Date: Mon, 05 Jul 2004 13:39:06 +0000
From: Kristy Leigh <kristyleigh2001@hotmail.com>
Subject: "A SEASON OF DARKNESS" (Chapter 2, TG/Young Friends)

CHAPTER 2:

DEFINING MOMENTS

1.

Much to my relief, Mom never said a word about my morning with the
neighbors. Truth be told, she didn't say much about anything; she was
too far gone by that stage. As I said, Mom had turned a little weird
after Dad left. She'd quit her job and taken up drinking as an
occupation, parking herself in front of the TV most days. That was the
main reason why I'd been sitting out on the porch the morning the
Rineharts turned up. She tended to wake up with a mean hangover, and had
no wish to risk her razor-edged tongue that day.

Mom didn't have too many friends here in Fairmont; no one she could
confide in or open up to, anyway. Worse still, her drinking was
alienating her everyone who may have been able to help. Don't get me
wrong, she wasn't abusive or neglectful -- at least not at first.
Dinners still got cooked and the shopping always got done (one way or
another) but the woman sprawled on the living room sofa was slowly
becoming a stranger to me. It was like standing on a shore watching a
boat drifting out to sea and knowing that it would never, ever return.

In the meantime, Chrissie and I started living in one another's pockets.
In the first month after she moved in, I gave her a whirlwind tour of our
neighborhood. I took her first to Wentworth Park, where we spent most of
our afternoons, then introduced her to all the local attractions. We
followed the trails through the Wildlands; tossed coins into Memorial
Fountain; and checked out the concrete tunnels running beneath the old
railway station (that was kinda scary -- the place had been abandoned for
decades, and everyone said it was haunted). We played and talked and read
comics in each other's bedrooms, and somewhere along the way, we forgot
we'd only known each other for a couple of weeks.

"Whatcha doing?" Chrissie called out from the tree-swing.

We were playing in my back yard that morning: Chrissie had commandeered
the old rope-and-saddle and was currently trying to touch the sun with
both feet. I was perfecting my gym routine over by the back porch,
standing on my hands and turning the odd flip whenever my balance shifted
the wrong way. I picked myself up off the grass, extravagantly tucking my
T-shirt into my jeans.

"Gymnastics," I replied, making a rolling gesture with my right hand,
"I'm going to join the circus."

"Gymnastics?" She arched her back for greater height, aiming her feet
towards the heavens. Her skirt-tails streamed out behind her in a
billowing scarlet mass.

"Yeah, gymnastics," I repeated, "you know: backflips, cartwheels --
somersaults." I was vaguely surprised that she hadn't done any tumbling
at school, but I was getting used to that now. It was sort of like the
Whipper-Snapper: she'd never seen one until she came to Fairmont. I was
getting the impression that she must've lived on a farm or something
back in Longridge Bay.

Realizing she had no idea what I was talking about, I leaned over and
demonstrated a better than average handstand, wavering on the brink for
around five seconds. Chrissie's eyes snapped wide with understanding: I
wasn't just horsing around (as she'd originally thought); this was
something she could actually learn.

Launching herself off the swing, she hit the ground running and scrambled
across the yard. I recognized her expression; I'd seen it at least a
thousand times over the last month; every time I introduced her to
anything new or unusual, something she hadn't experienced before. Her
pretty, round face was radiating delight as she halted before me, eyes
glittering like purple diamonds.

"Do it again, Billy!" she twittered impatiently, "show me how to do
it!!" Her fingers spidered down her dress, kneeding and twisting the
hemline. I was getting used to that, too.

"All right," I laughed, swept up in her childish exuberance, "it's
easy, you just bend over like this -- " I flopped onto my hands and
waved my feet in the air. Chrissie watched in round-lipped delight,
absorbing every detail of my performance. The curve of my spine, the
spread of my palms, the tilt of my skull. The span of my fingertips, the
shifting of my tendons. Every microscopic detail, in the space of a
heartbeat.

"Let me try now, Billy!" she trilled excitedly, "tell me if I'm doing
it right!"

"Want me to hold your legs?" I offered hastily, though it was only a
precaution. I knew from prior experience that she'd be perfect from the
very first try. She always was.

"Yeah," she answered, barely hearing the question.

Drawing in a calming breath, Chrissie raised her arms over her head and
swept over into a perfectly controlled handstand. Her sheer red sunfrock
immediately peeled inside out, revealing her white satin panties, all the
way to her tummy-button. Tensing her thighs, she brought her heels
together, pointing both feet toward the sky. It was a most impressive
performance for an absolute beginner: balanced, graceful and confident.
Her stance was tighter then an exclamation point.

