“I’ve got you an appointment for an endocrinologist for Friday,” my mom says, “We can have you on testosterone right away.”

The school called her right after the incident to explain. She hasn’t wasted any time. 

“Uh—” I try to interject.

“Mastectomy will take longer, of course, but the cost shouldn’t be a problem, once we sue the school.”

“This isn’t The School’s fault,” I say, “and—”

“Of course it is,” she cuts me off. “Who else’s fault could it be?”

“It was an accident, but it was my own fault. I did this to myself by trying something stupid.”

“Well, the school should have proper safeguards in place.”

This goes on for a while, with me barely able to get a word in edgewise. I dance around the fact I was trying to get into the girls’ locker room, but when I finally get it out, she blows right past it. “Boys will be boys.”

“Apparently fucking not, Mom,” I don’t say.

I finally get her to cool her jets by telling her I’m going to keep trying to figure out a way to undo this with my mark. After all, if it did this to me, it only makes sense it can undo it. I’m not even lying. If I could just make it like this never happened, I would.

But going on testosterone? Top surgery? No. Not right away. I’ve been thinking about what Tiara said, and I’m going to give this new situation a chance.

I’m not going to be able to fix it tonight, though. My power is still pretty worn out from my post-transformation freak out. I even had to depend on Checkers for a lift home.

I wasn’t able to focus enough to get any school work done during ISS, so I have a lot of homework. I settle down at the desk in my room to get it done. I might eventually get myself kicked out of The School, but if I do, it will be for getting caught going too far with my troublemaking, not for bad grades.

It takes several minutes to get my chair adjusted. I’ve lost around four inches of height (so, still a little tall for a girl) and the sixty-eight inches I have left are distributed differently. Then I keep missing when reaching for things on my desk. Everything is just a little further away than I expect.

It’s bedtime when I finally finish. I went out to the dining room to eat dinner with mom, but I wolfed down my food and left quickly. The way she kept looking at me, or not looking at me, made me uncomfortable.

Usually I shower before bed. I hesitate, though. I had to use the bathroom earlier, and that was an odd experience. Showering feels like a really big step. Still, band-aids.

I don’t have a full-length mirror in my bathroom, but the mirror over the sink counter goes from the backsplash almost to the ceiling. 

Before getting undressed, I stare at the girl in the mirror again.

She’s cute.

I didn’t really notice before, but her eyes are a slightly different color than mine. More green than blue. And a close look in the mirror shows that she has two more piercings in each ear, but they’re empty. I can’t help wondering what would look good there.

After a few more minutes of stalling, I get undressed. Huh, still cute. She also still has the mole just below the right side of my rib cage.

The shower itself is uneventful. My washcloth feels scratchy though. So does my towel.

When I look at my reflection again, I see a problem I had very much not thought of.

I wrap a towel around myself (and then wrap it again after it falls off. Third time’s the charm) and lean out of my room. 

“Mom,” I call, “do you have any makeup remover I can borrow?”

In the morning, yet another problem presents itself. Clothing.

If I’d thought about it, I’d have washed my clothes from yesterday last night. But I didn’t, so I’m stuck trying to find a pair of pants that will stay up. A shirt is a slightly easier problem. With rib-cage shrinkage combined with my new boobs, my chest is, overall, near the same size. That’s the theory.

In practice, the shirts fit differently, and I didn’t factor in the whole nipple situation. I hadn’t been wearing a bra yesterday because the top had built in support. Even if I had, it would have been stinky now, because I tossed everything in with my other laundry.

I end up layering. I put on the smallest t-shirt I can find, which sort of provides a little support so I don’t bounce quite as much. Over that, I wear one of my oversize t-shirts, and put on the hoodie last.

My plan is to flicker into the office and tell them I need to go clothes shopping. The fact that this will let me skip first period is a bonus.

And yes, I could use the online check-in to say I’ll be in late and why, but then I wouldn’t get to rub their faces, once again, in the fact that I can skip past their wards.

By the time I figure all this out, it’s only a minute or so until I’ll be late, so that’s another excuse to flicker directly into the office.

I’m sure you will be shocked to learn that things do not go according to plan.

