd lost. She is an amazing woman. “Never think that. We will love you no matter what happens. We know you didn’t ask for this and we’ll help in any way we can.” The distance in my mother’s eyes was gone, but she was growing more emotional as she spoke. The thick dark circles under her eyes spoke of a woman who had not had a good night’s sleep in a long time.

“I just don’t understand who or what would do this to you. It's taken your life away.”

My mother had a point. No one who had seen the result of my remarkable transformation had found anything to explain it. Perhaps it was a reflection of our society, but no one seemed to be looking at traditional sources- books. Still, even a cursory search of the local library on their online card catalogue simply turned up such titles as ‘Learning magic for dummies’, ‘The party magician’s bible’ and ‘Harry Houdini’s Greatest Secrets’. None of those was likely to offer a solution to a problem involving real magic. They were just tricks and illusions.

I nodded my head, but in actuality, it felt like I was nodding my hair as well. The bangs dangling in front of my eyes was bothersome. “We will all keep looking Mom. Other than the dreams, I’ve been having, there haven’t really been any signs.”

Amélie jumped into the conversation, “Wait, dreams? I thought there was only one dream. The first one. You’ve had other dreams?”

I frowned. I had been keeping the other dream a secret because while the first dream had taken my gender, the second was terrifying because it sought to craft a new identity for me. Those girls had spoken a name that was not mine, teased my hair, dressed me in clothing that not even Amélie would have worn at my body’s age, and then stated it was all for HIM.

Amélie was clearly annoyed. She put her hand on her hip, an action that Chloe had started emulating cutely. I nodded slowly, “Yeah, there was another one.” I told everyone at the table how I was dragged into the store, and how I was bound by women’s under garments. I then described the ghostly salesgirls, but I didn’t tell them that everything was for some guy.

I hid behind my hair, letting my bangs dangle over my eyes. My shoulders were slumped. I hated telling my parents that I had been dressed up like some over sexed cheerleader. “Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you.”

My father spoke up, “We do Darren, but the more information we have the better. Because the dreams could be linked. There could be clues in them.”

“Yeah, well it felt like the first one. Like a dream that was too real. I was just glad I didn’t wake up that way.”

My father tried to look me in the eyes, but my hair was still in my face, then said, “Darren, we have a proposition for you. We know that you might not agree to it, but please hear us out. Considering what we’ve heard-

“Heard what? Have you been talking to Amélie?” My mother started crying, seeing her like that didn’t soften my words, it hardened them, “You have, haven’t you? I’m sick and tired of all the big adult conversations going on behind my back.”

My father looked at me sternly, “We are concerned for your welfare Darren. You going into that young man’s apartment, how you reacted with the police officer, point to someone who isn’t making good decisions. You’ve got to admit that you haven’t been making great choices recently. And your mother and I, Amélie, we are worried about you.”

My father continued, “Think back to your time as a teacher. Do you remember why teens have poor decision-making skills?”

I nodded, showing my father that I had the knowledge that no teen would likely have, “They make their decisions with a part of their brain that is still developing, so it can result in some bad choices.”

My father nodded as he gently rubbed my mother’s shoulder to calm her, “Living in an adult world but being unable to make adult decisions is very dangerous, Darren. That young man you saw, he could have killed you. You could end up in Juvenile Hall because of what you said to that police officer. It will be a month tomorrow since you changed. Do you think that your decision making is going to get better the longer you stay in that body?”

I interjected quickly, “I did that because I was desperate for a cure so I wouldn’t have to face you guys. And considering how the last two weeks have been, I don’t really regret it. You guys have ignored me trying to deal with what it took my band mates and Amélie minutes or hours to process and accept. Do you have any idea how hard it was is to know my parents didn’t want to speak to me?” I was getting emotional. My voice was raising, and I could feel that lump building in my throat.

My father’s expression softened, “We are sorry about that Darren. It was just a lot to take in. Your sister said you might have cancer. We couldn’t do it. We aren’t perfect, but we are here now, and we want to help you.”

“Help how exactly?”

My father continued, “We feel that this is our responsibility. You are our son. We want you to come and live with us again. We were thinking of renting a house here in the city, so you can be near Amélie and Chloe. We think it’s for the best.”

It was Amélie’s turn to wear an astonished expression, “Hold on a second here, we didn’t talk about this. I can handle this-“

I interrupted, “Handle what exactly? Me? You are all being ridiculous. I made two bad decisions, and I was newly in this body at the time. I am getting used to the flux of emotions.”

My mother had calmed enough to speak, “Amélie told us that yesterday you were going to drive your car, even after the run-in with the police officer.”

My father added, “The other reason we want you to come and live with us is because of your court appearance. They are going to try and build a case against you, and even if you succeed in getting some of the charges dropped, the judge could make you a ward of the state because Amélie doesn’t have official guardianship over you. I looked into this Darren, and I even spoke to a retired lawyer at the cottage. He said they could take you away, put you in foster care. We need, at least in the interim, to build an identity for you. If you live with us, it’ll be much easier to establish.”

I clenched my teeth, “OK. Look I need you guys to trust me. I don’t need parents right now, not like that. I don’t even want to think of it. I’m not going to live with you guys so you can treat me like a kid. I will live in the world the way I choose. Did Amélie tell you that I got a job? I’m starting in a few months. It’s at a law firm here in town.” I didn’t say after exams, of course because that would have only added fuel to the fire that was my potential second childhood.

My father relented, “She did, but she said it was temporary for the summer.”

I nodded, “Yes, but I will make them keep me. I will do such a fantastic job that they won’t have any choice but to offer me a full-time permanent position.” I knew that Stephanie disagreed with my attempt at fast-tracking my career, but she had only seen a small part of what I could do for her firm.

“In the meantime, I need all of you to trust and respect that I am Darren Lawrence. I am 32 years old, and I expect to be treated that way. I don’t want to hear any more ludicrous talk about me living with you again. Amélie and I will be fine. As for my court case, don’t forget that I did this for a living. I can handle it. I have already found jurisprudence that supports my argument.”

I ended the conversation by standing up and bringing my plate to the sink.

The evening continued. My mother played with Chloe far past her bed time, and my father and I discussed the upcoming hockey playoffs. It brought the sense of normalcy that I craved. I didn’t want every future family dinner we had to turn into a debate over my welfare. In order to avoid that, I had to prove that I retained my adult mind.

A few hours later, as my parents were leaving, my mother came up to me and hugged me tightly. It was the type of hug you give to someone who's going away for a long time. I hugged her back with equal firmness. She whispered in my ear, “Is Amélie not helping you with your hair, Darren? You know I had really long hair before I was married, I could show you a few things that would help. I know you probably don’t want anything too feminine, but it will take it out of your eyes.”

I sighed softly and replied, “Sure Mom.”

Chapter 26

The next day, I was still angry with Amélie for talking to my parents behind my back. I barely made eye contact with her, and I plodded around the house as if my feet were made of lead.

Amélie shook her head, “You know sometimes, I feel like I really am living with a teenager.” Her words caught me off guard. She had my attention.

“What happened to that openness we talked about?”

I shot back at her, “Openness? Coming from the person who spoke to my parents behind my back, that’s pretty hypocritical, Amélie.”

Amélie had ammunition to equal my shot, “The same way you told me about that second dream, right? What’s happening to us, Darren? We never used to keep secrets like this from each other. We told each other everything.”

My face softened, “It’s just been hard on both of us. I didn’t tell you about that dream because it was so embarrassing. I was scared too by what it meant, considering the other one had come true, at least partially.”

Amélie nodded, “Your dad is right though, if we don’t know, then we can’t help you. As for talking to your parents, your dad called me a few times. I told him what was happening. Do you know why your parents acted that way, though? I don’t understand why they didn’t talk to you for two weeks. I know that must have been so hard for you. I asked them to call you.”

I took my time answering Amélie. She looked at me expectantly. “Well we’ve talked about this before. You should know that Mom is bipolar, so my change probably hit her the hardest. I remember when I was in university, my parents were fighting a lot, and my mom actually left. We found out later that she went to the cottage, but she took the car and everything she needed for a weekend. She didn’t tell us where she went or anything. I had a feeling my dad knew, but my mom must have asked him not to tell us. She needed the time alone I guess.

“My mom is super nice, but she has claws, and I have seen what she's like when she is on one of her downward spirals. I have a feeling that my change was harder on her than it was on me because, well you know, I’m her little boy. I just hope it hasn’t made things worse for her. She has been getting better in recent years.”

Amélie put a hand on my shoulder, “It’s not your fault Darren. You did what you had to do. It’s better they know you like this than not at all.”

I nodded, “I know that now. Still, why two weeks? I could understand a few days.”

Amélie rubbed my shoulder gently. She was getting a lot more physical with me now, just not in the way I wanted. “Well, I remember a case study from psych class. It involved a young man who was bipolar. He went on an extreme downward spiral. Eventually, he started losing touch with reality, he hallucinated, and heard voices. Maybe your mom was dealing with one of those episodes. Those can take a few weeks to deal with, even longer sometimes. Your dad has kept that kind of stuff from you before.”

Amélie had done a psychology major before law school, so she was knowledgeable on the subject. “To take them out of their mania, you have to remove anything that can contribute to it. So, in this case, you.” Amélie said the words softly, but with a clinical efficiency that demonstrated her confidence in the diagnosis.

I frowned gently, “If that’s the case, it must have been terrible for her. Those calls I made, they probably made it worse.”

Amélie remove her hand and looked in my eyes, “Maybe, or maybe they grounded her in a reality where she had those memories you spoke about. You can't know.”

Amélie continued, “Either way, she is willing to help you now. And I am willing to help too. I am happy to sign a guardianship over you. At least temporarily. I will look into it, but they might be right about your court appearance. You can represent yourself, which I am assuming you will, but your parents or legal guardian need to be there. I don’t know about that ward of the state business, but do you really want to risk it?”

I nodded, “It will look very fishy if my ‘parents’ just move into town one day. If the police go and interview them, they will find out that they don’t actually live here. It will all seem very fake, and we don’t need any more exposure. I think you might be right. The police officer took Abigail Lawrence down as my name though. You have a different last name. At least I gave this address when the cop asked me.

Amélie smiled, “Yes, but teenagers lie, right? I will look into it because with the paper trail this is going to create-“

I interjected, “Is it really necessary to do it officially though?” I didn’t like the fact that Amélie would have a control over my life. I didn’t know what a legal guardianship entailed exactly, but it would limit my adult freedoms to some extent.

Amélie looked at me seriously. Her eyes locked to mine, “I think that it is necessary because as I was saying, this court appearance will create an Abigail Lawrence in the system. If you show up to court without a legal guardian and with no parents, no birth certificate, you could be taken to a foster home if you can’t prove that you have those things. Once you are on their radar, there’s no telling what could happen.”

I shook my head, “I would just run away. I would come back here.”

Amélie frowned, “And you could avoid all that if I signed a simple piece of paper.”

I added, “And how do we get around the fact that I have no birth certificate? That will really raise red flags.” I now realized how foolish my stunt with the police officer was. Even though I knew they had no case with regard to my flight from the police officer, my lack of documentation could really put me in trouble.

Amélie took a moment to answer, but I could see from the flash in her eyes that she had a brilliant idea, “Well people have home births don’t they? We could just apply to the government for a birth certificate.-“

Unfortunately, there was a hole the size of a school bus in her theory. I interrupted, “And what about Abigail’s mother? You remember the form we had to fill out for Chloe at the hospital? We’d have to prove that the mother was pregnant, we did that with the ultrasounds. This will be insanely complicated, Amélie.”

Amélie shook her head and smiled, “Not necessarily. You forget that my Aunt Giselle is a registered midwife. She could sign off on all of the documentation. You have met her enough times that we could explain what happened. She would believe us.”

“Again, that could work. But who is the mother? If your aunt acts as a witness to a birth that happened more than ten years ago, how are my parents involved? Would they still legally be my parents? And why would they choose to have a home birth, when their two previous children were born in hospitals?

“And, why would they wait so long to get a birth certificate? This is going to raise a lot of questions.”

“OK, you are right, this is going to be more complicated than I thought. I’m going to look into it though Darren. You haven’t received your summons yet, so we have time.”

***

“I’m heading out to see about that show now.”

Amélie replied, “Okay.”

The simple affirmation did a poor job of disguising how she was conflicted. It was clear that a part of her didn’t like me going to the bar alone, but another part of her likely feared becoming some sort of nagging shrew or worse- a protective mother. I thought she was going to tell me to be careful, but she said nothing as I slipped on my leather jacket and tied my tennis shoes. My run-in with Brad had frightened her more than it had me. While it had not scared me on the same level, it had also not endeared my former sex to me. If anything, I would be more suspicious than I was before. Every word could be construed as a come-on, and every gesture, no matter how subtle, could reveal an interest.

Brad was the catalyst for this attitude, but, even as Darren, I had a history with other men. I found macho behaviour very unappealing. I didn’t like a lot of men. Whether they were greased out club goers who tried to grind against Amélie even with me standing next to her, or bug-eyed jock Neanderthal hockey players who sought to emasculate me on the ice, or gear head seat jockeys who tried to impress everyone with how loud their car could be. I didn’t like them. I didn’t hate men, but I could see through them usually, which is why my lapse in judgement with Brad should have been a warning. I chalked it up to my desperation, but was there something more sinister nestling in my brain? Was my judgement compromised by my desperation or was it something else, something I didn't want to acknowledge?

I displaced the thoughts from my head by switching my mind to the task at hand. I was eager to prove that I could get us this show. It would be the perfect opportunity to try out the songs on someone other than our circle of friends. It would also show my band mates, my wife and my parents that I was still very much capable in this body, the same way I had wowed Stephanie.

I had dressed like a prototypical grunge rock girl- torn jeans, faded leather jacket, unbound tangled messy hair, and a t-shirt from one of my favourite bands, Alice in Chains. I was a quintessential image of the 90s. My dress was purposeful. The t-shirt was from a band that saw most of their success in the early 90s. While I had serious doubts the bar owner would see me as a thirty-year old woman, maybe I could pass for a woman in her twenties if I knew something beyond Fall out Boy, basically from a time when rock didn’t mostly suck. As a teacher, I saw what the students wore and even the boys who were musicians didn’t wear band t-shirts from the 90s, so I doubted any girls did either.

The bar was walking distance from the house in a strip mall. There was a Dairy Queen just a few doors away from it, which Amélie and I enjoyed perhaps more than we should. Particularly now, chocolate was like some wonderful drug that could make problems disappear. When I had my period, Amélie brought me some Dairy Queen home, and it really was like a combination of the perfect witty comeback, the cleanest but most bone-crushing hockey hit, the greatest line of a song. It was heaven.

The bar was called “La Brasserie Grand Gueule” which translated roughly from French to the Big Gob Brewery. As I got nearer, I heard AC/DC’s “Back in Black”. The outside was red brick, but the wall was emblazoned with a set of giant red lips drinking from an equally massive beer stein. The lips looked a little like the famous Rolling Stones logo, but as I doubted that Mick Jagger was ever likely to set foot in the place, they were likely to get away with any alleged copyright infringement. I opened the large metal door and descended the long wide staircase leading into a room with a collection of worn pool tables and old arcade machines distributed apparently randomly. It was like something from the 1980s. I kind of liked it. It had a deliciously shabby authenticity.

The televisions were CRT, not even high-definition. If there was a major sporting event, it wouldn’t be the best place to watch because even the big screen TV was a dinosaur. The sixty inch monstrosity was from a bygone age when televisions were monoliths that sat against a wall. I hoped that meant that people were coming for the music, not the substandard pool tables and ancient televisions.

It was at this point that I heard someone singing “Back in Black” with a thick French accent. Living in Quebec, but so close to the border with Ontario, you were just as likely to get someone who spoke English as you would French. A woman in her mid-forties stepped out from behind the bar. She had dyed blonde hair, was relatively heavy set, and spoke with a thick smoker’s voice. She spoke French to me:

(Hello. Are you looking for your dad? They are unloading the gear from the back. )

Apparently, my disguise was not as effective as I had hoped. The owner or this bartender had mistaken me for the daughter of one of the musicians playing tonight.

I shook my head and answered in English, “No, I am here to talk to you about my band. We’d like to play here soon. I brought a CD.”

She answered back in French, clearly seeing that I understood. There was an expectation we would continue in French, which was actually a rare event for me. Usually, when I spoke French to a Francophone, they would switch to English. I hated it because I was making the effort to practice my French, but the person figured it would be easier to continue the conversation in English. In the meantime, my French was eroding more and more each day.

(We don’t do underage shows very often. We lose a lot of money on them. Plus ones that come in here, the boys who look like they are wearing girls pants, my regulars don’t tend to get along with them.)

Did I have a massive sign on my forehead that said MINOR? My thoughts turned back to my conversation with Ethan, and how he saw me, or the boy in the car who tried to get my attention with his obnoxious bass system. If teens saw me that way, it only made sense that adults would too, but I was too stubborn to admit it. Still, it didn’t make sense to lie to the woman. I answered in French as best I could, but I was rusty:

(The other members of my group. They are- older. All of the people who would come and see us would be illegal. I mean legal. ) I cursed the fact that we had to continue the conversation in French because I was at a distinct disadvantage. The woman could tell I was struggling, but she kept going in French.

(Well sure, but are those people all in a chartered bus waiting to come at a moment’s notice? Ma petite, I get a lot of kids like you in here saying you can bring people, and there’s never enough to make up for the loss in alcohol sales. I’d like to give teen groups a shot, but I can’t be losing money, you understand?)

I grit my teeth. This woman was patronizing me, calling me little one, but I held my tongue. I don’t know if she expected me to leave at that point. She looked at me expectedly, her eyes, directly in mine, seemingly making a shooing gesture. I replied:

(Just listen to the tracks. You will see we are good and a right fit for here.) I cringed inwardly. My French was terrible, but the woman with her tough-as-nails attitude, was unwilling to switch to English. I knew that if I was going to get this show, I would have to keep speaking French, no matter how many mistakes I made.

The woman smirked. (Ma petite, don’t tell me about my business. I know what my regulars like. This music you bring in here, it has no melody. You play fast but you don’t play well. And your screamers, they can’t sing or scream. I will tell you about the last time I had a band in here like that by 9 PM, everyone was gone. All my regulars. The ones who showed up with the band didn’t buy any drinks and they ruined a pool table. Are you going to give me a security deposit, eh? )

I disliked this woman, but she had a point. I had seen the destruction that teens could wreak on a school. The almost weekly graffiti that appeared on the outside walls that offered disparaging remarks concerning the principal’s mother and what they could do to a simple cafeteria was mind boggling. During lunch duty, I remember often having to tell teens to pick up their garbage. One of them usually remarked, “The janitor will do it.” I didn’t blame the kids so much as the parents who had raised entitled punks.