Not that I really noticed. Her fresh, white pants were poised less than a
foot from my face, and they seemed to fill my entire field of vision.
I'd seen Chrissie's underwear before -- she was always spinning about
and playing with her hemline when she got excited -- but I'd never seen
them so completely uncovered. The breath caught in my throat as she
shifted her hips. Liquid shadows flowed across the fabric like waves of
silver.

"Billy!" she piped from under her dress, "how do I look? Am I doing it
right?"

"You look great," I told her, truthfully. My eyes wandered over her
pants once more, taking in the folds and curves and silken outlines.
There was a little red tag on the waistband. A rush of gooseflesh covered
my arms and shoulders; a storm of butterflies erupted through my belly.

"I wanna do it again!" she yelped, squiggling her bottom from side to
side.

"Okay," I agreed, feeling my pulse accelerate like a trip hammer: she
was going to do it again. I backed up a few strides, allowing her room to
descend. She dropped lightly onto her feet, grinning from ear to ear. Her
face was flushed with exhilaration; wild cherries bloomed on both cheeks.
She reached out to grab my hand.

"What else can we do, Billy? Show me something else!"

I stared up at the swing for a few seconds, mentally cataloging all the
stunts I'd learned at the youth center last year. There weren't many --
mainly rolls and basic matwork. What could I teach her next? It would
have to be something which would get her upside down and show off her
panties, that was an absolute necessity. But couldn't be anything too
easy, or she'd lose all interest in a second; I knew that much at least.
No, it had to be something complicated, like a handspring, or a cartwheel
or a --

"Step-over!" I yelped in sudden inspiration, "you know how to do a
step-over?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, it's sort of like a handstand, except you go over and land on
your feet."

"Show me," she said, gesturing towards the grass.

"No, I'm not very good at it -- but you could do it easy. Just start by
standing on your hands."

"Okay," she nodded, and flipped onto her palms in a swirl of red
cotton. Her dress fluttered down her bare thighs, falling over her head
and torso. Placing a steadying hand on her waist, I leaned in for a
closer look at her panties. Literally everything was on view this time.
The frock had no real waistline, nothing to hold it up, and was inching
steadily down her torso.

Chrissie's pants were white satin briefs, the kind that covered most of
the tummy. There was a faint floral pattern decorating the front and
bottom, almost invisible against the snowy white material. I found myself
wondering how they must've felt, clinging to her supple, creamy flesh.
How she must've felt, standing upside down with her undies on clear
display.

"What do I do now?!" she warbled, kicking her feet in mid-air. Her legs
were long and slim and sleek with puppy-fat.

"Uh ... bend your leg backwards," I instructed, already picturing the
move in my mind's eye, "yeah, that one ... now let yourself --"

And over she went, executing a perfect two point dismount that would have
impressed a gold medalist. Her frock was still hiked up at her shoulders,
leaving her pants and tummy fully visible. She had one of those belly
buttons that poked out too far, it looked like a little pink raspberry. I
couldn't help giggling a little; she honestly had no idea how cute and
pretty and funny she really was. I covered my mouth with both hands,
laughing through splayed fingers.

"This is FUN, Billy!" she giggled, eyes twinkling with innocent joy.

Before I had time to reply, she twirled round on the spot and launched
into another step-over. Paused at the height of her arc, she aimed her
toes allowed her dress to fall away a third time. She scissored her legs
as she went into free fall, offering me a generous view of her silky
white gusset. The moment was scored onto my memory; time seemed to
stretch out towards infinity. Everything suddenly leapt into sharp focus:
the pink, elastic trim of her panties; the tiny lace butterfly over the
gusset. She whirled to the ground, voicing a shriek of pleasure -- 

And then she was shaking me by the shoulder with both hands.

"C'mon Billy! Let's do it together!!"

"I can't," I laughed, "I'm not as good as you."

"Yes you are!" she insisted, dragging me forward. And incredibly, she
was right. A moment later, we were both careening across the yard,
bounding and plunging and flying head-over-heels with pure summer
madness. Chrissie dipped and swirled almost faster than the eye could
follow, skirts and pigtails flailing in her wake. We were utterly
possessed. It was like a force of nature, sweeping us along like a gale
through the trees. I have no idea how long it lasted. Could've been two
minutes, could've been twenty.

We finally found ourselves stretched full-length on the lawn, gasping and
exhausted under the slowly revolving sky. It was like the first day we
met, that morning when I saw her spinning around her yard like a human
top. I'd seen her panties on that occasion too, though I hadn't taken
much notice. It had been pretty funny, watching her collapse in a
boneless heap over by the fence, but now I understood the simple,
child-like joy she'd experienced. Understood ... and envied.