When I appear in the office, I can immediately tell that something is different. I unzip the hoodie and peek in. Then I unzip it the rest of the way,

Under the hoodie, I’m wearing a Ramones t-shirt with the bottom few inches ripped away, and, under that, a pink bra. I know it’s pink because one of the straps peeks through the torn open collar of the shirt. This pair of jeans are ripped in several places.

“I see that you’ve added ‘challenging the dress code’ to your repertoire,” Principal Ruehl says. 

I hadn’t even noticed her standing there.

I feel like my face turns pink enough to match the bra.

“I—” I started, then stop myself. I was about to make an excuse, or apologize.

If I understand what my mark is doing (big if), this is how I’d have been dressed today if I were a girl. My thing is bending the rules, or skirting them. Not breaking them. Therefore, even though the dress code is one of the few parts of the school rules I don’t have memorized, I’m willing to bet I’m not violating it.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” I continue, making it clear from my tone that I’m not, “what part of the dress code am I violating?”

She tilts her head slightly, then smiles. Oh, crap.

“If I had any doubt that that was still you in there, Mr…” She pauses, giving me a chance to correct her. “...Doyle, you have put them to rest. And, no, I didn’t say you were violating the dress code. But you’ve chosen an outfit that comes extremely close to doing so.”

“I didn’t actually choose this outfit,” I say, “I was wearing some of my old clothes when I left home and was going to ask permission to skip first period to go get something that would fit.”

“Ah, that explains your presence here. It’s unusual for you to come to the office without some persuasion. How fortunate that you won’t be needing to do that, since you will be skipping first period to speak with Mr. Berry. He’s waiting for you in his office right now.”

I fail to talk my way out of it, and find myself sitting in an overstuffed recliner opposite one of The School’s therapists. This isn’t my first time. When you ‘act out’ as often as I do, adults really want to help you ‘resolve your issues’ so that you can be a ‘productive member of the community.’

Each time I’ve explained to them exactly why I did the things I did, they’ve said we couldn’t make any progress in therapy if I won't engage in good faith and sent me on my way.

I haven’t seen Mr. Berry yet, though.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you yesterday,” he begins. “I was swamped with other urgent situations.”

“Whatever,” I reply.

“I’ve read the report on what happened. Is there anything you didn’t tell them yesterday that you’d like to add?” 

“No.”

I lean the recliner all the way back and roll up my hoodie for a pillow. There’s no way I’ll actually fall asleep right now, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“So we have the facts,” he says. “Now, how do you feel about what happened?”

“How do you think I feel?”

“Are you asking for my guess based on observation, or are you simply avoiding the question?”

The best way to get him to leave me alone is probably to be honest.

“Avoiding the question.”

I spend the next forty-five minutes deflecting or just not answering. It isn’t like he could help me anyway.

“You could get hormone therapy. You could get top and/or bottom surgery. In the end, your body could be very much like it was before, just a little shorter, and with slightly different proportions,” he says, as we wind down.

The idea makes me intensely uncomfortable.

“Given the circumstances, we could probably get you a script for testosterone by the weekend. Do you want that?” he asks.

“no,” I say, very quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“No.” 

I tell him what I’d told my mom, that I can keep trying to fix this on my own. My mark has to be able to undo what it did in the first place.

“And how’s that going?” he asks.

“No luck so far.”

I don’t mention that I haven’t actually tried anything yet.

The bell rings for second period.

“We’ll meet again next Monday, but reach out to the office if you need to talk before then.”

I grunt, and flicker to class.

When I flicker into my ELA classroom, I realize that I haven’t put my hoodie back on, and there are already a couple other kids in the classroom. Oh, well. I tie it around my waist by its sleeves and take my seat.

“Ella Donovan?” Ms. Lawls, my ELA teacher, is calling roll.

“Here,” Ella responds.

“Frank Doyle?”

“Here.”

She looks up from her tablet, then back to it and makes a note. All the kids watch me, probably to see if I’m going to correct her on my name, or give her new pronouns, or spontaneously transform into a zebra.

“Gene Edge?”

When nothing that exciting happens, they start minding their own business again.

Class is uneventful.

Then there’s lunch.

I’ve managed to avoid my goon squad, except for that one brief encounter, since the incident. I could keep it that way, but they’d know for sure I was doing it on purpose. Better to get it over with.