I answered the woman with an edge to my voice. She clearly wanted me out of here, and she wanted me to tell my teenaged friends that the Big Gob Brewery was not open to our kind. (My band is older I said. The one who plays bass, he’s thirty. They will bring paying customers. They will not break anything. )

The woman laughed, (Oh really? And why are you in this band then?)

I shot back, (The music is great. We are chemists with our instruments. And they are really good guys. ) Obviously, I had meant to say we had great chemistry.

The woman did not look convinced. She viewed me with a raised brow, (And your parents don’t mind you being in a band with guys that old? )

I shook my head, (Not at all. They know them and are good friends. )

The woman eyed me. She looked me up and down, trying to determine if I was lying. (I must say I am intrigued. Let’s listen to your CD. )

She put the CD into the bar’s sound system, which thankfully was not as ancient as the televisions and pool tables. I had put three tracks on the CD from our practice, all fast and driving with hook melodies. Not necessarily what I considered our best stuff, but it would suit this bar whose clientele I guessed liked classic hard rock or just rock in general.

The first song started heavy, and then drove into a manic chorus. The song was held together by a driving bass and drum rhythm. I watched the woman’s expression as she listened. Her hard features softened slightly as her expression grew thoughtful. As the bridge pounded with thick palm muted power chords and one final desperate scream to the chorus finale, the expression softened further. I saw the owner tap her fingers on the bar.

(It’s catchy. I’ll give it that. You’ve got a very mature voice for your age. ) I shrugged my shoulders. Hurray, but at least she seemed to be enjoying it.

The second song started, this time with a high-pitched slide. It was a very simple riff, and alone, it was probably very annoying to listen to, but once the bass kicked in, frantic and fast, followed by the drums thundering and crashing at once, it was a powerful mix. The song had a softer chorus, this one sung without screaming but equally powerful.

The woman nodded again, (Nice chorus. Do you write the lyrics and the vocal melodies yourself? )

I replied, (In a notebook, a school one. I’ve written lots of songs. In my last band, I wrote all the words. )

The owner smiled, (I still remember writing the names of my favourite bands on my school notebooks. You probably don’t do too well in school if you spend your time writing lyrics. What’s your name by the way? I’m Jacynthe. )

I had impressed her enough for her to want to know my name. What a great honour. To be fair, this conversation would have gone much differently if I had walked in as an adult male. Apparently, in this body, I had to prove that I wasn’t going to burn down the place. I supposed she had a right to give me the third degree, my band of teenage hoodlums could wreck the place, right?

( It’s Abigail. And I’m happy you like the music. )

(I do like the music, but before I book you guys, I would like to meet everyone in the band. OK? )

Did she think that I was lying? I was annoyed that our being booked was contingent on my bringing the other members here. I had spoken to promoters before, and I was able get shows over the phone. To be fair, they were ‘pay to play’ shows. These shows, much maligned, promised playing time for money. It was an anathema to the whole concept of live music. People come to see a band, and even an unknown band deserves a five dollar cover charge. Unfortunately, unknown bands have difficulty booking shows, so enter opportunistic promoters.

Greedy promoters forced bands to charge their fans ten dollars a ticket, giving none of the profit to the band, and sometimes more just for a chance to play a thirty minute set with an apathetic sound guy, a buzzy microphone and a mix where the vocals were always too low. I had apologized to the few fans a past band of mine had for a show like this, where there was absolutely no sound person! We were left with a mixing board and told to have at it. We had once sold sixty tickets for one of these shows, and considering the venue might charge five to six hundred dollars a night for rental, and we were one band, the promoter was making into the thousands of dollars if there were ten plus bands. And the bands? They got nothing. Exposure yes, but pay to play was vilified, and it usually resulted in the bands realizing they were getting screwed and this pushed them to organize their own shows.

That is why we'd decided to approach the Big Gob Brewery. I had no choice but to agree to Jacynthe’s proposal. We weren’t so much worried about the money, but I had a real problem with lining the pockets of promoters who refused to provide an even adequate sound person. I nodded my head and turned to leave.

Jacynthe grinned, ( Nice to have met you Abigail. I will admit, that I thought I was going to have to kick your ass out of here. See you soon. ) I nodded again and left up the stairs.

So I had the show, sort of. I had Jacynthe interested at the very least. I sighed as I walked home, thinking that Steven would have been able to convince her far more easily. I texted Andrew and Steven, explaining that the owner wanted to book us, but she wanted to meet the whole band first. I told them it was policy, not because Jacynthe didn’t really believe that two grown men would play in a band with a teenaged girl. Would Andrew and Steven come to see it that way, eventually? Would they start seeing me differently? I pushed the thought from my mind, fighting the urge to stop at the Dairy Queen for some wonderful anti-depressant soft serve.

Chapter 27

Another week came and went, and I felt like I was no closer to a cure. The strange magic that affected my body was absent anywhere else on the planet seemingly. Saturday morning, I was waiting for my mother and Amélie to return from Chloe’s dance class as I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. The girl staring back at me had become very familiar. I was scared to admit that it was no longer a surreal experience. It was becoming normal to look at the girl with the sad blue eyes. I did not look at my reflection in shock any longer. As humans we can acclimate better than any other species, we can settle in the coldest and warmest temperatures and survive, and while it was not an easy progression to this state, it had happened. I was getting used to this body.

I knew how it moved, and how my nose wrinkled when I brushed my teeth. I knew how it sneezed, which was completely unlike the gale force of my former sneeze. No, it was a feminine gasp that Amélie annoyingly called cute. To be fair, Amélie was frightened to be caught within the blast of my former sneeze, so I could not blame her. I also knew how this body looked, how the curves and angles mingled to create my physical form. I had not explored its more hidden regions yet, and was in no hurry to do so. I had to admit that I was confused. I found Amélie’s body attractive, yet not Abigail’s. I blamed it on my apparent age, thankful that I was not interested in robbing the cradle.

My face was one that could grace the cover of Teen People. Nearly blemish free, it was fresh, sufficiently round to give the impression of innocence, but alluring at the same time, with big blue eyes. It was as if someone took all the best characteristics of every pop star and blended them into this adolescent canvas. My nose, which hadn’t been over large before, was now upturned and small. My hair was another story. It was a tangled mess. My mother insisted she show me how to style it, but it was more like a visit to the dentist for a root canal. Actually, the styling would be preferable. I hate needles.

This was going to be a special weekend. My mother had begged to take Chloe for the weekend, so it meant that Amélie and I would have the house to ourselves. We planned to see a movie for the first time since Chloe was born. We weren’t huge movie goers by any means, but the opportunity to see a movie in a theatre was not one to pass up. Amélie had gone to the ‘Mommy and me’ showings, but it is difficult to get into a movie when you hear near constant shushing and the cry of an infant every few minutes. Even ‘Dude Where’s My Car’, a 90s stoner comedy, with its simple plot twists, would have been hard to follow with those interruptions. I enjoyed seeing movies with Amélie and rarely went with anyone else. I liked the shared experience. Beyond the movie, I was also planning romance with wine, brie and hopefully something else. I hoped that Amélie was opening up to the idea of a physical relationship with me in this body. We couldn’t exactly do what we did before, but I still enjoyed Amélie’s body. I expected full sex to be off the table, but I could certainly make Amélie feel very good.

I heard the door open and Chloe’s voice as she excitedly climbed the stairs toward me, “Alee! Alee!” I scooped her into my arms and kissed her cheek. “How did you do at dance today?” Chloe smiled at me, a large toothy grin. She was unbearably adorable in her little tutu.

My mother climbed the stairs behind Amélie, “She loves it Darren. She’s going to be a ballerina.” My mother was giddy. Not only had she seen Chloe in her tutu, she was getting her for the entire weekend.

Amélie nodded, “She did really well. She even walked on her tippy toes. She was more into it this week. You should come next week.”

I made a face. “I don’t think so.”

Amélie frowned, “You hardly leave the house. All you do is play guitar.”

I shrugged my shoulders. If I was still a man, I would have gone to the dance class and felt no less a man. I just didn’t want to play Amélie’s little sister or niece, or whatever role I was supposed to be playing. I wanted to feel normal. If I went to dance class as a man and danced poorly that would have been fine, if I hadn’t felt the rhythm and found out I was a secret Baryshnikov, that would have been perfectly fine. If I went to dance class as a girl, well I would probably dance like one without realizing it because of my moving appendages. While watching hockey or wrestling made me feel normal, feeling my ass move while I danced to ‘Wheels on the Bus’ did not.

I smirked and replied, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Amélie took Chloe from me and brought her into the kitchen. My snide comment had apparently ended the conversation. My mother shook her head and led me into the bedroom.

“Darren, you know that Amélie means well and considering no one even knows who you are at the class, it wouldn’t hurt if you went. Your father and I worry about you.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I know Mom, but it’s hard. I feel like everyone is looking at me.”

My mother sat me on the bed. She was tall for woman, standing nearly a foot taller than me now. She put her hand on my shoulder, “Well some might be looking, but you have to understand what they see. And, I think it’s great that you are continuing with your music Darren, but you do have responsibilities here. If you want to be seen as Chloe’s father, you need to show it. I know others won’t see you that way, but Amélie will.”

I nodded slowly, “Okay Mom, yeah I will go next week.” My mother was right. The distance that was building between Amélie and me was only partially due to my appearance, it was also my behaviour. I really did want to see Chloe at her dance class.

My mother smiled, “That’s my boy. Now about your hair. You really need to start doing something with it. The tangles will be painful to take out. You need to brush it in the morning, and for at least a week, you will probably have to do it before bed.”

My mother took a hairbrush out of a shopping bag. The brush was black with thin metal bristles. I hadn’t used a hair brush since high school when I had longish hair, for a man. She sat behind me on the bed and as gently as possible, she began to unwind the snarls that made up the rat’s nest that was my hair. I grimaced as she did. She was pulling on the tangles carefully, but it still hurt.

“Sorry Darren, your hair is in really bad shape. I know it hurts.” She brushed evenly when she managed to untangle a small section, allowing my locks which had been nicely curled in my dream to hang freely. I said little except for making the odd grunting noise, indicating that she was pulling too hard.

“If you brush it like this every morning, and you use a hairband, you could be done in five minutes.”

I made a face. Watching my face in the mirror, I looked like a pouting child. There had to be a way to avoid this, but with my plump lower lip and youthful face, it was difficult. The same face that I wore as a man, narrowed eyes, slightly outstretched jaw, that showed supreme irritation, looked much different on this one. The supposed ‘death’ look that I had given to passengers on the bus who hit me with large heavy bags as they passed, had gone completely. Now I looked like a girl who wasn’t getting her way. Maybe if I tried to tuck my lower lip in, I could lose the pout?

“They are kind of girly Mom. I don’t really want to wear a headband. Plus, I find they kind of make me look even younger. Amélie looks young when she wears them. I don’t want people thinking I am thirteen.”

I saw a little smile on my mother’s face that quickly disappeared. She was working out a particularly knotted section as she spoke, “No thirteen year old girl is built the way you are. I don’t think you will have that problem. If the hairband isn’t an option, then I can show you another way. It is very easy.”

To me, very easy meant not even using a comb. I used to just push my hair back with my hands, gel and then done. It was thirty seconds. My mother finished untangling my hair. She brushed the bangs into my eyes again and then gripped the hair that formed my bangs tightly. She proceeded to slowly wind the strands together, twisting each strand over the other. It looked like she was braiding it, but it wasn’t as extensive. She only wound half of what she had grabbed and then pulled it taut across my scalp, she held it there, but allowed the remaining hair to flow down my head toward my back. She used a hair clip to hold the wound hair in place, and suddenly, I had no bangs.

It still looked girly to me, but it was better than the hairband. It still put the attention on my face, but I felt I didn’t look younger at least. My mother removed the clip and the hair unravelled. My mother looked at me expectantly. “Your turn, sweetie.”

I struggled to wind the hair the same way my mother did, but she was patient with me. Each time I made a mistake, she unravelled the hair completely and asked that I start over. She clearly did not want me to half-ass it. I was getting frustrated, and she could see it. I was gripping the hair too firmly and yanking what I had in my fist.

“What’s wrong, Darren?”

“Are you ashamed of me?” I let the hair fall from between my fingers, my bangs forming again and covering my eyes.

My mother brushed the bangs away, “Why would I be ashamed of you, Darren?”

I sighed, “Because you feel like you have to do this. The whole thing is just ridiculous. It defies reason, but here you are acting like it is normal. Isn’t it eating you up inside to know what I used to be?”

My mother shook her head, “Considering what Allison told us, this is like godsend. We thought you were dying, Darren. I would rather have you like this than in a hospital bed. Your father and I aren’t ashamed of you at all. The fact that you aren’t hiding in a room tearing your hair out, it shows you are strong. I am proud of how you are taking this.”

I smiled gently. I felt like crying, but I wasn’t going let the water works flow in front of my mother. The emotions came to the surface so easily. I was like a pot of boiling water whose contents constantly lapped at the side, a small increase in heat potentially causing the water to spill over. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump that built in my throat. Ironically, I was very much like my mother. I have no doubt that if I cried, she would follow.

After a few more tries, she was satisfied that I would be able to emulate the hair style. I was just happy that once I got it down that it would only take a minute or so to do my hair. Unfortunately, that did not include the blow drying and brushing I would have to do to avoid the tangles.

I still couldn’t understand why girls put up with it. Sure, it looked nice. Amélie spent time on her hair, but unless she had come home from the hairdresser, I rarely gave her a compliment. Amélie was not the type of woman who fished for compliments. So why did she care? She said it was because she didn’t want her hair to ‘look like crap’. Apparently, girls were only confident if they had the perfect body and hair-do. Even if I found out I was stuck like this, I would never allow that to affect my confidence. I know that Amélie’s confidence is wounded when she doesn’t have enough time to do her hair. I can see it in how she holds her head and how she trudges instead of walks. I honestly couldn’t have cared less how I looked at this point, but if I was going to work at a law firm, I would have to learn how to keep my hair looking professional, so I was thankful my mother was willing to help because while Amélie could do her own hair- she sucked at doing other people’s. The pathetic up-do I had for my interview with multiple loose strands was proof of that.

My mother left with Chloe and Amélie and I had the house to ourselves. The day was uneventful. We went to the movies, deciding to eat the popcorn for dinner, since the amount they gave was ridiculous and probably amounted to hundreds more calories than we would eat normally. The massive drinks that they gave us and the bag of candy was more food than any sane person should have eaten, but when you pay the exorbitant prices they charged, you felt like you needed to at least try to finish it.

Another unwelcome part of my change came from my bladder. Before, I could drink nearly the entire mega pop and only use the washroom when I got home. Now, I had to actually pee twice. Amélie only had to go once! For once, she was the one explaining the missed plot points.

I felt strange going into the women’s washroom. I had not used a washroom other than those at home. I flew through the door, nearly bowling over a thirty-something woman who had a few choice words for me. I locked myself in the stall as I had done countless times before as a man, but it still felt bizarre. The tampon dispenser and the smell. It still smelled like a washroom, but it was different. Instead of the cologne or aftershave, or that terrible body spray that teenage boys or desperate college students wore because they thought it would attract a woman into their bed, it smelled like perfume, at least in places where it didn’t smell like urine. The teenage cleaning crew for the theatre were apparently lax in their duties. If anything, my time as a female was eroding my fear of public washrooms. When the choice is to pee my pants, I will always opt to sit on a toilet seat that may or may not have been washed within the last few days.

As we drove home, I thought about how the night would go. How I would convince Amélie that we could still have a physical relationship. I couldn’t give her what she really wanted, but it was going to be close.

I opened a bottle of wine, hoping that the alcohol would remove some of Amélie's inhibitions. I had to face facts, I wasn’t exactly Amélie’s ideal mate, but if we could still be intimate and not be awkward, our marriage would be strengthened. I hadn’t really thought about our marriage. I still considered Amélie my wife, but I don’t know how she saw me. Legally speaking, can a teenage girl be married to a grown woman? In Canada, the answer is yes. We had legalized same-sex marriage, but the question was, would Amélie accept being married to a teenage girl? I sighed lightly, finding that the thought lingered in my head too long. Tonight was supposed to be special, I didn’t need to be thinking whether I was still married to my wife.

We entered the bedroom after a few glasses of wine and some brie. I was feeling significantly tipsy, almost drunk. I was ready to buck into Amélie whether I had something between my legs or not. We got into bed, and I ground against her ass. Normally, I would have been rock hard, but it was a different feeling than having the blood flow down to fill my cock. It was almost like an itch or a tickle, and the more that I thrust against Amélie’s backside, the more the tickle became like a strange yet pleasant fire. My breasts still unbound in a tight t-shirt were topped with nipples that pressed obscenely against the shirt. I was turned on, but was Amélie?

Normally, she would have been naked by this point. We both would have been naked, but there was some hesitation, even with the alcohol. I had a secret weapon. I went to the living room and put Amélie’s Britney Spears ‘Blackout’ CD into the stereo. I cranked it and then returned to Amélie. Why Britney Spears, and why that particular album? Because the entire album is like an ode to dirty, raunchy sex. With the beats thumping, I helped Amélie remove her shirt and then reached behind and fumbled with her bra strap. I thought she was going to make a joke about how I should find it easier to remove it, but she removed the bra quickly. We went back into bed renewed. Blackout was the perfect aphrodisiac and like Pavlov’s dogs with the bell, the raunchy beats awoke something within us. Amélie had chugged her remaining wine. She was drunk now. I saw her body in all its splendour, curves, slight love handles, which I hastened to grip as I restarted the grind of my hips. She was perfect in my eyes, but other than the strange fire I had felt in my loins, I felt nothing else. I had expected to be wet like Amélie, but when my finger went probing for her clit, I noticed she was unusually dry. Ironically, even if we had been wet, we had nothing to make use of that wetness.

Amélie got out of bed and turned the lights out. Usually we would have sex with the lights on, especially because I liked to watch each curve and angle of Amélie’s body. When I took her doggy style, I liked to watch her plump ass smash against my body. I said nothing and returned to her clit. As I was doing this, I moved my lips over her left breast, teasing the nipple gently. Usually, Amélie would be rubbing my chest or stomach, feeling the hardness there, but she was completely passive.

I moved away from her nipple and then crushed my lips into hers, probing my tongue, looking for a partner. Her tongue moved from its listless state and met mine. I could feel her hips starting to buck. I could do this. Having a woman orgasm was an art form of sorts, or at the very least a process. They were like a tube amp. They took time to warm up, but once they did, their tone was incredible. Her breathing was getting heavier. She had her eyes closed, and she was starting to bite her lower lip. It was at this point that her hands became active. They reached out for me, tangled about my soft waist. Amélie gripped my ass and rubbed the fleshy cheeks. I was on top of Amélie with my hair fully unbound and draped over her naked body. My breasts still clad in the tight t-shirt pressed tightly against Amélie’s.