I looked across at my little friend, enjoying the high, tinkling chime of
her laughter. Chrissie lay giggling beside me with her skirt flung up to
her chest. I roamed my gaze over her girlish figure, my eyes constantly
returning to her underwear. The sight of those shining gossamer wisps
made me tingle all over. They were so different from what I wore under my
jeans, so soft and pretty and dainty.

Just like Chrissie herself.

She turned on her side, panting with helpless mirth, oblivious of the
show she was putting on. That was part of her magic, I guess. Catching
her breath by slow degrees, she sat up and started smoothing back her
pigtails. Her dress flopped back into position, cutting off my view of
her little white panties. It couldn't have been more than 11.30 in the
morning, and we still the whole day looming over us.

"Whatcha want to do now?" I asked, secretly hoping for another panty
show.

"You wanna walk up to the Crest?" she suggested, absently smoothing the
wrinkles out of her sunfrock.

"Yeah, okay," I nodded, biting back my extreme disappointment. The
Crest was the highest point in Fairmont, a grassy summit with lots of
trees and picnic tables. We often went up there lie on our backs and
watch the cloud-animals drift by. On a good day, you could see clear
across to the Pacific Ocean (or so we imagined). It was one of
Chrissie's favorite places. We rose at precisely the same moment --
juvenile telepathy again -- and walked around the side of the house,
brushing the grass from each other's clothes without exchanging so much
as a glance. It never crossed my mind how strange that might have seemed
to an outsider.

We ambled up to the footpath, our feet avoiding the cracks our eyes
picked out in unison. As we reached the corner, I felt her fingers
slipping into mine. I suppose any other boy on the planet would have
pulled away.

That never crossed my mind, either.

2.

I got home around four-thirty that day, bristling with grass-blades and
smelling of pine needles, most of which came off at front door. Disposing
of the evidence had become a daily routine over the past four weeks: I
couldn't give Mom an excuse to cut Chrissie out of my life. No matter
how tanked she got, Mom had eyes like a hawk and was always aware of the
hours I was keeping. She'd also begun to notice whom I was keeping them
with, and I wasn't all that certain she approved.

As I'd expected, Mom was still camped out on the sofa, watching The
Price is Right with the remote in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
She didn't appear to have budged since I left that morning, but I knew
that couldn't be right; there was a bottle of Jim Beam on the coffee
table that hadn't been there before. Next to that was a half eaten bag
of Doritos, original cheese flavor. Last night it had been Johnny Walker
and pineapple pizza. Don't ask me how she could afford all the whisky,
she'd been out of work a good two months. Heck, I didn't know how she
could afford the rent, the way things had been lately.

Hearing my step on the floor boards, Mom shifted around on the sofa, a
ponderous, grey woman overflowing slightly at the hips. The first lines
of age had taken root in her face around the time I'd been born, so I'd
never known her as a young woman. The last few traces of beauty had
disappeared along with my father, and the gaze she turned on me now was
heavy with exhaustion.

"You been spending a lot of time with that little girlfriend of yours,"
she commented in a gravel voice, "what's the deal, Billy-boy? Her mom a
better cook than me?"

Eve most certainly was a better cook than Mom, but I thought it prudent
not to mention that to her.

"No, Mom. I just like playing with Chrissie."

"Yeah, right," she drawled, "the golden child and her gilt-edged
momma. You been in next door yet?" She knew I had, but she interrogated
me on the subject at least once every afternoon.

"Yeah, a couple of times," I nodded.

"Rich, aren't they?" she asked.

I shrugged. Maybe they were, who knows? I was a kid, I didn't notice
that sort of thing.

"Lots of fancy furniture?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Pictures on the wall?"

"Yeah."

"Silverwear on the tables?"

"...yeah." I had to think about that one.

"Like it better over there?"

"No," I replied immediately. Mom fixed me with a level, measuring
stare, silently estimating the truth of my answer. I couldn't understand
my mother's growing hostility towards Eva Reinhart. They'd spoken maybe
twice since she moved in, and Eve had never been anything but polite and
friendly on both occasions. I'd learnt very quickly never to praise
Chrissie's mother under any circumstances, it was like waving a red flag
at a bull.

The resentment slowly drained from Mom's eyes, replaced by a sort of
dull apathy. Apparently, she'd decided I wasn't lying to keep the peace
(or maybe she'd decided I was, Mom's expressions were impossible to
decipher these days) Turning back to the TV, she waved me off with a
careless gesture.

"Left-overs in the fridge," she said, bringing the cigarette to her
lips, "I didn't feel like cooking tonight."

Dinner was a slice of cold pizza with some three day-old ravioli and
diced ham. As I dished it onto a plate, Mom told me to come and eat it in
the living room; she didn't want me tossing it out the window while her
back was turned. She knew I wouldn't have done that, but evidently she
wasn't done with me yet. Odd thing was, she didn't say a word as I
scraped down the sad remains of three slaughtered meals. Barely looked in
my direction, as a matter of fact. Guess she just enjoyed hearing me
choke on every succulent mouthful.

