“If you wouldn’t squirm so much, Lily, this wouldn’t take so long,” Ms. Bush was saying. Willy grimaced and tried to hold still as her makeup brush jabbed into the skin at the corner of his eye. He wanted to open his eyes so he could see what she was doing—but he’d warned to keep them closed, and he didn’t fancy the idea of getting powder in his eyes. Worse than that, his nose was itching and he desperately needed to sneeze—but he didn’t, terrified that a single sneeze would blow off all the powder and he’d have to go through the whole ordeal all over again.

He was sitting in a plastic chair in his sister’s dance studio, with his hair in braids and his face done up like a girl’s. The athletic center where his sister Sally did ballet and gymnastics had been rented by an athletics wear company, and they’d chosen Sally’s gymnastics team to model their new leotard catalogue. The basketball court had been converted into a photography studio, with black back-drops and lights set up everywhere, gymnastics apparatus set up for the girls to pose on, and girls in leotards everywhere—having their pictures taken, hanging out in giggling groups, comparing their leotards, doing splits, handstands or cartwheels, sitting down and playing on their phones or padding barefoot across the room to the photo stations. Clad in nothing but a tight pink leotard that left his arms, legs, and shoulders bare, with the makeup and his mother’s “special” underwear hiding all traces of boyishness between his legs, to anyone else he was just another girl—“Lily”. Only he, his sister, and his mom knew the truth.

This wasn’t the first time Willy had been dressed up like this—he’d first had to go through it after he stole his sister’s leotard the day before a photoshoot, and his mother made him take his twin’s place. He had learned his lesson and thought that it was over after that—so he had not been happy when he learned that he was so popular with the photographers and the other mothers that his mother had decided to bring “her daughter Lily” back again for the next shoot. As a “reward” for good behavior, his mom had promised him that she would tell the other moms he was a girl. He had protested and asked, “Mom, I don’t wanna be a girl!” She had smiled sweetly and asked “Would you rather I tell them you’re a bad boy who likes to steal his sister’s leotards?” He, horrified, had clammed up after that and solemnly resigned himself to wearing more leotards.

Not that wearing them was necessarily a bad thing. It was the strangest thing he’d ever worn, sort of like a single-piece bathing suit, and felt very alien to him. The material was so soft, thin, and light, he felt like was wearing a cushion of air—it made him feel rather naked, particularly with the cold air conditioning in the court brushing chilly breeze past his bare arms, legs, and shoulders. It didn’t’ seem to feel like there was anything between him and the cold air or the furniture. He felt the hard plastic of the chair on his back and under his butt as clearly as he traced the cold floor with his bare feet. It made him wish he had one of the tracksuit jackets like some of the other girls wore over their leotards—but no one had offered him one and he was afraid to ask an adult, for fear his voice would give him away. He felt very exposed, like every nook and cranny of his body was visible, and frightened that any minute now, someone would look between his legs and find out he was a boy.

However, though skimpy, it was very comfortable, fitting tight to his body and leaving all his limbs free to move in quite a refreshingly unrestricted way. When he sat down, flexed, or bent over, it stretched over his body without ever feeling uncomfortably tight. He liked watching the little creases the material formed over his body when he moved, and rubbing his hands over the soft, shiny material gave him the pleasurable sensation of moving from spandex to skin with little difference between the softness of his body and of the garment. He understood why Sally and the other girls liked them—somehow, it didn’t restrict his movements the way his regular clothes did, and he felt very airlight, and floaty, almost fairy-like, exhilaratingly free to move around in. He almost felt the urge to get up, dash across the gym and start doing some gymnastics moves , just to take advantage of his newfound feeling of freedom. He only wished that he was free to wear it somewhere where no one else could see him.

But then again, he reflected, it had, in a strange way, worked out perfectly. His mom was right. He had taken his sister’s pink leotard without asking—and now he was getting to wear as many as he could ever have hoped for. He just wished that he wasn’t being forced to wear them.

In a strange way, he was grateful for what his mom had done. At least no one thinks I’m a boy, he thought. The humiliation of being forced to dress up like and pretend he was a girl paled in comparison to the idea that everyone here knew he was a boy. He just hoped his mom had kept her promise—the way the other girls’ moms smiled at him and gushed over his cuteness was quite flattering, but at the same time, horrifying. Did they really think he was a girl? Was he just that feminine-looking? Or had his mother told them he was a boy, and were those sickeningly sweet smiles and compliments of “You’re such a pretty girl!” and “Your daughter is adorable!” thinly veiled mockery? He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now!” Ms. Bush said. He opened them to find her smiling at him. “You look very cute, sweetie,” she said. He almost said “Thanks” but stopped himself before he could reveal his masculine voice, and merely gave her a smile instead. She led him over to one of the photography stations, where they had him stand on a trampoline and strike some girly poses—embarrassing, but no worse than he’d had to do before. He just hoped that the makeup on his cheeks hid the blush of his embarrassment.

Someday, Willie hoped to himself, as the photographer snapped his photo, maybe this won’t be so embarrassing.