I noticed that it was taking far longer than usual for Amélie to climax. Two minutes later, Amélie’s hands had left my body, and her tongue was dead in her mouth. I moved to her neck, kissing her and nipping at it gently. It was at that point that I felt like I was trying to get a wooden board to climax. Amélie was doing her best impression of a store mannequin in a sex shop. Britney was still pounding in our ears, as Amélie gently reached her hand and put it over mine, the one that was trying desperately to get her to orgasm.

“Sorry Darren, I don’t think I’m going to be able to go.”

“Is it the nails? I can cut them again. You sounded like you were close.”

Amélie looked at me sadly, “I was faking it, Darren. I’m really sorry. I just don’t think it’s going to work. Everything feels wrong, how you touch me was fine, but we can’t have an intimate relationship with me never touching you.”

I moved off the bed to turn the light on. Amélie had already slipped her underwear back on. She continued, “You remember that conversation that we had about my weight? Remember how you were saying that you were turned on by my body, but if I was say thirty pounds lighter you would probably have trouble getting it up? Well…I am really sorry Darren but I am-“

I shook my head, refusing to believe her words, “You’ll get used to it. It was only the first time we tried. We can try again in-“

Amélie put her hand on my lips, her face looking so fragile I thought it was going to break into pieces. “I’m sorry Darren. I don’t know if I will ever get used to it.”

I wiped my nose, trying to hide the fact that tears had formed in my eyes. I went downstairs to my man cave and did something very unmanly- I cried until I could no longer form tears. I sniffled and adopted the foetal position. Amélie never came to see how I was doing, but when I got up to go to the washroom, I saw she had left a glass of water outside my door, obviously to help avoid a hangover.

Chapter 28

“Can we talk about last night?”

I hadn’t slept well, but with the promise of openness in our marriage, I wasn’t going to bury these feelings. The physical part of our relationship was fundamental. I was standing in the kitchen holding a bowl of cereal.

Amélie nodded her head slowly. I could see bags underneath her eyes. She had clearly not slept well either. I was hoping that she had spent the night rethinking her decision.

“So you didn’t feel anything last night? Because you really seemed to be into it at times.”

Amélie frowned, “It felt good Darren, everything you were doing felt good. But imagine this, I am a teenage boy, good looking but very young. And I have a penis. Imagine that in your head right now. Do you think you would be able to go if I was giving you a hand job? Answer me honestly.”

I shook my head, “But that’s just gross. Girls are just-”

Amélie interjected, “Girls are just what? Despite what many guys would like to think, the majority of girls don’t want to kiss other girls. For you it’s easy, but me, it’s going against my nature. I just don’t feel that way, and I can’t force my body to react to something that my mind finds uncomfortable and awkward.”

“And do I really need to talk about our age difference? I know you are in there, Darren, but there is no way I am going to be able to get into the moment knowing what you look like.” She was getting emotional.

“I really tried Darren. I pictured you, I tried to imagine that your ass was the same, that you had your pecks instead of boobs, and that there wasn’t hair laying all over my body. I can’t get over the fact, and I can’t go against my wiring. You’ve said it yourself, you are wired differently than most men because you go against the grain for your tastes in women. Well this is how I am wired.”

I shook my head, tears again threatening. I really had to get a grip on my emotions. I was starting to hate that lump that seemed to form so easily in my throat now. “So I can’t touch you that way again? You are disgusted by me?”

Amélie shot back, “That’s not fair. Are you honestly telling me that you would want to have sex with me if I was a teenage boy and you were as you used to be? I have seen you cringe when men kiss each other on TV. You can’t tell me you would want to even touch me. Would I turn you on, would you want to fuck me?”

I turned my face away from Amélie, angry tears staining my cheek. I wiped them rapidly and shook my head in answer to Amélie’s question.

I felt Amélie’s hand on my shoulder. “I love you, Darren, but there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. I am not going to wake up tomorrow and be a lesbian. We can get through this though. We stayed together when I moved away for a few months to take that job. We have been through a lot. You remember what you said in the wedding speech to me right?”

I nodded, “I said that I didn’t believe that destiny brought us together, it was our strength of will and the love we had for each other. Our mutual desire to make it work.”

Amélie smiled gently, “This is just the newest challenge. The hardest one we’ve faced. Are you going to let this split us apart, or are you going to fight? What about that song you wrote for me for our wedding night, we did everything to stay together before. Why let this stop us?”

I brushed the tears from my eyes and sighed gently. Amélie continued to softly rub my shoulder. “If you start thinking it’s over, then whatever did this to you has won already. We’ll get through this.”

It was an odd switch to hear Amélie speaking optimistically, but I do recall when things were at their worst in the past, and my optimism long since fled, Amélie’s steady hand calmed my fears.

“How Amélie, how can we be husband and wife? How can we have a marriage like this?”

“I don’t have the answer to that other than loving and supporting each other through this.”

“Then you have to promise me something. No matter what happens, you have to tell me everything, no going behind my back to others talking about my welfare anymore. I just can’t take it, Amélie. I can’t take being treated like a child anymore, especially from you. I’m worried that everyone is going to start treating me how I look. Do you know how scary that is, to feel like you are losing everything you are? Imagine everyone at work suddenly treating you like a know-nothing kid. That’s how I feel sometimes, but it’s worse because it’s my parents, my wife and my friends.”

Amélie clenched her face, clearly trying to fight her own tears. She was better at it than me. She spoke, “I can’t conceive how difficult it must be for you, but for me to agree to what you are suggesting, you, need to be equally honest with me. No more hiding potential cures from me because you think I won’t believe you. I’ve seen some crazy stuff Darren, I am going to believe it. And even if it is so out there that I don’t have the capacity to believe you, I still want to be there with you. And if there is anything you think would help in that search for a cure, even if it is embarrassing you need to tell me.”

There were certain things I couldn’t tell Amélie. I would not tell her that for a millisecond, no half a millisecond, I thought a boy was cute. I would take that secret to my grave. As for telling her about the mystery man in my dream, I did open up to her about that. There was no use hiding it, and it showed that I was following through on my promise. After hearing my confession, Amélie spoke up:

“So, the first dream had you becoming some sort of pop star for the crowd, and the second had you changing your hair, makeup and clothes for some guy. Well at least there’s a common thread.”

I nodded, but I didn’t add anything. I promised Amélie that I would tell her everything from that point on, and she did the same.

***
“Wait…we have to call you what?” Steven looked at me with disbelief.

“Abigail. I wasn’t about to tell the owner my name was Darren.”

I didn’t like how Steven was looking at me. It was the type of look he had given me when I suggested we do “Fireworks” by Katy Perry as a hard rock cover. His brow was tilted and he grimaced, his jaw held tightly.

“This is getting weird, Darren. I’ve got friends coming to this show if we get it. I’ve been thinking about this, and I have no answer for why you, looking as you do, would have joined our band.”

Thankfully, Andrew interjected, “Lay off, Steven, this wasn’t Darren’s choice. We said we’d support him in this. We need to play along.”

I frowned gently, “Steven has a point though. People are going to ask. I am so sick of playing other people, but it’s embarrassing to tell everyone.” I looked at Andrew, “What are we going to tell the others, the ones who haven’t seen me before? A part of me doesn’t even want to invite them, but people will talk, and it will get it out.”

I continued, “And people have been asking to see the band again. It will be impossible to hide it.”

Andrew nodded slowly and then jumped in, “Then we play the show, and we tell them after. They have seen you perform before in other bands, Darren. Despite the change, I can still see you in there. Sure, it isn’t as iconic as Steven Tyler’s scarf on the microphone, but there’s a way you hold your mouth, how you stand and hold your guitar. We can talk about it more when we get back. What time were we supposed to meet the owner?”

I replied, “Three. It’s about quarter to now.” We had taken a break to discuss the potential show at the Big Gob Brewery. The set had gone relatively well. I was still having difficulty timing the cutting of my nails. Steven liked to do the set in its entirety, but I had to pause after half an hour to clip them again. Where I had to think less about my voice in terms of hitting the right notes and maintaining my breathing, I had to think far more about my guitar. As much as I practiced, I would always have to stop and cut my nails, and the longer they got, the worse my playing got.

We left my place and were greeted by a warm spring day. It was now mid-April, and while there had been record snowfall, it melted quickly. Spring was in the air, but unfortunately that meant the smell of dog shit. Frozen and now thawed by the weather, the shit, left by negligent owners, mingled with the sweet smell of the lilac bush outside my bedroom window. Piles of salt, which was used to melt dangerous ice for cars and pedestrians alike, remained on our lawn, the walkway and along the streets, not yet washed away by the missing April showers.

Andrew walked alongside me. “Are you OK with telling the others? Sorry, I didn’t ask, I just figured that’s what you’d want because you didn’t want to play any more roles.”

I replied, “The issue is that Jacynthe, the owner, thinks my name is Abigail. I don’t really know what to do. Either way, our friends are going to wonder why I am not there. I am thinking at this point, don’t invite them.”

Steven shook his head, “So we are going to lie to my friends?”

I nodded my head, “We could. They have never seen us play. I am going to be nervous enough if we get this show. I don’t need anything else to worry about.”

We had arrived at the Big Gob Brewery. There were multiple motorcycles outside, mostly Harleys. Apparently, Sunday afternoon was a popular time for the bar. I hoped Saturday or Friday night was equally popular. My heart thumped. I knew that Jacynthe liked what she heard, but I worried that she was having second thoughts about giving us the slot because of my apparent age.

I entered and descended the stairs into the bar flanked by my band mates. Steven didn’t look happy that the conversation ended so abruptly, but we weren’t about to argue in front of someone who could give us our first show.

Jacynthe greeted me boisterously, in English, which was a welcome change because Andrew and Steven spoke little French, “Ma belle! Abigail, good to see you. So these are the other members. You don’t mind if I ask them questions?” I was surprised by Jacynthe’s demeanour and language change. I tried not to look too shocked, but I clearly did a poor job because a knowing smile appeared on the older woman’s face. “I played the CD for some of my regulars. They enjoyed it very much.”

All of this was excellent news, if she had played the CD for the regulars and they didn’t hate it, she had to book us. My heart leapt again, but this time from excitement. We were so close to booking our first show!

Jacynthe’s grin told me that we had the show. Her English was understandable, but it was fraught with errors, much like my French, “They are looking very much to hearing you sing, Abigail. One of them said, she has a beautiful voice like an angel, but you are enflammé, une vrai fille coléreux quand tu cris.”

I knew what Jacynthe meant, but as I looked over at Andrew and Steven, they were lost. I was glad. The regulars said I sounded passionate in my singing, but that I was a real spitfire too. I never thought anyone would describe me that way. It was the anger in my screams that made the bar patrons say that, but it was something you called a woman with a fiery temper or personality. It was not attributed to men- ever.

Steven blurted out, “So, we have the show?”

Jacynthe smiled, “Not so fast. I said Abigail could sing here, you are who exactly?”

Steven and Andrew introduced themselves, but Jacynthe was still unimpressed, “OK, now you two. You tell me why you chose to be playing with someone so young? What do your wives say eh?”

Andrew grimaced, but he answered quickly, “Well you see, she’s…,” and he sputtered just as quickly. I thought Jacynthe would ask us questions about the show. We hadn’t prepared a back story for me.

Steven was the one who saved the day, “We know Abigail through our wives. She is the sister of a friend of Andrew’s wife. We are very close though, we are like, uh family.”

Jacynthe raised a brow, “The question I asked, you didn’t answer. She’s just a girl, you can’t find someone your own age to play with?” The question Jacynthe had asked could have been taken in a completely different way- if, we hadn’t been discussing music.

Andrew recovered, “She’s very mature for her age. We have chemistry, you have heard the CD. We play well together.”

Jacynthe’s expression changed from interrogative with raised brow and tight mouth to open and beaming, “Yes, after we met, I knew this about her. So it’s true that she will not bring with her minors? You will bring people who will buy this,” she pointed to a mug of beer.

Steven nodded his head, “Yes, we will bring people who are legal. Don’t worry about that.”

Jacynthe shook her head, “You would bring no one, and I will still make money. I don’t want other kids in here.”

I piped up, “I don’t have any friends my own age. I prefer to be around adults.”

Jacynthe frowned slightly, “You are misunderstanding ma belle, I think I am not saying it right. You can bring some, a few girlfriends, and your boyfriend. Just not the complete class.” She winked at me, but I threw my hands up in the air in protest.

“Uh, I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t want one. I just want to focus on music.” I tried not to show the fact that I was aghast, but Jacynthe misread my expression as shyness.

“The right one hasn’t come along then.” She smiled at me, but I just shrugged my shoulders and wished desperately for the moment to end. Steven was snickering, and I elbowed him in the stomach. Could this end soon, please?

We signed a simple contract, which I read over briefly. We would get twenty percent of the drink sales that night. It was unlike any contract I had ever seen for such a small venue. Usually, there was a handshake and that was enough, but Jacynthe was clearly a savvy business woman. The twenty percent meant that it was both to our advantage and hers to bring in as many people as possible. We would play in a month’s time. Happy we got the show, yet utterly embarrassed at the same time, I was pleased to leave as soon as possible.

Just as we were leaving, Jacynthe shouted, “Hey, does your band have a name? I need to be putting something on the sign outside.”

I nodded, “Eyes Wide Open.”

Jacynthe smiled, “Very nice. See you in a month, ma belle, Abigail!” She looked to Andrew and Steven sternly, “You treat her good!” I reddened and quickly made my escape, bandmates in tow.

Steven said with a smirk, “Well, Spitfire, I guess you’ll have to be Abigail on show night then? You’ve got a bunch of bikers just dying to hear you sing.” Apparently, he understood French better than I thought.

I elbowed Steven in the stomach again, and he doubled over.

After the humiliating exchange in the bar, I wasn’t in a huge hurry to have my other friends, or even my family see me gawked at by a group of middle-aged men with rebel fantasies. I said, “OK, for this show, I’m Abigail. We invite Steven’s friends, since you already told them about the show, our wives, and anyone else who knows who I am.”

There was agreement among us and soon, excited talk about the practice schedule to prepare. We had our first real show as a band, and I was giddy but at the same time there was an edge of fear. I did not feel nearly ready, and while we had time, I wasn’t sure I could face people’s stares, especially the stares of men. It stayed with me as we returned to my place to finish our practice. Was this a terrible mistake? I had been front man in bands before, but I never noticed women or men undressing me with their eyes. As a reluctant leading lady, how could I fight the temptation to gouge out the eyes of those who ogled me? I realized that I was thinking far too much about this, but it was hard not to. Between Brad’s eager eyes, the boy in the car, and Ethan, I had had my fill of male attention.

Chapter 29

“This isn’t good Darren. What if you lose?”

“I won’t lose Amélie. Some of my savings can cover the tickets, and as for the wilful evasion charge- that is just sour grapes for a cop who got shown up by a teenager.”

A week after booking our first show, my court summons came in the mail. The hearing was set for mid-July. While I was not experienced in youth justice cases, I had done background reading on it.

I explained, “There are plenty of options for a judge other than a detention centre. If I prove to the judge that I am mature and that I will not reoffend, they can just give a reprimand, a supervision order, at the worst I would be on probation.”

Amélie nodded, but she was not convinced, “That still doesn’t fix the problem of you having no legal guardian. I haven’t had a lot of luck figuring out how we can get you a birth certificate. I am starting to get worried Darren, without that documentation, I mean they won’t deport a minor obviously, but you might be sent to foster care.”

This raised my ire. “I will fight them using their own system. I will argue that I am mature and capable enough to be emancipated from a guardianship or the state system.”

“Yeah, but driving without a licence is not going to convince them you are mature enough to be on your own. Plus, for emancipation, you’d have to prove you can provide for yourself. You will be getting a few bucks over minimum wage at the law firm. That isn’t going to be enough for even an apartment. Believe me Darren, when I did family law, I saw one of these cases, and it didn’t go well. The standard to be met for legal emancipation is very high. I’m afraid you don’t meet it. You would have to get a job that paid the same or better than your last one.”

Other than child actors, I couldn’t think of any children that made even ten thousand dollars, so legal emancipation might not be an option. I had compiled a list of cases that I was going to use at the hearing, but the obvious dilemma remained- I had no birth certificate and no proof of identity. I was an illegal alien, but because I was a minor I could become a ward of the state.

I asked Amélie, “What about cases where someone has adopted a child who didn’t have a birth certificate? Could we prove that this is the best place for me, that you are responsible and that you can support us? Maybe there is a precedent for something like that?”

Amélie nodded slowly, but there was hesitation in her tone, “I- I don’t know Darren. The more of a spotlight we put on ourselves, the more questions that will be raised. They will ask what happened to my husband first of all. This is all getting very complicated. I need to look more into this, speak to some of my law school friends about it.”

I found Amélie’s tone a little dismissive, but she was right- the web that we would have to weave to convince the authorities would be extremely complex and not without risk. If they found out that Amélie was lying, she could be charged with perjury. I wasn’t sure how youth justice courts worked, but lying to a judge was always a bad thing. The only thing that really mattered to me was ensuring that I would not be taken away from my wife and daughter. I wasn’t sure of the numbers, but I doubted very many people adopted teenagers, so I would have to stay in the foster home or half-way house until I was eighteen. The prospect of that sent me to the net for a fresh round of research. However, I wasn’t looking up case law, I was searching for a cure.

***

While we would lose the show at the Big Gob Brewery if I managed to regain my manhood, I would gain a great deal more than the opportunity to play at a biker bar. Being a history major at university, while not giving me the most fantastic job opportunities, had given me knowledge of different time periods. I knew that the influx of Christianity in particular had declared the formerly accepted spiritual religions blasphemous, but those religions, based in animal lore and multi-deities had many instances of transformation. While I was no bible scholar either, I was familiar with the transformation of Lot’s wife to salt as she looked back at the burning Sodom and Gomorrah. Unfortunately, our world today, while still religious to a degree, did not exactly have spiritual beings descending to Earth, dying and then being reborn. I lacked the faith required to believe, so I needed facts, but I had found little in the way of research beyond my own experiences. What had happened to me, it was impossible, right?

I was hesitant to venture away from the computer because I wasn’t sure if everyone treated magic as a fetish, or if everyone was like Brad. I wondered if I began to look into the older religions, the supposed pagan faiths, if I would find my answer there. Greek mythology had numerous stories of humans being transformed into animals as demonstrated by the story of Circe and Ulysses. The problem with those tales is that they are myths. None of it is proven fact.

I stumbled upon a webpage, titled “Curses, maledictions and hexes”. The page was written in a manner that made me think it had been translated from a medieval woodcutting, but when I reached the bottom, I saw the VISA sign. The supposed practitioner would determine if I was cursed if I had enough room left on my VISA card. My heart sank. So magic was for sexual perversion and making money apparently. I had not found any pages where charitable magicians offered their services. In my eyes, magic and religion were becoming closely linked, at least with respect to the money-making opportunities. I found sites where I could purchase love spells to ensnare the man of my dreams. Ugh. There were sites that offered half-price revenge spells.