I grab a burger from the food server and carry my tray out to the courtyard. It would have been faster to flicker there, but I like to walk the cafeteria and watch for handy victims. I keep an eye out for Emily on the way. When I don’t see her, I figure there won’t be any big opportunities. Too bad. I need people to know that I’m still me.

I spot Kyle and Len sitting at a table with Marie, the other member of our little group. 

“Hey, losers,” I say, taking my seat.

“I think you’re the one who lost something,” Kyle responds. “Something really important.”

“Nah,” Marie chimes in, “I’m sure it wasn’t that important.”

Kyle snort-laughs, and Len follows a half second later.

“Any achievements while I was out?” I ask. It’s best to steamroll right past my current predicament.

They each admit that they haven’t managed to start any fights, get anyone in trouble, or make anyone cry.

“But it looks like you might have scored without even trying,” Marie says to me.

When I look puzzled she points her chin briefly behind me and to my left. I ‘drop’ a napkin and reach to pick it up, allowing me to glance in that direction.

Samantha Graves, the girl I’d mentioned to the counselor, is glaring at me like I’ve eaten her favorite kitten. It only takes me a second to realize why.

When she arrived at The School last Fall, I sounded her out as a possible addition to our merry little band (her mark would be so much fun to misuse). Among the things I learned was that she’s trans and was not one of the lucky ones to get a mark-granted transition. I considered playing on her jealousy of the trans girls who did, but decided that was out of bounds.

She’s clearly gotten over whatever jealousy she felt, since at least two of the other girls at her table are trans (counting Cat as a girl, which she is at the moment). But, another student getting what appears to be a near-perfect mark-powered transition seems to have brought that back, at least a little. She probably thinks I’m trans and have been deep in the closet. 

That is a big ugh. It shouldn’t be. I live for this kind of thing. Messing with people without breaking any rules. Without even doing anything to them. It should feel like a win. But it doesn’t. I feel gross.

I have a personal rule, which I’ve insisted our little group follow as well. There are certain qualities that we absolutely do not use against people. The others were fine with not going after people based on their race or religion, but I got some pushback on not going after people based on queer stuff. I won them over by pointing out that, one, we could still go after them, just not for that, and two, at least forty percent of the school is some flavor of queer, and two-thirds of the rest are strong allies. Really, though, I just thought it would be gross.

I guess I feel almost like I’ve broken that rule, but I didn’t. I really, truly, didn’t do anything to her. If I’m right, she’s making something that’s only about me, about her.

But I still feel bad, which is infuriating. I don’t (mostly) feel bad when I mean to hurt people. That’s just part of the game. 

I turn back to my burger and tear into it like that will make me stop feeling guilty.

I get home long before Mom does, as usual.

My initial plan was to go shopping for some clothes, but I can’t decide if it’s worth spending money since it seems that my wardrobe will update itself a few pieces at a time as I flicker to school. But that way I don’t have control over what I wear, whereas if I go shopping, I would.

Finally, I really have no idea how to shop for girls’ clothes. As embarrassing as it is, I text Mom and ask her to take me shopping. She suggests we meet at the mall and have dinner, then shop.

“What the hell are you wearing, young man?” Mom says, the instant she sees me.

That stings, for some reason. It also draws a few stares.

Eventually I manage to get her to understand that this just happened when I teleported to school. She still seems dubious.

“Why that outfit, though?”

“I guess it’s what I would have been wearing today if I were a girl.”

“No daughter of mine would ever dress like that.”

I don’t argue. There’s no point.

She’s upset enough that she wants to change the plan. She now wants us to shop first, so that we won’t be sitting in the food court or a restaurant with me ‘looking like a tramp.’ It takes a little doing, but I convince her that I’m too hungry, and wouldn’t it suck for me to get food on a brand new piece of clothing?

We eat dinner mostly in silence. Something is off, and it takes me a while to realize that she isn’t looking at me. Every time she glances my way, her eyes dart away again immediately. 

She makes a few more negative comments about what I’m wearing. How can I stand to be showing cleavage? Couldn’t I have at least worn my hoodie (the first time she’s ever wanted me to put the thing on)? I have a sinking feeling about what kind of clothes we’ll be looking at.

It turns out that part isn’t as bad as I expect. 

It’s worse.