For the spell, all I needed what a lock of hair from the target of my retribution. The site would send me the other ingredients and the instructions for the ritual- if I paid 59.99$. It was all very depressing, and I was really beginning to think that the internet would not yield a cure. I thought about asking Amélie if she thought it was a good idea to spend money on a potential cure, but I was growing discouraged, and to make matters worse, my savings were almost wiped out by tax time. I only had a few thousand dollars to last before I started at the law firm. To make matters worse, none of the supposed wizards, warlocks, mages, level-nine or otherwise, even offered consultations on physical transformations. My change was within the realm of fantastical stories, myths and legends. All this meant was that I was going to have to go to the dance class, not as Chloe’s daddy, but as Abigail.

***

“You aren’t really going to leave the house dressed like that are you? Darren, you need to wear a bra. You will embarrass me. Don’t you care how you look?”

I shook my head vigorously, “Why should I care? I don’t want any unwanted attention.”

Amélie frowned, “The only people there will be moms and maybe one dad. You are strictly off limits to them anyway. And why should you care? Because I don’t want people thinking I picked you up off a street corner. You look like you should be asking someone for change downtown.” To be fair, I hadn’t done my hair, I was wearing a ratty t-shirt and my ripped jeans. My tennis shoes, which had been pristine a few weeks ago, were now muddied.

I narrowed my eyes, “Why do you care what people think? Just screw them. If they want to judge people by what they wear or how they look, then let them. You do the same thing with yourself. You’ve told me that you feel like people, and especially other women, judge how you look. Why do you let them? Just because they can fit in designer size two clothes, they are allowed to look down on others?”

Amélie replied, “You don’t understand because you aren’t a woman. If I bring you to the class looking like a bum, I look bad. Aren’t you supposed to be my younger sister? Can you just put on a bra and a t-shirt that isn’t torn in a few places?”

I had to admit. I was very sentimental about my clothing, as demonstrated by my obsession with wearing the hoodie I had purchased in Montreal nearly 10 years ago. Most men are like this; even women have a favourite pair of jeans, but do they keep them for longer than five years? My father, Amélie’s father and myself, were all guilty of keeping clothing that was more comfortable than stylish despite holes or tears. Amélie’s father had a faded toque that he had worn every winter for twenty years. I had my hoodie, and my father had a tattered jersey that he said brought him luck. The funny thing about my current wardrobe, while it might have been comfortable on my former body, it was usually ill-fitting on my current one. So, the idea that I would be more comfortable wearing my old clothes held little water. The comfort factor came only from the familiarity, and most importantly, they weren't girl’s clothes.

I weighed my options. I could have another argument with my wife, or I could just put on a bra and a decent t-shirt. I had considered putting on a bra, and really, I should be wearing one if I was going to do any dancing. I was going to see Chloe dance, not to put on a fashion show.

“Fine.” I pulled off my t-shirt and then tried to put a bra on. I was still having trouble latching it at the back.

Amélie frowned, “When you start your job, you know I am not going to have time to get you dressed every morning. And you haven’t been brushing your hair like your mom asked either.” She threw me one of her hairbands. “You can brush it in the car. We are going to be late.” She finished helping me get into the bra. I wore one of Amélie’s band t-shirts, thinking that she would want me to wear something that fit at least. It was a little long, but at least it wasn’t down to my knees like some of my t-shirts.

On the car ride over, I asked Amélie about paying for a cure. Previously, she had said that she would support my decisions, even if she didn’t think they would work.

“I don’t know how legit they are, but I am at a point where I am willing to try it.”

Amélie watched the road as she replied. “This is the same site you showed me that had the break-up spell and the evil eye hex?”

I shook my head, “No, it’s a different one. This guy will come to our house, and do an assessment. He will tell us if some kind of curse has been put on me. He’s pricey though. How much money do you have left after you paid your taxes?”

Amélie’s face hardened, “How much?” I felt like I did when I was asking my parents for money for a toy or a new video game when I was a kid.

I sighed, “It’s three hundred for the consultation, plus travelling expenses. The guy lives near Hamilton. So probably about four hundred total.”

“Darren, you would usually be the first person to say that something like that is a con. So this magical consultant can tell us if you are cursed. What then? Can he turn you back, or does that cost extra?”

I could tell Amélie was being a little snide with her comment. She obviously thought that Charles Greaves, Esquire, was a charlatan. I replied, “I haven’t been able to find anyone who claims to do that type of magic.”

“So, if we find out you are cursed? What then? Sorry Darren, it’s just we really need to watch our money right now. Tax season was not kind to us. You don’t start until mid-June with the law firm.”

It was MY money though. We had never discussed it as anything but that. Amélie usually didn’t care as long as I could pay my bills and the mortgage. I added petulantly, “But it’s my money, which you never said anything about before.”

Amélie shook her head repeatedly. She was exasperated. “Okay, well then go ahead and have Mr. Greaves come to the house. Pay his expenses. But when you get your fourth and final notice for your car payment and the next week, they tow it away, don’t blame me.”

“Don’t be like that Amélie. I just want you to acknowledge that it is my money.”

“That’s the thing Darren, maybe we shouldn’t be thinking that way anymore. Not until you get changed back. We need to think about it as our money because we have to think about the ramifications of spending needlessly. When I don’t eat out one week, I think about how it is saving us money. We don’t know how long you are going to be like this. We need to try and save as much money as possible.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I felt that Amélie was being harsh, but in fact, she was simply being smart. It took me a few minutes of brooding to realize that she was right.

We arrived at the dance studio a few minutes later. The outside, similar to Stephanie’s law office, had huge windows. We had to take our shoes off at the door. We entered the studio itself. It was a spacious room. Mirrors lined the back wall, while two other sides had single bars attached to the wall. I knew the bars were used for ballet, but little beyond that. The outside wall, opposite the mirrors, was a huge window, which made the studio bright and cheerful.

I helped Chloe put her slippers on, and she was soon running with the other children in the room. Because the students were so young, the parents stayed close. I noticed that there wasn’t a lot of mingling between the adults, so I was hoping I could enjoy watching Chloe dance and stay under the radar at the same time.

What Chloe did wasn’t exactly dancing. She was the youngest in the class, and while the other kids were standing on their tippy toes and generally following the instructions, Chloe tended to do her own thing. She analyzed and then she acted. She was a lot like her father in that respect, except I overanalyzed at times.

We were encouraged to join in. One of the exercises involved bending and touching our toes. I was, not surprisingly, far more flexible than I had been as a man. I could touch my toes with ease. Halfway through the class, I was pleased that I wasn’t getting any attention, and I was happy that Chloe was enjoying herself, even though she was doing a lot of running and amused shrieking and not a lot of dancing.

There were two instructors, a young woman Amélie’s age, and her assistant, a bubbly brunette with a ballerina’s figure. The other parents were occupied with their children, but I had not counted on the water break to create a lull. The brunette walked over to me. She was a few inches taller than me, but she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Everything about the way she moved was graceful and dignified. Her posture was perfect, as if someone were holding her head up with an invisible string.

“Hi, I’m Alyssa. I haven’t seen you at the other classes. Don’t you think the kids are cute? How are you related to Chloe?” Before I had a chance to speak, she took my hand in hers and beamed, “I love your nails! I’ve been wanting to do a design like that, but they never turn out nice. What’s your name by the way?”

I blinked at the girl before me. She was probably around the age of my current body, but with her lithe and relatively undeveloped figure, she could have been younger. She looked at me expectantly, still wearing a welcoming smile. The girl spoke way faster than I was used to. She was excitable which made her the perfect fit for her current job. “Um. I’m Abigail.” I thought back to her other questions and decided to filter them, “I am Chloe’s aunt actually.”

Alyssa laughed, “Oh sorry, I guess maybe I asked too many questions. Aunt? Wow, your parents must have waited a long time before having you. Was your sister really bad? My mom says I need to slow down sometimes, let me know if I’m going too fast. How did you do your nails? They are super cute.”

I looked down at my nails and replied, “Uh. YouTube. It was a video.”

Alyssa jumped in, “Still, they are amazing. I love the detail on the stars. How did you keep your hand still to do it so well? I tried hearts once. They looked like lima beans when I was done. They sucked. This really mean girl at school, Véronique, she said they looked like dog poop. I really hate her.”

I guessed, “You use a stencil.” It made sense to use one, and it would always be the same size and shape.

Alyssa replied, “Wow smart. You have to send me that link. What school do you go to by the way? I go to St. Jo’s. Grade 9 really sucks because no one really treats you nice. The older kids anyway. My mom says that grade 10 will be better. Oh and the uniforms are boring, but it’s still fun to do stuff with my hair and nails. That’s one way you can be a bit different. I met a few nice people, but they don’t live close to me. Where do you live by the way?”

Following this girl’s train of thought was like playing goalie with multiple pucks flying at you, all at over a hundred km/h. I thought about the different buses I used to see on my daily commute. I remember seeing one that was likely a charter for a local high school. I responded, “I go to Grande Rivère. And I uh live about fifteen minutes from here. It’s near the strip mall with the Dairy Queen.”

The girl beamed. I wondered if it might be possible to harness the energy she was using to solve the world’s energy crisis. “Lucky you. No uniforms, and it’s not Catholic. I’m not even Catholic but my mom went to St. Jo’s, so tradition or whatever. It’s French though, but you don’t have an accent at all. I heard you speaking English to Chloe, so that’s why I spoke English to you. St. Jo’s is French too, which doesn’t make sense because the nun it’s named for wasn’t even French, can you believe that? The full name is St. Josephine Notre Mère de Paix but everyone just calls it St. Jo’s. So what do you like to do?”

I answered, “Music mostly. Playing guitar and singing.”

Alyssa grinned, “I knew it. Do you like that band though?” She was pointing at my shirt. “My older brother likes Disturbed. I love Katy Perry. I really want to meet her one day. I saw her movie, and she seems so nice. Like she really loves her fans, you know? She’s an amazing singer.”

I could tell that this girl was trying to be my friend, trying a little too hard in my opinion. Considering how I looked, she couldn’t really be faulted for that. She continued speaking a mile a minute, while I did my best to answer her questions by concocting lies.

Class restarted, and I realized that I had only been talking to Alyssa for three minutes. The girl should be an auctioneer. Alyssa took her place next to the main instructor. She was really good with the kids. Her smile and enthusiasm was infectious. I even found myself joining in more than I would have. Alyssa even managed to get Chloe to join in, instead of just running around with a maniacal grin on her face.

As class ended, Alyssa came up to me. “Wow, Chloe did a great job today. So are you coming next week?”

I expected that I would come back, if only to see Chloe dance again, and while Alyssa was very forward with her attempts at friendship, she was harmless. I nodded, “Um. Yeah probably. It was fun.”

“Great! Hey, don't forget to send me that link for those nails.” She gave me her e-mail and watched me put it in my phone. "Thanks Abby! See you next week.”

As we drove back home, I thought about how none of the adults in the room had paid any attention to me at all. They smiled at me, certainly, but they had no interest in talking to me. I had wanted to fly under the radar, but I realized that it bothered me that the only person in the room who had any interest in speaking to me was Alyssa, a teenage girl.

Chapter 30

I created an e-mail address for Abigail. Since Amélie was supposed to be my sister, I used her last name ‘Grenier’. I spent a few minutes on Thursday searching for the nail video I had promised Alyssa. She, in turn, sent me a number of e-mails saying how excited she was to show me her nails, and she asked for my phone number. I knew that if I gave her my number then it was admitting that I had accepted a ninth grader as my friend. She was so nice, it was hard for me to tell her to buzz off. Chloe had only one class left, so unless I agreed to a sleepover at Alyssa’s house, I doubted that I would see her again. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her nails looked nothing like those from the video. Her stars looked more like a set of lopsided asterisks.

On Saturday, before I could leave the final class, Alyssa caught me at the door. I didn’t like Amélie seeing me fraternize with a high school student. Amélie had seen the girl come up to me last week, so there was no way I could pretend I didn’t know the excitable teen.

A wide grin lined Alyssa’s face, but I could see expectation in her eyes too. “So Abby, do you want to hang out sometime? Maybe you could do my nails, and I could do your hair. I bet you’d look really cute with pink bangs. Sort of like Nicki Minaj, but not rainbow hair. That was too much, don’t you think? We actually live pretty close together, if you live near the Dairy Queen. I live near the library. I’m surprised you go to Grande Rivère, it’s so far compared to St. Jo’s. Don’t you have to take two buses to get there?”

I saw a pleading in Alyssa’s eyes. I don’t know what the kids at her school had done to her. Yes, she was hyper, and she spit words like a machine gun spit bullets, but she was honest. She didn’t hide what she liked. To me, she seemed very genuine, but then I had been out of high school for over ten years. It had been an unpleasant experience for me too, due to my supposed friends.

Once, when I showed an interest in the comic book collection of my friend’s dad, it was made quite clear I was behaving like a nerd. Basically, I was expected to only watch hockey and play real and video game hockey. Apparently, I had been doing things they had liked more recently, but one fatal mistake, mentioning my interest in comic books had one of the guys saying, “We thought you’d been pretty cool lately, but I guess not.” Comic books were for nerds, so if I wasn’t playing hockey, I had better be talking about it, or some other sport. Live and breathe sport, but nothing else. I wondered if Alyssa was treated similarly. Was Katy Perry cool? I didn’t really know. I knew who she was and respected her as an artist who sang, and sang very well, versus the auto-tuned robot voices of the majority. I barely knew who Nicki Minaj was and didn’t care to learn more.

I saw a little smirk appear on Amélie’s face as Alyssa asked me to paint her nails. Did she find humour in the situation itself? I hoped not. I wouldn’t be laughing if my wife, in male guise, decided to take up skateboarding. Maybe she was laughing at the very thought of me painting someone else’s nails. I hadn’t even done my own.

“Um. Well.” As I hesitated, the girl’s smile faded. I continued to stammer, “It’s just that-“

She interrupted me before I could stammer more. A smile reappeared on her face, but I knew she was hurt. The expectation in her eyes was gone, replaced with understanding. This had happened before. I couldn’t figure out why others her age didn’t like her. I felt like I did when I had broken up with girlfriends in the past. One girl had cried. I wasn’t worth it I told her, but apparently she knew better.

“It’s OK Abby. I understand. I know that I’m not at your level. Véronique tells me the same thing when I try and hang out with her and her friends.”

I was about to explain how wrong she was about herself and to try and rebuild her self-esteem, but she went back into the dance studio before I could. Amélie had heard the entire exchange as she was putting on Chloe’s boots.

I didn’t follow her, and I felt terrible for allowing her escape without my giving her an inspiring speech. In all honesty though, Alyssa frightened me a little. Her manner was so infectious that in our few exchanges, I felt like she could have been a friend. She awakened something in me, a childish enthusiasm that was only released when I was very excited, like before a big show or watching the Canadiens in Montreal during the playoffs. I felt like I could let loose with her, and it was scary.

The ride home was silent. I felt like I had swallowed a rock but it fell forever, filling my stomach with a never ending sensation of guilt-laden butterflies. What was I supposed to do? I really had no interest spending time with a ninth grader. She would take time away from my band, my family, and my search for a cure. I knew she lived in my neighbourhood, and because I had crushed the girl’s self-esteem as badly as the apparent Queen Bee Véronique, a part of me hoped I would see her again so I could apologize.

***

“Darren, we really need to talk about something.”

“I know that you don’t really want to, but with the show coming up, well there’s going to be a lot of eyes on you.”

Andrew continued, “We’d like you to start wearing a bra in practice, and at the show of course.”

I narrowed my eyes and stepped away from the microphone. It was Wednesday night, a few days before the Saturday night show, and my band mates had staged an intervention of sorts. “I was going to wear one for the show.”

Steven sat on his drum throne, “We won’t think you any less a man for doing it.”

I laughed and shook my head, “You guys aren’t serious are you? Maybe you should stop staring.” I thought they were joking. We messed around like that during practice. Not so much since my change, but I was hoping that meant they were getting used to it and starting to treat me as before.

Andrew frowned. He put his bass down. He approached me and looked into my eyes, “We are serious Darren. It makes us uncomfortable.”

I laughed again, but this time it was derisive. I was finding it hard to believe that my band mates were asking their lead singer to put on a bra. I was getting annoyed. “OK. You can cut it out now, it’s not funny anymore. Like I said, I was planning on wearing one show night.”

Steven replied, “You don't understand. It’s just getting weird, Darren. Last week when we got pizza, the cashier was staring at your boobs the whole time. Not sure if you noticed it.”

Andrew put his hand on my shoulder. “I am not sure if you’ve noticed this either, Darren.” He turned me around so that I was facing the mirror on the wall. “But you aren’t exactly hard to look at, and you’ve gotta be half our age. Steven and I talked about it, and we would really feel better if you wore a bra in practice. When you move around like you do, well it’s like a car accident. It’s hard to turn away. And I just feel like a pervert.”

I responded. I wasn’t angry anymore, just confused. “Look guys, it doesn’t bother me. Sure, I’ve caught you looking, but I don’t care. And that clerk? Whatever.”

Steven added, “Well it’s going to start getting you the wrong attention.”

“Oh so, you are protecting me? I guess chivalry isn’t dead. I don’t remember asking for it.” I said, dripping with sarcasm.

Andrew frowned, “Look, can you just do it? It would make us a lot less uncomfortable about the whole thing.” Steven nodded in agreement.

I sighed heavily. Was it really such a big deal? I was more irritated that my band mates were treating me differently than the thought of wearing such a feminine undergarment. To be honest, it was only my stubbornness keeping me from wearing a bra on a regular basis. Fact is, I rarely left the house, and lounging around playing guitar or conducting research did not require one. I knew that I was big enough up top that I really should wear a bra and with the amount of bouncing that was going on during practice, could I really fault my band mates for feeling uncomfortable?

I was also wondering if Steven had a point. Were males, particularly teenage males, seeing me as a slut? And what about Brad? He must have thought I was asking for it by not wearing a bra. Some guys would call it “easy access”. These were the same guys who thought a woman wanted sex if she wore something revealing. It was not something I believed, but there were Neanderthals who raped girls and used the excuse of a mini-skirt and a tube top. I also thought back to a discussion that Amélie and I had where she explained that I would get less attention if I actually dressed in gender and age appropriate clothing, and, most importantly, wore a bra. Wearing men’s t-shirts tightly plastered against unbound boobs brought a lot of unwanted attention, especially if it was cold.

It took me a while to get the bra on. It was a lot easier if I twisted my head to watch my hands fumbling with the fasteners in the bedroom mirror. I could hear Andrew and Steven jamming downstairs. Once I got it on, I hurried downstairs and joined in, stomping on my wah-wah pedal and just losing myself in the moment. A minute later, the creative burst was over, and we moved seamlessly back into the set for the second time that night. Nothing more was said about my bra or lack thereof. Apparently, once I had agreed, they were appeased- I was not.

I couldn’t get over the fact that they were seeing me differently. I do remember how Steven stared at the cashier. I thought the cashier got his order wrong, but apparently not. I had given my kid sister’s boyfriends, the ones I disliked, a similar look. Steven and Andrew were good guys, but I didn’t want or need them to protect me. How would they react when a room full of middle-aged bikers were staring at me?

***

Andrew and Steven got to my place at noon on the day of the show. We planned to do a light rehearsal. I would sing some, but it was mostly muscle memory for our instruments. I would not scream at all until tonight. I could have screamed, but it needed a lot more energy. I knew how to sing scream safely. You had to pretend that your mouth was a megaphone, holding your mouth like Billy Idol. The scream itself, if done correctly, came from the soft palette at the roof of your mouth. It reverberated off the soft palette, and this created the scream.

In previous bands, other musicians, even guitar players who made me look like a novice, were impressed that I could scream in key and with such intensity. I actually found it easier now. I knew where to place it, and how it felt when it was correct. I knew that not everyone liked screaming in music, but it could power songs, and while I did it less in this band, I still enjoyed the feeling. My sister had previously called my scream face a “murder face”. I practiced in the mirror in this body, like I had in my old one, and while I didn’t have a murder face, I did look like I belonged in a juvenile psych ward, mouth Idol-shaped, teeth bared and eyes filled with rage.

I was feeling good. I tried to ignore the fact that I was going to be performing as a girl for the first time. I knew that if I turned back eventually that this show would be a wipe, but any experience was good. I always learned things from shows, whether it was not to hire a sound person who only knew how to do karaoke or to make sure I drank enough water or had a lozenge when it was unbearably hot. I was actually more nervous about my guitar playing. My voice in this body carried songs better than my male one, but my guitar playing had suffered. Also, I could almost swear that my nails were growing back at a faster pace than before. After rehearsal, I made sure to pack nail clippers in my guitar case, along with the usual extra strings, and an extra D cell in case my active guitar pick-ups died. I also threw in a pack of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges, which were heaven sent if I developed a sore throat between now and show time.

We were scheduled to go on at 9 PM, and it was nearing dinner time. We had enough material to fill a little over an hour. I regretted not pushing Steven to learn some covers, but since the regulars had already heard us via CD, they would recognize some of the tunes.
We had pizza for dinner, but I only had one slice. It wasn’t because I wasn’t hungry, I was famished. I wanted to avoid too much dairy, which is a no-no for singers because it creates phlegm. Imagine sticking a bunch of goo in a flute or any reed instrument, then try playing it. The voice, a natural instrument, required a lot of maintenance. I wasn’t a diva or anything; I just knew how to take care of my voice.

I retired to our bedroom to ponder my wardrobe for the show. In previous bands, we had all dressed in the same colours, or even wore our own band t-shirts, which I still thought was terribly lame. A band should never wear their own t-shirt, but I had been outvoted.

Before my change, my wardrobe choices were simple, t-shirt, ripped jeans- done. Now I wanted to choose something that didn’t make my boobs stick out. I opted for the same ripped jeans that Amélie had bought for me a day after my change. The funny thing is that even though Amélie had bought me five pairs of jeans, I only really wore two, exactly as I had as a man. I wore one of Amélie’s band t-shirts, this time a Canadian band, Three Days Grace. I had bought it for Amélie on Mother’s Day the previous year. I did my hair the same way my mother had showed me, and then I undid it, realizing that I actually liked the long hair for the show. I could finally head bang properly, and the bangs would partially hide my face, just like Kurt Cobain’s blonde locks had partially obscured his. Kurt was my biggest influence, and while we weren’t a grunge band, he was still an influence on me. In previous bands, we were almost Nirvana 2.0, but because Andrew, Steven and I had diverse interests, our influences melded into a unique sound, at least I thought so.

I realized that Mother’s Day was Sunday, and after that, it was our one year wedding anniversary. Amélie and I had been together for seven years before we got married, but a lack of money, student life, and simply not being ready made us wait. Chloe had been born out of wedlock, but we knew lots of couples who solidified their lives before having children and getting married. People no longer got married right out of high school or even into college or university. Life was expensive, and yes, we could have eloped, but that would have broken my mother’s heart.

Amélie slipped into the room, “Darren, are you almost ready? Everyone is waiting for you.” Before Amélie would have made a joke that I was a diva like Celine Dion or Mariah Carey, but she said nothing. Maybe she thought that it would hit a little too close to home?

I nodded my head. I saw Amélie, dressed in tight, painted on jeans showing major cleavage and my eyes nearly bugged out of my skull. She had done her makeup darkly, smoky eyes and crimson lips. She was wearing leather boots with heels that made her legs go on forever. I wanted to strip her out of that outfit and ravish her, sticking my throb- I turned away for a moment.

“Are you OK Darren? Are you nervous?”

I composed myself. I knew she wouldn’t want me to touch her, even if I didn’t press my soft body against hers. I thought about our anniversary again. We had talked about going to Montreal before my change for a wild weekend of romance and rock shows. My parents would watch the baby.

“I’m fine. Did you still want to go to Montreal? For our anniversary?”

I felt she answered too quickly, it was rehearsed. “Sure. We can go.”

“Great.” I half smiled and then walked out of the room.

Chapter 31

The sound of a swooping helicopter filled the air. It sounded like the aircraft was approaching rapidly, the noise cutting the air, making it impossible to hear anything else. Just as it seemed as if it was going to land on top of the Big Mouth Brewery, the sound died. A few patrons began chatting excitably, but three seconds later the noise returned, however, this time it was run in reverse, a second later, drums, bass and the screech of an electric guitar roused the audience, eliciting a cheer. Steven had a special beat pad that he had used to trigger the helicopter effect. Those in the front row, mostly university-aged students, ambled to the front of the stage and began to thrust their heads forward, moving them in time to the music.

It was a stage, but it felt more like a rickety picnic table. It was only two feet high. I doubted that it could take much jumping. I moved my head to the music as well, watching my hair flay the air as I hammered up and down on my guitar. I was surprised by how quickly we had them, and I hadn’t sung a note. I remember this happening in a show before. It's actually easy to gain someone’s attention- but harder to keep it. That's the measure of a good band with an equally good song.

The place was packed. Apparently, Saturday night is a busy night, or we had buzz. Either way, I was happy to be playing in front of more than ten people. We were the only band that night. Jacynthe explained that she wanted to give us a proper sound check. It was more than we got in other shows. She had even hired a capable guy to man the sound board. The stage lighting was poor, but that's expected in a dim bar. Jacynthe had rented a spotlight, which she placed on me as I began to sing. I was amazed that she had gone to all this trouble for a band playing its first show. She had hugged me when we first entered and fussed over my hair, complaining that no one would be able to see “ma belle visage.”

Now, the spotlight was on me. My diminutive form was centre stage, with Andrew on my right, and Steven behind his drums. Both of them had microphones for backing vocals. My bangs hid my upper face. I could tell the university guys were trying to check me out, but even with the spotlight, it was hard to make out my face properly, since my bangs fell down to my nose. I tried to lose myself in the lyrics, ignoring the fact that the guys, who were probably in their late teens to early twenties were only feet away.

I saw one them, dressed in a leather jacket and sporting a Mohawk, smile as I began to sing. When I screamed for the first time, the sound guy who had been tweaking the sound little by little, slammed a compressor on. I hadn’t realized how loud it was going to be, but it sounded like a jet plane taking off, and without the compressor to stop the volume from rising, it was ear-piercing, but only for a second. Normally, I would have backed off the mic a bit, but I must have been feeding off the crowd because I let loose with my first, holding it longer than usual. The Mohawk guy grinned wide when he heard me scream, and I grinned back. During a quieter part of the song, I heard one of them yell, “Psycho chick is hot!” It was Mr. Mohawk.

The crowd was an interesting mix of university age guys, middle-aged biker men and women, and our friends and family. My sister stayed home to watch Chloe. She liked beach music, reggae, oldies and what I called guys who played guitar to get girls. Singer songwriters who wrote songs about how sensitive they were, and how much they cared, when all they really wanted to do was score. Guys like John Mayer. When he wasn’t practically masturbating while playing guitar, he was wearing a shit-eating grin that made girls want to throw themselves at him.

We finished the first song and I retuned quickly. I bent a lot of notes during the bridge, so my G string was slightly off. Andrew started into the next song while I tuned, but I had plenty of time to enter. We lost the crowd a little during the second song. Only Mr. Mohawk and his friend, plaid shirt, stayed at the front. The bar was set up for a rock show, with the tables pushed to the side. Most of the bikers stayed sitting from what I could see. The bar itself was in the middle. As we finished the second song, a few of the bikers got up to play pool. They weren’t really our target audience, but it was always hard to feel you were losing part of your crowd. I had played in front of crowds that felt like brick walls. Never play a show on a Sunday night in the middle of winter when the bar has lost its liquor licence. Jacynthe’s home brews were selling well, so this was very good for us all.

The next song was the same ballad I had sung to introduce my friends and family to the new me. When my voice powered into the bridge and I threw on my distortion, I felt all eyes on me again. I held the last note for what seemed like an eternity, and as I did so, I looked out over the sea of spellbound faces and knew we had them. There are certain notes that can actually cause the hair to stand up and send a pleasant tingle in the brain. I had hit one of those notes, and was holding it effortlessly. The pool playing bikers actually came to the front, mingling with the university students. There were probably about sixty people in the bar at this point, but more were filtering in. We finished the song, and as we tuned to drop D, Jacynthe jumped on stage.

She was beaming. The crowd was still buzzing from the last song, and while it was a heartfelt ballad, the bikers were seemingly moved by it. When I say bikers, it is not derogatory. My parents who enjoyed touring on their motorcycle considered themselves bikers. But because of the violent history between Quebec’s Rock Machine and the Hell’s Angels biker gangs, for some, the word was synonymous with violence. These bikers were enthusiasts. They wore leather pants and were tattooed, but they were not the intimidating crew I had expected. As Jacynthe grabbed the microphone to introduce the band, a few more bikers sidled through the door. It was a biker majority in the Big Gob Brewery that night.

Jacynthe spoke French to the crowd, (Bonjour! Thank you for coming to see this up and coming band from la belle province! I know that they are too modest to introduce themselves, so I will do it for them. Please welcome, Eyes Wide Open! )

The introductions were a staple of any local rock show. Since no one knew the band, it made sense to introduce the members. Jacynthe proudly stated we were from Quebec. None of us were actually born there but I wasn’t about to correct her in the middle of her introduction. As she moved from Andrew and on to Steven, each did a little fill on their respective instruments. Once Jacynthe got to me, I thought she was just going to say ‘Well here’s Abigail.’ but no- she had a story to tell.

(Ma belle Abigail here. She came to ask if her band could play here, ) she looked at a few people in the crowd who were likely regulars and smiled, (I told her that I didn’t allow kids to play in my bar, and Abigail said that she played with men. I thought that was strange, but tell me now- how many of you would like to be in her band? )

She looked out over the crowd again, but when there was hooting and hollering from a few of the drunker patrons, she said, ( Calm down now, she’s only in high school. Any of you touch her, you’ll answer to me! ) She emphasized her threat by moving her finger across her throat in a cutting motion and then broke into a wide grin. There was laughter in the audience.

At this point, I was beyond embarrassed. I could feel my cheeks redden as Jacynthe continued her little speech. I just wanted to get back to the show. I hid behind Andrew, but my guitar, which was now too close to my amp, started feeding back. Jacynthe taking this as her cue to stop, yelled into the mic, ( Enjoy the rest of the show mes amis! Rock on! ) Jacynthe reminded me a little of my mother, if she had been a groupie for the some 80s hair metal band. She was over the top, but she meant well, so I could forgive her for embarrassing me.

During the little interlude, I took the time to clip my nails. Thankfully, during the last song before the introductions, my vocal drove the song, so the little mistakes I made as my nails grew back were far less noticeable. Toward the end of the song my nails were catching on strings, creating little accidental beeps and blips. Drop D tuning was much less of an issue than standard because the power chords could be formed with one finger, but I played lead in certain places, so I would have to stop again and trim my nails after a few songs. I was beginning to realize how difficult this was going to be, and not every show would allow us the interlude that Jacynthe gave us. When we started playing again, Amélie and Laura moved up to the stage. Few people were actually sitting, which was a good sign. More bikers drifted in through the door to increase the biker majority.

One of the real crowd pleasers was a song I had written about the neighbourhood where I grew up. When I was a kid, the neighbourhood had character, it had a soul almost. It wasn’t the commercial Mecca that it is today. I preferred it before, when shop owners didn’t have to pay outrageous rent. One woman, who had run a ladies clothing shop for thirty years, had seen her rent skyrocket to the point where she could only afford a basement. No woman wants to try on clothes in a basement, so she closed the shop. It was stories like this that got me thinking about how money coming into a neighbourhood is not always a good thing. In this case, yuppies, poseurs and hipsters gentrified the neighbourhood, building condos that blocked the sky. My childhood home, one of the original houses on the block and over a hundred years old, was bought and bulldozed. It was sad to think that the places I had grown up with were gone. Now the corner store, where I had played countless arcade games as a kid, was a doggie clothing store, and the music store was a Botox clinic.

My lip turned into a sneer as I sung, but it was not the song that had me angry, a group of bikers, younger than the others who had arrived earlier encircled Amélie and Laura. As the song was reaching its crescendo, the bass and drums thundering and my wah-wah pedal engaged, my fingers hammering and pulling off at a rapid pace while I timed the up and down of the wah pedal to the beat, I saw one of the bikers touch Amélie’s shoulder.

I was becoming angry and our music was causing the crowd to become aggressive. The university-aged guys were being squeezed away from the very front of the stage by more of the younger bikers. Mr. Mohawk stood his ground, but his friend was pushed out toward the bar. No one pushed him, but the sheer number of people expelled him from what was a growing mosh pit. It was like someone trying to add to a jar of jelly beans that was already full to the brim. With every bean that was put inside the jar, more and more fell out. Instead of jelly beans, however, there were more and more tattooed thick-necked and angry looking young men pushing out the amiably drunk college guys.

We moved into the next song, which was equally aggressive. It started with a violent back and forth slide for a few seconds and then the drums pounded with cymbals crashing. We had a full on mosh pit. I understood that there was accidental touching in pits or on dance floors, people let loose and sometimes don’t realize where their limbs are pointed. Now, I was sure that the young biker was hitting on my wife, and he wasn’t backing down. When he grabbed her ass and started to grind against her, I leapt into the crowd with my guitar and slammed the head stock into the young biker’s back. He fell back from the attack, but this started a chain reaction. The crowd loved this and the mosh pit was in full riot mode. I ducked under a fist as I approached the biker who had been ‘romancing’ my wife.

I shouted, “The lady isn’t interested in a dance, asshole!” I was brandishing my guitar toward him. Amélie and Laura stood, looking at me wide-eyed. I saw John, the one who sold me the guitar, move into the crowd. Andrew and Steven kept playing. From their vantage point, they might not have seen that I was aiming at the biker, so if anything, they played the song even more aggressively while I was looking up at everyone with a menacing glare.

I saw that the biker who was interested in my wife had a typical motorcycle jacket, but I noticed on the back of another, the words ‘Rock Machine- Canada’. In the middle was a very unfriendly looking silver hawk's head. These were biker gang members. Their numbers have waned in recent years, but during the mid-90s, they were a fearful force, guilty of car bombings, kidnappings, and general mayhem. They had the Montreal police scared to leave their precincts, and I had just jammed my guitar head stock into the back of one and didn’t care. With adrenaline pumping, I leapt back on stage to finish the song, pleased that my outburst had seemingly stopped the biker. I noticed a flash of steel behind me, and a chill across my back followed by a sudden draft.

I could see that John and a few of the middle-aged bikers had wrestled the Rock Machine member to the ground. The gang members were outnumbered, but they were armed. I saw a knife fall out of the asshole's hand, and I realized that the draft was a hole. He had cut me, or at least tried. Jacynthe jumped on stage again as the song finished, Andrew and Steven now realizing that I had been attacked, abruptly ended the song. Those who hadn’t seen the attack were cheering madly. It had likely been a while since the middle-aged bikers had been in a mosh pit, and they were enjoying themselves.

(Get out of here before I call the police! ) Jacynthe was gesturing at the members of the Rock Machine. They were heavily outnumbered, but they could have still done a lot of damage to the more vulnerable in the crowd. John and the other man released the gang member I had attacked, and he motioned for the others to head toward the exit. Apparently, the threat of the police was enough to convince them to leave, or maybe it was because they were outnumbered.

Even as they started to slowly filter out, I was going over what I had done in my head. I realized that I hadn’t even thought about the consequences of my actions. I didn’t know that the man I attacked was a gang member, but still, is that how I would have reacted if I was still in a male, adult body? In the past, I had told people who danced too close to Amélie to leave her alone. My stare was usually enough. I tried to tell myself that the biker had crossed a line, but it was scary to realise that I had literally acted without thinking. The person that I had been, who overanalyzed every situation, who weighed possibilities and considered outcomes to actions, was this person gone, only to be replaced by an impulsive teenager?

I didn’t have time to further ponder my actions because Jacynthe was hugging me. She spoke in English, her brow furrowed, “Abigail, he could have hurt you terrible!” I could see my own mother standing at the side of the stage, looking equally concerned. “Is this grandmother of Abigail?”

My mother cleared her throat and glared at the bar owner, “I am her mother.”

My father was in his early sixties, and my mother, although younger than my father by over five years, also had silver hair. Since she had become a grandmother, she had stopped colouring it, so conceivably, she could have been Abigail’s grandmother, at least in Jacynthe’s eyes.

Jacynthe feigned innocence, but she knew she had deeply insulted my mother. No woman likes to be told she is a grandmother when she is, in reality, the mother. With Chloe, it was obvious, but with me, the line was finer. The bar owner’s eyes widened, and she stared straight at my mother, “Very sorry for that.” She allowed my mother to get in to hug me as well.

She whispered in my ear, “Are you OK Darren?”

I nodded my head and whispered back, “Yeah. No worries.” My legs were shaking. Not from fear but from the adrenaline rush. I played it tough, but, to be honest, I was more worried about how I acted rather than the knife that had been aimed at my back.

My mother frowned, “Just be careful. And Darren?” I turned back toward her, “You really do have a beautiful singing voice. I just wish you wouldn’t scream so much.”

I smirked and then moved in to hug her again. “Thanks Mom.”

It was uncharacteristic of me, despite my momma’s boy status, to initiate a hug, but in her embrace was comfort. She hugged me fiercely as my band mates moved in to inspect the souvenir from my first bar fight. I had expected them to come first, but Jacynthe moved in so quickly for the hug that I guess they felt awkward. My mother released the embrace as Andrew said:

“Looks like it just got your shirt.”

Steven nodded his head, “Can we get on with the show? These people paid to see a rock concert, not a taping of the Dr. Phil show.”