When we walk into the department store, she makes a beeline toward the men’s section.

“Um, Mom, the women’s stuff is this way.”

“I’m sure we can find you something to fit in men’s.”

“But—”

“Young man, you are not wearing girls’ clothes. That’s final.”

Ouch. 

“I’ll at least need a bra.”

She stops and looks past my shoulder.

“We can order you some binders. We’ll get you a sports bra to wear in the meantime.”

I would bet good money that she had never heard of a binder two days ago. With that and the talk about testosterone yesterday, she must have spent a big chunk of yesterday and today researching trans stuff online. It was almost funny, considering how she refused to even use my cousin Van’s new pronouns when he came out last year. Almost.

“I don’t want to wear a binder,” I say. “I’ve heard they’re really uncomfortable.”

“You can’t just walk around with your boobs sticking out. People will think you’re a girl.”

“But—”

“You’re a boy, so you need to look like one. You just happen to have boobs for now.”

“When I said that about Vance, you called him a—”

“Vanessa is different. She was born a girl.”

I shut my mouth and seethe. I’d hoped her attitude might have improved since all that; she’d obviously been looking into trans stuff at least a little. I should have known better.

We end up buying me three pairs of jeans that are too loose at the waist and too tight in the hips and ass, four solid-color crew neck t-shirts (a v-neck might let a binder show), and three plain gray sports bras that are clearly a size too small. For underwear, we buy a package of boxers and six pairs of boring socks.

At the register, it looks like she’s waiting for me to get out my card. I have some money from Dad’s insurance, which I sometimes use to buy my own clothes, but there’s no way in hell I’m buying this load of crap. Eventually, she pulls out her card and pays.

“I’ll see you at home,” she says, and hands me the bags. “It’s such a shame that you can’t take people with you when you teleport.”

Sometimes, I feel the same way. Right now, I’m grateful. I flicker away without saying goodbye.

I throw the bags on my bed unopened, then flop face down next to them. Not only am I stuck like this, but I’m doomed to look pathetically boring.

I lie there for maybe fifteen minutes feeling sorry for myself before I get annoyed by the bags sitting there next to me. I like to keep my room neat.

I sit up and dump the bags out on the bed.

Then I start laughing.

I’m sitting on the sofa watching TV when Mom walks in. I could be watching in my room, but then I wouldn’t get what follows.

“What the hell?” Mom exclaims. “Did you go back and waste more money on—” she’s clearly at a loss for words “—those?” She waves her hand at my clothes.

When I dumped out the bags, the clothes that tumbled out were not at all what we’d bought. There were only two pairs of jeans, both of which were women’s and fit perfectly, and there was a pleated skirt. One of the t-shirts had been replaced by a new cami top (I now know what the top I’d been wearing yesterday is called, thanks to the label on this one), and the other two by women’s t-shirts, both with a deep v-neck. One is bubblegum pink, the other a pastel lavender. 

One of the sports bras had just changed colors to pink (I was sensing a theme) and gone up two sizes. The other two had been replaced by regular bras, one lacy and black, the other plain and lavender. Instead of crew socks, I now have six pairs of ankle socks, in assorted colors, and I have six pairs of low rise women’s bikini briefs.

I’m not wearing any of those, though.

I had decided to try an experiment. I sort of like all the clothes that my mark has thrown at me so far, but I don’t care for not having any control.

I’d pulled on one of the pairs of pajamas I wear to bed on chilly nights, walked to the living room, and then flickered back to my bedroom, imagining myself wearing a pajama set I’d seen in the store when we walked past the women’s section.

When I looked down, that’s what I was wearing, although they didn’t look brand new. They looked like something that had been through a few washes. That was fine with me.

“No, ma’am,” I answer, “I put on a pair of my PJs, and when I teleported, I was wearing this.”

“Get back to your room and change into something decent!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I think about the fact that these new PJs could have been purple, and flicker back to my bedroom. That doesn’t work. They’re still crimson.

That’s fine. I switch them out for another of my old pairs, and flicker into my bathroom, not thinking about any particular clothes.

I examine my reflection. This new pair of PJs is purple with a big pink heart on the chest and the butt.

I walk to my bedroom door and lean out.

“Good night, Mom,” I call.

I wait a little bit for an answer, then give up and close it again.