I moved to the centre of the stage and then turned my back to the crowd, showing them my ‘war wounds’. The crowd cheered. The energy in the room was palpable, between the mosh pit, the bar fight and the angry music, the crowd was riled up. We started into the final two songs of the set and the mosh pit started anew. It was a bizarre scene, seeing grown men who had probably not been in a mosh pit for nearly twenty years meshing with college age guys who were clearly very intoxicated, but it worked. The biker’s wives and girlfriends joined in, some who were clearly not fans of our music stayed on the periphery.

We finished strongly. The fight and the near stabbing had filled me with more energy than I knew what to do with. I was bouncing and flailing, thrashing on the floor, a veritable cacophony of movement. My guitar playing sucked, but I didn’t care, because at that point, we had the crowd. They had seen me nearly get stabbed after playing white knight to Amélie. I had a feeling we had made a lot of fans.

Our final song ended with an instrumental outro where I mostly let my guitar feedback as Steven’s arms became a blur. To do what he did, I would have had to grow two extra arms. The music swelled and I stayed on one note bending it, but going up and down on my wah-wah pedal. We ended in unison to an uproarious cheer. I beamed back at the crowd. I wanted to play more, but we had no songs left.

The crowd screamed encore, but I said sheepishly into the mic, “We’d love to play more, but we don’t have any songs left. You’ll have to come see us again to hear the new stuff.”

I also talked about our fledgling website, and I invited anyone who wanted to speak with us to join us at our table. After I finished, Nirvana’s ‘Aneurysm’ blared from the speakers, and I grinned again. It was fitting that we would end, and my favourite band would play. I was giddy as we started to pack away our equipment. I wasn’t strong enough to lift any of the amps. After I had nearly dropped Andrew’s bass amp down the stairs when we were loading the gear in, in an attempted macho display, I was delegated official band cable winder. Andrew was surprisingly (or annoyingly?) understanding given that I nearly dropped his expensive amp down a flight of stairs.

Amélie and Laura had a table staked out for us, and my parents joined us. Steven brought a pitcher of the supposedly world-famous Old Gob Brew. It sounded like something a pirate would drink. I preferred Stella or Corona, but I had to at least try the beer for Jacynthe's sake. I was on an extreme high that only music could provide. The show, I felt, had gone well. I know when shows have gone horribly because I immediately want to point out all my mistakes. It was odd, but the mistakes were less important because everyone, myself included, had had a great time, despite the odd elbow in the mosh pit from an errant limb.

I never drank before a show, so I was looking forward to my just reward. I poured myself a glass from the pitcher and took a long swig. We chatted at the table about the show, while I quickly downed half of my beer. I was about to compliment Jacynthe on her beer, but as she neared our table, her eyes widened and her brow furrowed.

(Abigail, what are you doing? How can you allow your daughter to do this? She is underage. ) She looked expectantly at my mother, who knew only a few words in French. The fact that Jacynthe was pointing at me and then to the beer clued her in, but I jumped to my mother’s defence, switching to English for my mother’s sake.

“It’s only one. It’s not a big deal, right Mom?”

Instead of agreeing with me, my mother actually started acting like- my mother. She shook her head, “This woman is right sweetie. You are underage. We might let you do that at home when we can supervise you, but you could get this woman in trouble if someone sees you drinking that. I know you are mature for your age, but this nice woman let you play in her bar, you don’t want her to get in trouble, do you?”

I gritted my teeth. “No. No I don’t.” My mood was significantly soured by the exchange. Jacynthe took my half empty mug away and brought me an iced tea with a slice of lemon in it. The woman tousled my hair and brushed the bangs from my eyes.

“You shouldn’t cover your face when you play Abigail. Let the boys see your pretty face. Why do you hide it behind all that hair? Tu es vraiment belle.”

I am sure that real girls liked being called beautiful, but I didn’t need a reminder of what I looked like. I was pleased at least that Mr. Mohawk had left when I actually showed him my face. I could see that he was likely in his mid-twenties. He told me I was hardcore, but once he saw how young I was, he steered off. I was respected as a musician, but not as a potential date, which suited me fine. He played in a local band too, and we exchanged contact information.

The night petered out. People saw that I was generally in a foul mood, so they tended to ignore me. My post-show buzz had worn off the minute my mother had traitorously taken Jacynthe’s side. As we were walking back to the house, I asked her about it.

“Mom, why did you take Jacynthe’s side? You know I want you to treat me normally. You treated me like a kid.”

My mother stood firm. “Mothers and really parents in general, we don’t want people to think we are bad at our jobs. If this Jacynthe thinks I am your mother, well then I have a teenage daughter who is not old enough to drink. It wouldn’t have been right. Will you want Chloe to be drinking in a bar when she's a teenager like you were doing?”

I jumped in quickly, “Yes, but Chloe will actually be a teenager. I’m not, and I don’t like you treating me like one.”

My mother replied, “I know this is going to be hard for you to deal with, Darren, but people are going to treat you as they see you. I know who you are, so privately, you are my son, and you are an adult. But in public, well it’s probably best if we act as expected, which means I might have to do some parenting. We don’t want to attract more attention than necessary, right?”

I nodded my head slowly, “I guess. It’s just, I’m scared Mom. I lunged at that guy who was harassing Amélie, and I didn’t even think about it. I’m worried that I am changing, and at the same time, I’m worried that people are going to start trying to make decisions for me because of that. So when you start acting like you did when I was a kid, it’s really hard for me to take. Adults have freedom to choose, and I don’t want to lose that.”

“I’m sorry Darren. I didn’t appreciate how you felt. I’ll try and keep my mothering to a minimum OK?”

I sniffed, “Yeah.”

I was glad my parents hadn’t brought up their invitation to have me live with them again, but I knew that events like tonight would allow them to gradually build their argument into something I would be unable to counter eventually. I had to prove I could make the right decisions, the ones I would have made with proper thought and consideration, but it was becoming clear that when faced with difficult situations, I kept choosing wrongly.

Chapter 32

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea Darren. We need to think about what’s going to happen after you finish at the law firm. We just can’t afford it right now. We can do something in town. Go out to dinner.”

It was a few days before our anniversary. It was our first, and it was supposed to be special.

“It doesn’t even feel like we are married anymore Amélie. We don’t do anything that normal couples do.”

Amélie frowned, “Most of the places we were talking about going, those rock shows. Those are in bars. You wouldn’t even be able to get in. You really think we could have a romantic weekend alone in Montreal with you like that?”

We were lying in bed. I fought the urge to escape downstairs. I had wanted the trip to Montreal to be a chance to rekindle the romance in our marriage, but also, to show we could be around each other and not bicker constantly. Perhaps it was selfish, but I was still trying to think of a plan to try and get Amélie interested in me, hopefully not one that required copious amounts of alcohol. My eyes were moving back and forth, and Amélie could tell I was thinking about my response. At least most of the time I was still able to consider my actions and words outside of stressful or hectic situations.

She added, “I know you Darren, and it’s not going to work. I can’t be intimate with you like that. I’ve already told you that.”

I sighed, “I know, but it’s hard for me to just stop trying. I love you. I want to touch you, to kiss you.” I was growing more upset the longer I spoke, “That goddamn biker got more action than I've had over the past two months.”

Amélie shook her head, “If you really want to go, we can, Darren, but we can make a day trip out of it. Find some all-ages shows. They apparently start early in Montreal. We could walk around Old Montreal. I have been wanting to take some pictures there since I took that photography course.”

It was not exactly what I wanted, but it was better than stewing at home. It was an opportunity to show Amélie that we could still act like a couple, even if we didn’t have a physical relationship. So, I called my parents, and my mother readily accepted, without even speaking to my father. It was only for the day. I sometimes wondered if my mother was actually waiting for us to call to come and see the baby.

The trip to Montreal took only two hours. We parked the car in the outskirts, opting to take the metro in to the centre, because Montreal drivers are a different breed. In almost every other part of North America, drivers can turn right on a red light. Not so in Montreal. My father, who has spent quite a bit of time there, said it was because pedestrians would have been killed. The pedestrians are almost as aggressive as the drivers. No one shoulder checks or uses turn signals, but because everyone is the same, somehow there aren't hundreds of accidents daily.

For me, Montreal is a city that I both love and hate. Previous trips had either gone very well or had been a startling disaster. Since our last trip had been terrible, an attempted romantic weekend with a sick baby that had us fleeing the hotel at two-thirty in the morning, hoping that Chloe would sleep in the car instead of crying in our room, the law of averages said that this trip had to be better.

It was unseasonably warm that weekend, the thermostat climbing to 30 degrees Celsius. Before my change, I could wear jeans comfortably when it was hot, but now, I was sweltering in long pants. Amélie was wearing shorts, but I refused.

“You know you could just wear shorts. No one is going to judge you for wearing them. I know I won’t. It’s hot.”

Amélie was wearing jean shorts that really showed off her shapely, full legs. I thought they were sexy, even though she was often conflicted wearing them. Sometimes, she thought that only skinny girls should be allowed to show off their legs. The shorts weren’t exactly daisy dukes, but they did show off a good portion of her upper thighs. I thought she looked great.

I shook my head. I was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and my now grungy-looking tennis shoes. I had worn a bra without being asked. I was tired of fighting with her, and since I was out in public, it meant I received less attention rather than more. I didn’t need scuzzy looking teenage boys checking my out my ‘rack’. By not wearing a bra, it meant that I put on a show just walking down the street.

As a guy, I hadn’t worn shorts, unless it was really warm. I didn’t like showing off my hairy, white legs. I think guys look terrible in shorts, myself included, and I pray that the gender neutral short-shorts of the 1980s will never make a comeback. Now that I had smooth hairless legs, I still didn’t want to show them off. Yes, I could have gone without shaving them, and other areas, but I had to get used to doing it if I was going to work for Stephanie. I had to dress professionally, and that meant a certain maintenance regime.

I replied, “No, it’s OK.” I was really hot. My legs were sweating, begging to be freed from the confines of my jeans, but I saw the looks Amélie was getting, and I didn’t want the same attention.

We spent the early afternoon in Old Montreal, enjoying the sights and then eating our picnic lunch (in an effort to save money, Amélie had packed sandwiches). After eating, we stopped at an ice cream parlour. It boasted that it served the best ice cream in Montreal. It was churned and made with buttermilk, which made it highly fattening, but apparently very delicious. I noticed Amélie bought a small cup, only 1 oz. I bought a medium. The teenage boy working the shake machine smiled at me, but I ignored him.

“Why did you get a small? It’s barely two scoops.”

Amélie dug into her ice cream with gusto, “Because we are going to go out to dinner tonight, and I need to save myself. Plus, these shorts are pretty tight already. I think I put on some weight. I just- I’ll eat more tonight, but I don’t want to feel I am losing self-control. I don’t want to become a whale.”

Amélie knew how I felt about her weight and about her concerns, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. If she ordered a salad tonight for dinner, we would have words, but for now, I was enjoying my double chocolate dipped waffle cone. If chocolate was a drug, I knew that most women would have been hard core addicts.

Amélie shook her head, “I can’t believe you can still eat like that and not gain a pound. It’s not fair.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “You said that you used to drink three Pepsis a day, and a whole bag of chips when you were my ‘age’, and you were skinnier than you are now. Chalk it up to teenage metabolism.”

Amélie looked frustrated as she finished her ice cream. She didn’t look like she was enjoying it. “I just wish you could feel like I do. To know what it’s like to fight with the image in the mirror. I think you’d be less vocal about my weight, don’t you think?”

I nodded my head to appease my wife. I wasn’t convinced. Our conversation turned to shopping, and what sort of clothing I was going to need for the law firm. I was bored by it. We left the ice cream parlour, and Amélie dragged me to a series of clothing stores. She insisted that I have my own clothing. Plus, her clothing was ill-fitting in places.

We went from store to store, with me becoming more annoyed as we went on. I felt that the clerks were being very flirty with Amélie. I don’t know if it was just guys from Montreal, but they seemed overly attentive in a suggestive way. They all touched her, nothing sexual, but a quick hand on the shoulder there or a little touch on the hip to guide her into another area of the store. This sort of thing hadn’t bothered me before. I knew Amélie was attractive, and I used to tell her when a particular guy was checking her out. I wanted her to be flattered, but now I was growing jealous. I didn’t want the attention myself. I would have to be clinically insane to want that, but I hated that as I tugged up skirts and buttoned blouses, the men outside the change room were hitting on my wife.

At the last store, I had had enough, when Pierre or Louis, or Jean-Francois or whoever guided Amélie toward one of the sale racks, I grabbed his hand. “You know she’s married, right? I’m sure you noticed the ring when you were staring at her ass. Can we shop and not feel like we might need a rape kit?” I realized how little sense my statement made, but I was angry, so it didn’t matter.

The man threw his hands up in the air, (Mademoiselle, my deepest apologies. I meant nothing by that. I did not know that your sister? That your sister was married. My gesture was not made to make her or you uncomfortable. We do this with all the customers, men and women. )

Amélie looked at me the way she looked at Chloe when she was having a tantrum. She could have pulled me aside to chastise me, but instead, she said it front of the clerk, “Abigail, that’s enough! Apologize to him right now. People here are just more open. It’s harmless.” Jean-Luc or Jean-Pierre nodded his head quickly in agreement.

Instead of apologizing, I picked up the clothes that I had been trying on and stuffed them into the clerk’s arms, then I stomped out of the store. It had been a really nice day before my outburst, one of the few recently when Amélie and I got along for an extended period without arguing, and I had ruined things- again. I ran into a nearby alley, already feeling the tears staining my cheeks. I covered my face with my hands to hide the fact that I was crying. I wasn’t even near my period, so I shouldn’t have been such an emotional wreck, but I was.

“Oh Darren.”

I peeked through my fingers to see Amélie standing over me. She had her hands on her hips, getting ready to scold me, but her posture softened.

“You’ve been weird all afternoon. Is it the girl’s clothes? I know you don’t exactly like shopping for this stuff. It can’t be the guys, it never bothered you before. “

I wiped my eyes, sitting with my back against a brick wall. My knees touched my chin. I looked up at Amélie, “It does bother me. It’s been driving me crazy how they look at you- it didn’t worry me before because then I had what you wanted, something that those guys have. I’m sorry that I am so jealous, but I can’t help it.”

Amélie looked down at me, and I wanted to be invisible. I didn’t want her to see how vulnerable I must have looked. How scared I was.

I sniffed, “I know you don’t see me like you used to. How long before you replace me, Amélie? What if we find out this is permanent? What if I am trapped like this? What then?”

Amélie shook her head, “I won’t ever leave you Darren, but we need to consider the possibility that what has happened to you is permanent.”

She took my hand, “I won’t ever stop loving you either, Darren. We will figure out a way to make this work. Maybe not as husband and wife, but something else. So you could still be with Chloe and me.”

I wiped my eyes. “As your kid sister? I don’t know if I can do that.”

Amélie helped me to my feet, “You don’t need to make that decision yet.” As she helped me up, I wrapped my arms around her. She returned the hug. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” I nodded, and we left for the restaurant.
*****
We had a great dinner at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. It wasn’t the romantic setting I was hoping for, but because we spent so long shopping and with the items that we bought, we had to settle for something less expensive and with less cooking time, if we still wanted to attend a rock show. Amélie and I used our phones to find local shows. I was picky with what I wanted to listen to, and most of the better bands played later. We had a few choices: a French pop punk band called les Foufounerie, which translated to the Silliness, a thrashcore metal band called Tueur de Vitesse or Speed Kills, or an emo band called This Bloody Life. We could have gone into one of the many bars along the main strip, but I wasn’t old enough.

Amélie, despite being a Francophone, disliked most French artists, so we opted for the emo band. Because it was an all-ages show that meant lots of kids. As we paid the cover fee, we noticed that the venue was mostly full of teenagers. A lot of the girls wore brightly coloured skinny jeans, and the boys wore similar pants, but they weren’t as colourful. I wasn’t a huge fan of emo music, but I did like Smile Empty Soul and some My Chemical Romance songs, so it was actually a good compromise.

The band was typical of many emo bands. Their lead singer had bangs that covered half of his face, and despite being an all-male group, they wore eyeliner. Their songs were catchy, and the crowd was into it. I found myself nodding my head to the music, a clear sign that I liked it. Amélie, surrounded by teenagers of all shapes and sizes, seemed to be enjoying herself as well.

I noticed a lot of girls had congregated at the front of the stage. The lead singer was clearly enjoying the attention as he moved closer to the girls.

I smirked and shouted to Amélie, “Kill me if I ever wear pants like that.”

Amélie laughed and nodded, “Oh don’t worry, I will.”

I had always preferred listening to female singers. I found their voices could evoke more emotion in me. I was a big fan of bands like Garbage, No Doubt, and Evanescence. Something about their voices made it seem that they were singing to me. As the leader singer of This Bloody Life powered through a chorus, I found myself not only listening, but watching him, too. I wasn’t critiquing his technique either.

He was singing a song with a premise that had been done a million times, unrequited love. He sang about the love he had for a young woman that was not returned, despite several attempts. I don’t know if it was because I was already feeling vulnerable with Amélie rebuking my own attempts at romance, or if- no, I refused to believe that.

The young man who was in his late teens or very early twenties sang well, but it was nothing special. I thought it was a little nasally, but that also fit the tone of the band. I found a lot of emo bands whiny, and it should have been the same with this one. The singer was tall, with a shock of jet black hair. His face was masculine, despite the eyeliner. His body was scrawny and pale. I thought he had beady eyes, a little like that Ethan kid. Why couldn’t I stop looking at him?

I tried to use Amélie’s body to help to divert my attention to an appropriate object of affection, but the young man’s siren song brought me back each time. My heart was thumping. I will admit that since my run-in with Ethan, there had been a few other such heart palpitations, but I was loathe to admit their existence. The most recent was at our show. When I was talking to Mr. Mohawk, whose name was actually Grant, I couldn’t get over how nice his eyes were. Considering how the rest of that night had gone, I didn’t need to admit to myself that I had found the young man attractive, so it had remained buried- until now.

I figured that because of my earlier outburst while we were shopping, that I was just more sensitive than usual. The same thing with Ethan and Grant, the interview had been stressful, and the show, while it had gone well, the aftermath just solidified my status in this world. I wanted to join the other girls up at the front, so I could be closer to him, but I resisted.

Part of the reason why I wanted to come to Montreal was to try and make a few contacts for my band, so we could invite them to our town, and they would hopefully return the favour.

As the next band was getting ready, I told Amélie that I was going to speak to the singer of This Bloody Life. I thought she looked at me strangely for a moment. Had she noticed that I was staring at him? She half shrugged her shoulders and told me she would meet me outside.

The girls flocked around the lead singer like peahens to a brightly-coloured peacock. Instead of plumage, he had tight bright red pants. Each squawked at him, trying to get his attention, excitedly warbling until the next girl had her turn. I was jealous, not because they were having their turn before me. No, it was because I never really got to enjoy the attention that comes with being a musician. I had already been dating Amélie for close to three years before deciding that I wanted to be a serious musician. I didn’t want a gaggle of groupies, but it was nice to see a girl watch you from the crowd. Oh god, what if he saw me staring at him as he sang?

As the girls thinned, I was eventually at the front of the line. I couldn’t believe how catty the girls are. As I approached, a few of them looked at me with disgust. I was their competition, even if I didn’t want to be. I ignored them. I felt an excited energy in my body as I came closer to him.

“Hey, nice show. You’ve got a good range. The songs are catchy too.”

He smiled at me, and he gave me the up and down. I was used to this by now. I was glad that I hadn’t worn shorts. His smile didn’t go away.

He replied, “Thanks, what’s your name?”

I wet my lips with my tongue before replying, they were dry. “Um. Abigail.” My hand was shaking a little. I hid it behind my back.

The smile never left his face. He was a good foot taller than me. “I’m Jeremy. Nice to meet you. So you enjoyed the show?”

I nodded my head more rapidly than I meant to, and then said, “Yeah. It was really good. You’ve got good energy. Have you ever played out of town?”

He shook his head, and still that smile, which was very pleasant, never left his face.

“Well- I have a- band. We are from the Ottawa region, if you ever want to play there- I could- I mean we could set up a show with you.” I couldn’t believe how hard it was to formulate my words and keep my thoughts together. I must have sounded exactly like I looked.

Jeremy nodded his head again. His posture was relaxed. “Sure, I mean I can talk to the guys.” He was looking directly in my eyes. I hurriedly gave him the contact information and got out of there as quickly as my short legs could carry me.

Amélie looked at me suspiciously, her eyes slightly narrowed and her lips tight, “What were you doing in there?”

I took my left hand and held my right, which was still shaking a little. “Networking. He’s going- I mean they are going to see if they can come to Ottawa at some point. Then I am sure they will return the favour.”

Amélie said nothing else, and we took the metro to the lot where our car was parked. While stopped at a red light about an hour into the trip, Amélie leaned over to see what I was looking at on my phone. The trip back had been pretty quiet to this point.

“You really liked that band eh? I didn’t think it would be your style of music.” Amélie could see that I was looking at the This Bloody Life’s band site.

I replied, “Yeah, neither did I.”

Chapter 33

My alarm buzzed for the first time since my interview at the law firm. I rolled over and groaned. As much as I was looking forward to starting work, I wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of having to wear women’s clothing regularly. If I managed to change back, I couldn’t exactly put my experience on my résumé.

I helped Amélie with Chloe, and then went to take my shower. It was amazing to see how I smoothly glided from one task to another without thinking. I could do my hair easily, and while I struggled with the bra at times, it certainly wasn’t the comedy of errors it had been at first. I had practiced getting dressed. Since, I was working during the summer, Amélie had suggested skirts mostly, but I opted to wear pantyhose, as if that extra sheer layer somehow hid my legs from the world.

It had been over three months since my change, and I was no closer to a cure, but I still thought about it daily. Did it make sense to lie to myself? I had done it so many times over the past few months that it was easy. I will admit, there were days when I didn’t think about conducting more research or making more phone calls, mostly because, the whole process was so frustrating. It wasn’t a chemical or a pharmaceutical that had done this to me. If that was the case, a doctor or a scientist could have addressed my unique condition.

While I had convinced my family and my closest friends, I wasn’t about to announce myself to the world. I didn’t want the attention that it would put on my family. There is a fine line between journalism and harassment. Considering the coverage that the ‘Octo-mom’ received, and that was actually scientifically possible, I couldn’t imagine the attention that proof of magic would receive. Thankfully, those who knew my secret had kept it.

Amélie left with Chloe, and I continued to get ready. I wore a skirt, blouse and a blazer, along with what I learned were called ‘kitten’ heels. Figured that they wouldn’t just be called half inch heels. I could have teetered on six inch daggers, but I hadn't practiced walking in heels, let alone stilettos. As I left the house, I decided to use my black bag. It was a professional’s bag that I had used it to bring legal files to and from work before. I slung it over my shoulder and left for my first day.
***

“Wow Abigail! You really went all out. I expected you to dress well, but you could go to court dressed like that.” I knew that. I half smiled and nodded my head. Stephanie offered me a seat in her office. I sat down, crossing one leg over the other. I smoothed the skirt as I had seen Amélie do many times. I knew that it was important to not only appear professional, but feminine and confident as well. I had to act the part. I could have come in wearing a tailored man’s suit, but that would have raised questions. Everyone in the law office knew that a young woman named Abigail was coming, so there was no need to raise their suspicion by dressing or acting unusually.

“So let me talk a little about what you’ll be doing through the summer. We’ll need you to organize our precedent data. You’ll need to skim the cases and determine keywords. Another project that I have in mind for you is to prepare some disclosure packages.”

This sounded a lot like what a law clerk would do. I knew that I hadn’t been hired as a paralegal, but I was hoping for something more challenging. I replied, “And what about researching case law? And will I be able to assist at hearings?”

I had absolutely no court experience, so I was hoping to gain some this summer. When I worked for the government, I conducted research, assisted the lawyers in writing legal arguments, but I never got to attend a hearing. With the focus on saving money, we couldn’t have more than one person on each file, and I couldn’t act alone in court because I lacked the required paralegal credentials. Paralegals in the government didn’t need the credentials to do research or assist lawyers but those that went to court, did. Since I had been hired as a student, I really didn’t have a set position, so I hoped it meant I would get a range of challenging duties.

Stephanie smiled and leaned forward, “We’ll see. We need to start slow, Abigail. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

I nodded slowly. I had expected this. Stephanie assumed that I was a high school student. I would need to show my worth to the firm. There was a knock on the door, and a heavy set man in his mid-thirties entered. He smiled and offered his hand, “I am Anthony, Stephanie’s husband, and you must be Abigail. Stephanie was very impressed by you. I heard you even have experience in administrative law.”

I smiled and took his hand. A part of me was pleased that Anthony didn’t look like a well-built model. He wasn’t tall, probably only a few inches taller than Amélie, but then, my definition of tall had been forever altered by my residence in this body. Everyone I knew was taller than me. Anthony’s face was pleasant and gently rounded. It was boyish with a distinct lack of facial hair. His body was round, and I could see that the expensive suit he wore was cut to conceal much of his girth.

I was pleased I wasn’t going to be working with anyone particularly handsome. The feelings I seemed to have developed for Jeremy hadn’t gone away, but since he wasn’t local and I never saw him, they thankfully grew no stronger. There were certain points during the day when I found myself thinking about him, but I violently suppressed the thoughts whenever they surfaced.

I replied, “I have some yes, and I’m looking forward to helping you any way I can.”

I got to work updating the precedent database. It was easy work. I just had to do searches for new precedents. Since Anthony mostly dealt with administrative law, I checked the relevant tribunals before moving to the Federal and then Supreme Court. Even though lower court judges were supposed to follow the Supreme Court, they often didn’t go that far in administrative courts because many of the individuals were not represented by legal counsel. Meanwhile, Stephanie’s constitutional and human rights cases were often heard at the Supreme Court, so I looked there first.

It took me a week to completely update the database, write accompanying head notes and match the keywords. During that week, I met the person who got the job I had originally applied for. I also realized how incompetent she was.

Chantal was in her early twenties, and she dressed in a way that I felt was unprofessional for a law office. Her blouse often showed cleavage, her skirt was far too short and her nails far too long for the typing she was expected to complete. At least I had an excuse for my nails. Hers were likely an inch long with bright pink polish. I couldn’t understand why Stephanie had hired her. I could understand that Anthony might have hired her, but he didn’t seem the type to hire on looks rather than competence. She was attractive, with long legs, which were accentuated by the stilettos she wore daily. She was thin with a full bust that made people think implants, but I suppose some women are gifted that way. She was in her early twenties. She was fluently bilingual, which was about the only reason I would have ever hired her for anything.

“Chantal, Anthony wanted these single-sided. Books of Authority can be double-sided, but that’s it.” I was holding a disclosure package that I had put together and asked Chantal to copy.

Chantal replied with a thick French accent, “Okay, Abby.” There was definite attitude in her tone. It was the second time she had made the mistake, and I had only been there a week. I imagined that the Locke Agency, named after the husband and wife legal team, must have spent a lot on paper and toner. I disliked how Chantal called me Abby, but she refused to call me Abigail. Clearly, she felt she was working with a child, but I wasn’t the one making mistakes. The young woman was excellent on the phone and could take messages, but her attention to detail was terrible. She was very sloppy.

By my second week, I had settled into the office comfortably. Stephanie and Anthony were very pleased with my work, but they continued to give me the same mundane tasks. I might as well have been doing Chantal’s job, which I was, half the time.

During that second week, I heard Stephanie and Anthony discussing an upcoming case. Their exchanges could get quite heated, but both were highly intelligent and respectful. They were passionate. It made me think of when Amélie and I debated legal topics.

“That defence won’t work in this case. It’s a strict liability offence. You don’t have to prove intent.” Anthony was going to a hearing in a few weeks, and he was preparing his arguments. Stephanie was trying to explain to him that his current argument would not work in the case at hand.

Anthony replied, “I need to show that he didn’t intend to break the law though, and that he was just taking the advice from an official. The transport truck driver believed that what he was doing was legal because the official from the Ministry told him so.”

It was time for me to show how vital I could be. I was hoping that if I could demonstrate my importance to the firm, maybe they would hire me, and I could apply for emancipation.

I piped up, “Well you could use the officially induced error defence. If you can prove that the Ministry official gave the transport truck driver advice that led him to believe he didn’t need a speed limiter, then it could be seen as accepting erroneous advice. Because it is assumed that the advice given by an official is correct. As long as the transport truck driver can prove he didn’t remove the limiter until after speaking to the official, then you probably have a good chance of winning. There is plenty of case law on this.”

Stephanie and Anthony turned toward me. Stephanie was the first to speak. She had a big smile. “Now you know why I wanted to hire her. That’s exactly right, Abigail. Anthony could use that defence.”

Anthony cleared his throat. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or still in shock that a teenager knew so much about the law. “Uh. Thanks, Abigail. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

Later in the day, Stephanie asked me to come into her office. Anthony had been rather cool to me since my attempt to help, so I assumed she wanted to discuss that. “Abigail, you’ve been with us for a little over a week now, and I have to say I am extremely impressed with your work. I spoke to Anthony, and we want you to start working on some files. You’ve probably noticed that he hasn’t been himself this afternoon, but he was frustrated because he really should have known that the defence you provided was a possibility. Anthony is a great lawyer, but he can be a little stubborn.”

I nodded my head excitedly, “So I will get to meet with clients and discuss their cases with them?”

Stephanie’s features hardened for a moment, and then softened. “Not exactly, Abigail. I can’t have clients coming in here to discuss their legal issues with a teenager. They pay us, and they expect professionalism, and well, at least a university degree. If you agree, I can have you doing some research for us and maybe writing some arguments. We won’t bill the clients for it, but because you’ve already finished the two major projects I had for you, I want to keep you busy. I just can’t let our clients know you are working on their cases. Sorry it has to be this way, Abigail. Do you understand?”

I nodded my head again and tried not to look upset, but as always, my emotions surfaced and crept onto my face. “I do.”

Stephanie gently put her hand underneath my chin to bring it from its sagging state, “Don’t feel bad, Abigail. You are already working at the level of an articling student. That’s very impressive for someone so young. But this is business. I have already had people asking about you. It won’t help the reputation of the firm if our clients find out that a teenager is handling some aspects of their cases. They need to think you are filing and doing photocopies. I’ve told them you are assisting Chantal. OK?” Well it was fitting. I was doing part of her job already.

I wanted to tell that to Stephanie, but Chantal wasn’t a bad person, she just sucked at her job. I didn’t want to get her fired. I just wanted her to do a better job, so I wouldn’t have to fix her mistakes. The day before, for instance, I had to retype a letter she had prepared for a client. It was laden with spelling mistakes.

I nodded my head again.

Stephanie smiled, “And take a proper lunch! I know you are working through what is supposed to be your lunch break. Go outside and enjoy yourself for an hour. Someone your age shouldn’t be stuck in an office all day.”

She looked at me with amusement in her eyes, “Plus, I have seen the way you stare at the skateboarders out there. Wouldn’t you like to spend some time with people your own age instead of two stuffy lawyers? I mean, come on Abigail, yesterday you were talking about RRSPs (Registered Retirement Savings Plans) with us. Why are you in such a hurry to grow up?”

She was right. At times, I did catch myself looking at the skateboarders. Many of them were shirtless and sweaty. I should have felt like a pervert, staring at boys half my age, but I didn’t, or I couldn’t. It was as if my brain was being slowly rewritten. Would I become like the girl in my dream who shook her ass for thousands of people? It was scary to think that I might become a different person entirely, but the odd thoughts and feelings I was getting were a perfect match for my body. Would there be anything left of Darren Lawrence when or if this bizarre magic released me? Perhaps a more important question was, why the hell did there have to be a skate park right next to my work?

I answered Stephanie, “Because I don’t relate to those kids. The stuff they are interested in is insufferably boring. They are hopelessly immature. I prefer adult conversation.”

Stephanie frowned, “Don’t you have any friends your own age?”

I shook my head, “None. Like I said, I can’t stand them.”

Stephanie shook her head, “Oh Abigail, you have no idea how sad that is. Why waste your youth acting like an adult? There’ll be lots of opportunity for you be an adult later in life. Believe me, once you pay taxes, get a mortgage, have children, you will feel like an adult. Wouldn’t you want to be there during your lunch hour, instead of here?”

She pointed at a group of girls who were sitting at the picnic tables next to the skate park. They looked to be discussing something very important, probably which boy was the cutest in the group. Maybe that wasn’t fair. I didn’t think that all kids that age were boring or boy crazy. I had taught some students who were very mature and focused, but I didn’t want Stephanie coaxing me to join them.

I mean, Alyssa was nice enough, but did I want to be having enlightening conversations with her about Katy Perry and our nails? My attempt had the opposite effect unfortunately. Stephanie thought that my joyless life was miserable, even though I told her otherwise.

Stephanie shook her head again, “I don’t think that’s a very healthy attitude, Abigail. You need a proper work life balance. I know you’ll be a lawyer, but I also know one day, you’ll be sitting in your big fancy office, and you will regret how you acted in your youth. I know I did. I want you to eat lunch outside from now on, okay?” It wasn’t a request. I could tell from Stephanie’s steadfast eyes that she meant business.

I replied, “Fine.”

Chapter 34

“So what are you? Some kind of genius? Stephanie said this job usually goes to university students. You couldn’t be older than sixteen.”

Chantal was upset that I had caught another mistake. It was another attention to detail mistake. It was a homonym error, but one so basic that if I were a client, I would seriously consider changing firms. I was getting tired of explaining them to her.

I replied, “Look Chantal, I don’t want to fight with you. I just want you to do your job.” My voice raised in pitch. It really must have sounded like she was speaking to a child. I had wanted my voice to sound firm, but it had a whiney lilt to it.

Chantal shook her head, “It’s not a big deal. You are such a grammar Nazi. Everything is spelled correctly, isn’t it?”

I sighed. We were looking over a letter to a client requesting additional evidence, and a larger retainer due to the extra work. It was a messy case too, but it was also one that, if won, could bring a lot of prestige to the fledgling firm. It was a high-profile media sensitive issue too. We didn’t want our court documents plastered on the front page of a newspaper.

I recall teaching ninth grade English. Early secondary was an excellent time to teach the basics of the review. I used a Microsoft Word document full of homonym errors to show the Generation Y students, who had a heavy reliance on technology, how their word processor could fail them. Apparently, Chantal had not received similar instruction, or she wasn’t paying attention at the time.

“Yes, but you can’t just use spell check. You have to check the context of the words too. See here,” I pointed to her use of ‘their’ and ‘to’ in the letter, “This is a very important letter. You are good at transcribing what Mrs. Locke says, but you need to look it over afterwards as well.” I felt like her teacher, her frustrated teacher.

Chantal shook her head, “Look, I’m not going to let a kid talk to me like that. I’ll just show it to Mrs. Locke and see what she says.”

I tried my best to hide how gleeful I was that she was offering to show it to Stephanie. I bit my lip to avoid smiling and nodded, “If you think you’d like a second set of eyes to look at it- but”

“Wait, you want her to see it because you know there are mistakes in it. You are trying to get me in trouble.”

Chantal towered over me in her six-inch stilettos. She had her hands on her hips as she spoke, and her head moved forward slightly as she put emphasis on certain words, in an almost chicken-like manner.

I stood up, showing that I wasn’t going to be intimidated by her. “Look Chantal, I just want you to do your damn job, and do it right for once.”

A client walked in just as I finished speaking. He was an older gentleman who was trying to sue his employer for failing to accommodate his disability. I wanted to tell him how much case law I had found, and what sort of argument might be used to support his case. Instead, I stayed quiet, but Chantal didn’t.

She pointed to the very document that I had questioned her on and said, “Abby, you need to be more careful. This document has a lot of mistakes. Maybe, you should just get back to filing. You know, alphabetically, right?” She smiled at the client, “Sorry sir, Abby’s still learning, can I tell Mr. or Mrs. Locke that you are here?”

I held my tongue, but I was fuming. I knew how to check the calendar in Outlook to see not only who the client was but also who he had the appointment with, but Chantal apparently didn’t. Sloppy again. Also, I knew that Stephanie had spoken to Chantal about our arrangement. She was to act as if I were assisting her when clients came in, but I doubted that Stephanie intended it to be in a manner that was so demeaning.

Mr. Anders smiled back at Chantal, “I think it’s wonderful that you bring on students during the summer. Better to have them working than causing trouble.” He turned to me, “You listen to Chantal, young lady. She is a keeper.”

I feigned a smile, but it took extreme control on my part to not tell Mr. Anders that the only reason that Chantal was a ‘keeper’ was because I fixed her mistakes.

Once Mr. Anders had gone in to see Stephanie, I went behind Chantal’s desk and proceeded to poke her in the chest. “I don’t know if you paid any attention in class where you earned your supposed degree, or if you were too busy being some frat boy’s sloppy second, but if you ever talk to me like that again, I will present an itemized list of just how much money you are costing this firm with your mistakes.” I was wild-eyed. Chantal actually inched away from me. I wanted to punch her in the face as hard as I could, but I settled for a verbal beating.

“You are damn lucky that I am willing to sacrifice my pride for Stephanie’s firm because if I wasn’t, I’d see you fired in an instant. I know that the arrangement is that I’m your assistant, but let me put it this way. I could do your job, and my job. Do you understand?” It was true, in my government position because of a lack of personnel, I was both law clerk and paralegal, and I was supporting three lawyers, not just two.

Chantal nodded her head rapidly, but she didn’t say a word. I felt infinitely better after berating her. Despite her apparent surrender, there was something in her eyes that told me this wasn’t over.
***

It had been about a month since the show at the Big Gob Brewery, and we were asked to play another show there at Jacynthe’s insistence. She made a killing that night, and her regulars hadn’t stopped asking her for us to come back. So that Friday, we took to the stage again. The show was not nearly as raucous as the last one, and I felt it only went OK. That second show made one thing very apparent, we were going to need another guitar player.

I had suggested that we change all of our songs to drop D, and while that worked to a certain degree, making it easier for me to form the chords. My nails were growing so quickly, that I barely had time to finish one song before they had grown back fully. So while I could play Drop D rhythm, my lead parts were like Chantal’s attention to detail, very sloppy. My band mates had said nothing yet, but I could just imagine what Steven and Andrew discussed on the way back from band, behind my back.

I knew that in order for the band to be successful, we would need another guitar player. I didn’t want to stop playing guitar, but I was realistic. It was ridiculous to think that we needed another member because of my nails, but that was the reason. We hadn’t booked another show yet, so we had time to look.

I wasn’t sure how to approach the search. Before, I just posted an ad on Craigslist or a site called Bandmix. I had had success with both, but I was wary about bringing someone else on board, not only because it could wreck the chemistry, but it would be hard to explain why a teenage girl was playing in a band with two grown men. It meant we would have to lie to anyone who joined.

I brought the issue up at our next practice. I could see that Steven was becoming more frustrated each time I stopped to clip the nails on my fretting hand. After playing three songs and having to stop in between each to clip, I spoke into the microphone to get the attention of my band mates.

“Hey guys, OK. Let’s take a break.” We sat down on the floor. I unplugged my guitar and put it back in its case. I had to admit, I was really starting to like the homage to metal that was my guitar. Not only was the tone amazing, the action was perfect, meaning the strings were at the right level to allow me to form chords easily enough, but only if my nails were clipped. John even said that he would maintain the guitar for free. I had a feeling he missed his daughter, who had moved away, and while I wasn’t enamoured with playing surrogate daughter, John was nice, and I found his band stories fascinating.

“So, you have probably noticed that my playing sucks. Like really sucks.”

Andrew replied, “Well, we weren’t going to-“

I sighed, “Guys, if we are serious about this, then we need to be realistic here. My playing isn’t going to get any better. We also have to be truthful. You know I will say when you guys are off when you sing. I need you guys to do the same. I’m not a delicate flower. I can take it.”

Steven spoke up, “I know man. I didn’t really want to say anything either, but I want us to be a serious band. My friends who saw us play last time, they noticed it, and they aren’t musicians. It’s probably going to start to hurt our ability to get shows.”

I nodded slowly, “I agree. It sucks. Do you guys know anyone who might be interested?”

Andrew nodded, “Well there’s a guy at work. He’s already in a band but-

Steven shook his head, “We don’t want anyone who is in another band. They need to commit to us. I might know someone too. He’s a bit young though. Early twenties.”

I nodded, “That’s fine. We just don’t want a kid. They don’t have the attention span to stay in bands for the long haul. I had an eighteen year old in a band, and he saw some crappy indie band play and suddenly he wanted to be in a band like that, so he left after less than a year.” I knew not all eighteen year olds were like that, but considering my record so far with teenage musicians, and boys in general, I didn’t need to spend a lot of time with them. One painful crush was enough.

I continued, “You guys check out your leads. I can put an ad up on Bandmix. I can meet them at the house to save time, see what kind of players they are. Maybe we could jam a bit too. And I’ll play them the tracks.”

Steven and Andrew looked at each other. They both frowned. Andrew spoke up, “Darren, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I mean normally that would be fine but-“

Steven shook his head. “Look man, I don’t want to sound sexist or anything, but you really shouldn’t have guys you just met come into your place. Especially if you are alone.”

As I listened to my band mates, I felt rage build within. I was already emotional because my period was approaching, so it was like adding ten sticks of dynamite to a thrown grenade. My band mates saw I was visibly upset. My eyes were narrowed and my lips tight over my clenched teeth. My little fists were balled as I dug my nails into my soft palms.

Andrew put his hand on my shoulder, “Woah, woah before you say anything, Darren. Think about it. Think about some of the players you’ve let into your house in the past. Do you think this is a good idea? Remember that these guys don’t know who you really are.”

Andrew’s words defused my potential rage. He was right. Musicians are an interesting lot. I remember having one gentleman in my house who I thought was going to rob me. He looked like a crack addict, missing half his teeth with a sallow pallor. He called himself Chainz, and the only reason I actually let him in the house is because it is so hard to find bass players, but I regretted it because I learned he didn’t even have any equipment. Probably sold it for drugs.

So, was it smart to have men I had never met come into the house while I was there alone? Not for an instant, but somehow, I thought it was. Was I thinking that I was still a 32 year old man, or was I just not thinking?

I blinked and then nodded, “OK, yeah it’s a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Once Andrew had explained, it made sense. Something in my brain clicked that it was the smarter choice with the facts provided by my own experience.

We finished our discussion and resumed practice with me again having to cut my nails after every single song. For the longer ones, I cut them during parts where I wasn’t singing or playing. It was clear that we needed to find someone before playing another show. The issue of my apparent age came up, but we decided to tell the same story we told Jacynthe, I was the younger sister of Andrew’s wife’s best friend. This was obviously Amélie, but our new guitar player wouldn’t know that. It was best to be consistent with our lie.

That night I posted an ad on Bandmix. I stated we were looking for someone committed, with a mature attitude, between the ages of 20-40, with their own gear and wheels (ideally), who can play lead guitar and some rhythm guitar.

Chapter 35

I removed the mail from the box. There were flyers, which I usually dumped directly in the recycle bin and a few letter-sized envelopes, likely bills. Money wasn’t exactly tight, but with my serious pay cut, we did have to watch our finances more carefully. We did what we could to save money- running the air conditioning only when it was too humid to sleep, not eating out and avoiding any unnecessary purchases. My small wardrobe of skirts, blouses and blazers had put a dent in my savings- our savings. Amélie preferred we call it that because it meant that for everything we did, we would consider how it might affect the other. Despite my job, we were just scraping by. It was clear that I was going to need to get a job after the summer to continue to support my family, but my prospects were bleak, at least for jobs that didn’t involve retail or fast food.

I had looked further into legal emancipation. Amélie was correct when she said that the test had a very high threshold. I found examples. One was a professional hockey player who was successfully emancipated. He was seventeen when he was drafted in the first round. That alone enabled the courts to determine that he could support himself easily. Even the fourth line grinder made a million dollars. I found another involving a young woman, a pop singer, who was worried her parents were going to steal her hard-earned touring dollars. She was sixteen at the time, but she was grossing over a hundred thousand dollars before taxes. Amélie didn’t even make that much.

There was also my upcoming hearing, just three weeks away. Amélie had still not obtained a birth certificate for me, so unless I found a way to make a hundred thousand dollars, the state might find it in my best interest to be placed in foster care. I would fight them, applying for a stay of decision so that I could remain with Amélie while we built a defence, but the thought was worrying.

As I was sorting the mail, I noticed an envelope from a local school board. This in itself was not odd because we paid annual school taxes. What I did find odd was the weight of the envelope, because it meant there was more documentation in there than usual. So, either we had failed to pay our school taxes, or it was something else entirely. Our school and property taxes were usually added to our mortgage. I didn’t understand it completely, but I thought the bank took care of it, and we only received a notice indicating how much was owed.

I tore open the envelope, and my mouth hung open for a few seconds while I shakily found a seat at the kitchen table. Inside the envelope was a confirmation of registration at St. Josephine’s Notre Mère de Paix for Abigail Grenier. It was the same school that Alyssa and Ethan attended. My body tensed, and my hand shook as I stared at the piece of paper in my hand.

It was quite a detailed document, written almost entirely in French. I did a quick translation:

Student Name: Abigail Grenier Sex: Female
Age: 15 Date of birth: December 10, 1998
Grade of most recent completion: Ninth Parent or Guardian: Amélie Grenier
New student: Yes Previous school: Unknown
Contact in case of Emergency: Amélie Grenier Uniform required: Yes
Date of required attendance: September 2, 2013

My birth date was the same except for apparently being born when Darren Lawrence was in twelfth grade. The fact that Amélie was my guardian made me immediately think that she had somehow managed to obtain guardianship over me without a birth certificate. Why then would she have enrolled me in school without asking, unless it was automatic? I was in the system because of my alleged crime, but I was perplexed as to why Amélie would do this without speaking to me. Would the school have just assumed she was my guardian? It made little sense because I had told the police officer that Amélie was my older sister. Was it just a clerical error? A letter from the principal was attached, but it was addressed to Amélie, my apparent guardian.

The letter welcomed Abigail to the school and indicated that uniforms could be picked up as early as August 25th. It also discussed the tenth grade curriculum, and the different choices for art credits. I threw the letter down, but it did not meet the measure of my anger as it gently floated to the floor. I shook my head vehemently. There was absolutely no way I was ever going to attend classes at this school. I would fight for emancipation as if my life depended on it, and considering my most recent mental indiscretions, Jeremy being the latest, perhaps it was a battle for my identity, my freedom - in essence, my life.

I did not want to be surrounded by children all day, and, while I had done it as a teacher, I was not doing it dressed in a plaid skirt. I could not take being treated as a child by people who should be my colleagues. It would not only harm my adult ego, but it could be devastating to my psyche being surrounded by kids and their inane conversations. I wanted mature conversation, not discussions about why a certain class or teacher sucked. Plus, this was tenth grade. The students were still extremely immature, especially the boys. I knew this firsthand because I had taught English to a class of all boys. I shuddered at the thought of being the only girl in a class like that.

I thought about another possible culprit, but I doubted that Chantal had the mental capacity to dream up such a complex revenge. I knew she had heard me speaking to my parents about my legal emancipation research, and she may have heard me tell my mother that, despite the law, I would do everything in my power to avoid returning to high school. My parents were worried about what was going to happen after the summer. They were concerned about money and my well-being, but they also figured that, as a teenage girl, I might be expected to attend school. I told them that I had no intention of doing so, but I had no idea exactly how much Chantal heard of my conversation. I had the discussion outside during lunch at work, but I only realized Chantal was sitting behind me at another picnic table half-way through the conversation with my parents.

It would be a fitting revenge for her to have phoned the school board and indicated that there was a truant student. Still, I felt that was far above the intelligence of someone like Chantal. No, I had a feeling her revenge would be more petty and childish. So, that left two possible suspects- Amélie and my parents.

I called my parents, indicating that there was an emergency at the house, no one was hurt, but I needed to speak to them immediately. Amélie arrived home with Chloe a few minutes later, and while I acted coolly toward her, it did not seem too unusual because she knew I was on my period. My time of the month was when Amélie didn't speak much. She knew that my cramps could be bad, which meant I was likely to be in a foul mood. As far as the actual experience went, the bottle of Midol was never far away, thankfully. Unlike my first time, I was scared to watch wrestling as I had done before, for fear of being attracted to the heavily muscled tanned Adonises. Not only that, but the experience with Jeremy was never far from my mind never mind the shirtless skaters I saw outside whenever my eyes strayed at the office.

As for Chloe, despite my trying to act like her daddy, she didn’t buy it. She still called me anything but, mostly, she called me ‘Alee’ still. She still looked at pictures of me and asked for daddy, even though it had been months since my transformation. I wasn’t sure if toddlers could feel sad at the thought of missing someone, but there had been the odd time when I caught Chloe looking oddly thoughtful. She usually had only three faces, beaming smile, mischievous grin or full-on tantrum with waterworks and red cheeks, so seeing her wearing a different expression made me wonder if she thought about, or missed me. Amélie thought she did, but I wasn’t sure if a toddler had that capacity. Chloe had accepted me as another girl in the house, although she was never impressed when I tried to do her hair. Amélie had the patience to put an elastic in the hair of a squirming toddler. I knew how, especially considering I used an elastic to put my own hair in a ponytail at times, but I didn’t have the same tolerance I had before.

I even snapped at Chloe more when she refused to follow my instructions. She thought it was hilarious to kick me when I changed her diaper. She thought it was even funny to slap my boobs. Amélie disliked it when I yelled, so I tried to keep my outbursts to a minimum, but as Chloe would enter the genuine terrible twos in September, I knew that it would be harder to keep my temper if I hadn’t found a way to change back.

My parents arrived after dinner, my mother frantically entering the house. “Darren, what’s wrong, are you OK?”

I ushered my parents into the dining room. Amélie looked confused as I invited her to take a seat at the table with my parents. I took out the confirmation letter and laid it on the table.

I said with narrowed eyes, “So, anyone care to tell me what this is?”

Amélie peered down at the letter on the table, and my parents did the same. My mother was the first to speak.

“Amélie, did you apply for guardianship of Darren? I thought we had discussed this before. We want Darren to come and live with us. I thought we were very clear about that.”

My mother was hurt. I could see that she thought Amélie had gone behind her back.

“We are his parents, Amélie. How could you do this?”

My mother was the emotional type. My father was practical. He rarely let his emotions influence his decisions, as our many political and hockey debates can attest. He often played Devil’s Advocate, drawing on facts and hard evidence to form his opinions.

He spoke gently, “Now, we don’t know if this is true or not. Let’s not jump to conclusions, Pam.”

My mother who at this point was near tears said, “How else are we supposed to see it, Richard? Why else would this school think Amélie is Darren’s guardian?”

Amélie who had stayed out of it to this point spoke up. She could be accused of lacking compassion and empathy, being much like my father in certain respects, but she spoke gently to my mother. Much the way she spoke to me now when I was overly emotional. “I’m honestly as confused as you are, Pam. I did not do this. I will admit we talked about it. I wanted and I still want Darren to live with me and Chloe, but I did not apply for a guardianship. Everyone I spoke to, including my friends from law school in family law, they all said that we needed a birth certificate or at least a proof of the birth if it was a home birth. I never applied for a birth certificate for Darren, so I don’t know how this school even knows ‘Abigail’ exists.”

My father replied, “The school could know that Abigail exists because she is in the system now. Did you give this birth date, Darren?”

I shook my head, “No, I didn’t. The police notebook pages that I requested say the same date, but a different year.” I pointed at the photocopied pages, “It says 1997. So sixteen years old.”

My father frowned, “That will probably be considered lying to a police officer.”

Amélie nodded her head, “If this school document is legitimate, and I think it will be treated that way, this is far more serious. Yes, Darren lied, but more importantly, he isn’t even old enough to drive. That could lead to additional charges.”

I interjected, “How do we know the police even have access to this document?”

Amélie replied, “The issue is this. If we don’t provide that document, we have no record of your birth, nor whether you have a legal guardian, so even if you manage to win, Darren, you could be taken away. Without parents or a guardian, you could end up in foster care.”

My mother shook her head vehemently, “I won’t let them do that to my son. I am his mother, and I will tell the court that!” She was on the verge of tears.

My father said gently, “Amélie has a point. Darren, you need to show that document to the court to prove that Amélie is your guardian. I am sorry, Pam, but we need to accept this. The document is a double-edged sword, but it could keep Darren from becoming a ward of the state.”

I stared at my father in disbelief, “Are you serious? Doing that will make it official. I don’t particularly like the idea of being fifteen years old in the eyes of the law. I wouldn't be allowed to drive, and I wouldn’t even be able to vote for another three years. I still think that I can emancipate myself.”

Amélie frowned and touched my shoulder, “Darren, I told you that the test is very difficult to meet. How are you going to meet the test?”

I replied, “I will see if Stephanie can hire me. It is complicated because she can’t legally hire me until I am emancipated, but she can provide me with a document indicating her intent to do so. It was enough for the drafted hockey player. He hadn’t signed a contract yet, but by drafting him, the court ruled that it was the team’s intent to hire him. Plus, if she hires me as a paralegal, I would have no problem paying the bills. I have already proved to her that I can do the work.”

My mother looked at me hopefully, “Do you really think she would do that, Darren? That would be wonderful. Your father and I can help you out until then, of course.”

I shook my head, “We are OK while I have a job Mom.” I was thirty-two years old and certainly old enough to support myself. The last thing I wanted was to be dependent on my parents again.

My father looked pensive, momentarily, before adding, “It is a risk Darren. You would have to emancipate yourself before the hearing, which is in mid-July. That’s only three weeks away. How are you going to do that?”

I replied, “I don’t know exactly, but I will figure it out. I will make some calls tomorrow.”

My father added matter-of-factly, “OK, let’s say you don’t manage to see a judge before your hearing. Will you use this document? It would be very risky to do otherwise.”

My father was a pragmatist. To him, it would be unreasonable not to use the document, even if it meant a more severe punishment, because it likely guaranteed I could stay with Amélie for the foreseeable future. He wasn’t much of a gambler.

I nodded, “Fine. I certainly don’t want to end up in some teen half-way house.”

My father added, “The other issue is the fact that this confirms ‘Abigail’s’ registration. Because you exist to them, you may have to attend this school. You have to be in school until you are eighteen years old.”

I shook my head and looked at my father with my head slightly tilted, disbelief at my father’s words lining my young face. “Are you crazy? Did you forget that I was a high school teacher? There is no way I am going to submit myself to such a humiliating and frankly insulting experience. There are ways to get around this. For one, I could just do a GED (General Equivalency Diploma) and move right to university.”

My father shook his head, “I am just telling you what the law is Darren. I don’t know a lot of universities that would accept a GED. Community college, yes, but if you want to be a lawyer, university is the only option.”

I stated matter-of-factly but with a bratty lilt to my soft voice, “Well, I could do a paralegal degree at college first.” With the way my voice sounded, I might as well have accented my words with a quick ‘I can, too!’ or even a protruding tongue.

My father nodded, “OK Darren. We aren’t going to make you go, but Amélie may have to.”

I threw up my hands, “OK this is officially dropped. I am not going. You can’t make me, and neither can Amélie. I said I would find a way out of this, and I will. In the meantime, do any of you have leads on potential cures?”

My mother shook her head sadly, “We had a man who called himself a magician at the house last week.”

My father looked annoyed, “A master of transmutation, he called himself. That was a fancy way of saying he does cheap illusions. He took our two hundred dollars and ran. I called the Better Business Bureau on him.

“I think we may need to try a different city, or even country. And move away from magicians and try shamans or priestesses. Your mother and I are going to tour the southern part of the United States in August. We will be stopping in New Orleans. That is mysticism central as far as the States goes. Maybe we’ll find an answer there.”

I nodded my head, “I am willing to try anything.”

Amélie frowned, “Not voodoo, hopefully. My grandmother actually believed in it. I just think it is bad karma to mess around with things like that.”

I looked into Amélie’s eyes, “I am willing to try it. Even the darkest arts if I think it will work.”

My father nodded, “OK Darren, I’ll see what I can uncover.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I desperately hoped that my father would be successful because there was a chance I would have to attend school. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to my brain from being surrounded by children all day, not to mention teenage boys. I shuddered at the thought, but the memory of the shirtless skaters hung at the periphery of my mind, simply waiting for an opportunity to take a more permanent place within a psyche that was becoming more confused by the day.