The evening progressed in this manner until about seven-thirty, when I
asked her if I could stay up and watch TV another hour. The only answer I
got was a blue-grey stream of Marlboro. I recognized the signal
instantly: silence was lethal in the Campbell household, as I'd
discovered all too often in recent weeks. Standing up as quietly as
possible, I headed out to the hallway without a sideways glance. I made
it as far as the door before she called me back.

"Hey."

A cold finger traveled the length of my spine. Her voice sound strained,
terse. Not quite venomous, but I already knew she was angry. The fact
I'd done nothing to antagonize her made no difference. Like I said, it
was impossible to predict her moods. I walked back through the living
room and halted before the sofa, hoping she just wanted to kiss me
goodnight.

She didn't.

Reaching out a hand, she touched my hair, flicking it back from my face
several times. It wasn't a caress; there was something dismissive --
almost contemptuous -- in the gesture. Eyes slitted in cold detachment,
she studied me with a vaguely troubled expression, as if seeing some
alien child she didn't quite recognize. An unwanted and rather
unpleasent child, perhaps.

"I'm taking you to the barber's tomorrow," she croaked, turning back
to the TV, "you're starting to look like a girl."

3.

I lay on the bed in my pajamas, watching the curtains exhaling the cool
evening air. Despite the breeze, it was too warm to sleep under the
covers; almost too warm to be wearing PJs. Our house wasn't as big as
the Old Stewart Place; the rooms were yellow, peeling sweat-boxes
straight out of an Alabama work-farm. Well, I suppose that's an
exaggeration of titanic proportions, but that's how I remember it to
this day. There were huge damp patches on the ceiling and the walls were
yellow and warping from the annual humidity. The climate was turning
sultry as the great summer heat descended; in a few weeks, a good
night's sleep would be close to impossible, even with the window open.

Still, it was early days so far, and the mercury was yet to climb past
eighty most days. I moved my legs around on the bedcover, looking for a
cool spot to put my feet. It was a wasted effort needless to say, I'd
already used up most of the available positions over the past twenty
minutes. In all honesty, however, it wasn't the heat that was keeping me
awake. Slipping my hands behind my head, I stared into the streetlit
darkness, recalling my mother's parting shot.

You're starting to look like a girl.

She wasn't the first person to say that. It was a popular taunt around
the school yard, usually accompanied by such time honored favorites as I
Know What I am But What Are You and the classic playground retort I'm
Rubber You're Glue. All the same, I seemed to get that particular insult
more often than anyone else in the fourth grade, especially since Josh
Hogan and his goons had elected me last year's scapegoat -- alienating
me from my small number of friends and making me a target for every
meathead with an ego problem (Josh Hogan had been the sixth grade's
resident demon for two years running, the sort of kid you change
continents to avoid. You'll hear more about him later in the story).

Strangely enough, Mom's sneering comment hadn't bothered me all that
much. Quite the opposite: vindictive though her tone had been, I'd felt
a brief flare of surprised pleasure -- almost exaltation -- at her words.
The implications made my head swim with feelings I couldn't put a name
to. Emotions -- strange, exotic, arousing -- began to cascade through my
mind faster than I could process them.

Was she right? Did I look like a girl?

Did I look like Chrissie?

Sliding off the bed, I turned on my bedside lamp (actually an Elmo
nite-lite) and padded across the floor, avoiding the loose boards with a
practiced tread. There was a small dressing table on the other side of
the room, a yard-sale knock down equipped with a three-quarter mirror. At
nine years old, I must have seen my reflection at least a zillion times,
but tonight, I was looking for something different. Some­one different,
perhaps. Stepping closer to the mirror, I scrutinized my face through
narrowed eyelids.

My hair was straight and thick and chestnut brown: longer than most
boys' my age, hanging down past my shoulders. The sun had bleached it a
shade lighter over the past month or so, lending it some striking blond
highlights. A little wild at the moment, but I doubted I'd be getting it
cut tomorrow. Mom's hangover would keep her in bed until midday and she
probably wouldn't leave the living room after that.

The hair framed a pudgy, heart-shaped face with dark blue eyes and small,
rose-petal lips. Like Chrissie, I'd never completely lost my baby fat.
My features were soft and round slightly infantile. A spray of freckles
across my nose completed the image of childish innocence; people often
mistook me for a six year old (another reason why I had trouble finding
friends my own age). A six year old of either sex.

You're starting to look like a girl.

Backing up three steps, I took off my clothes and stood before the
mirror, running my gaze up and down my naked body. I was more than a
little surprised by what I saw. While I wasn't precisely a girl, I
seemed to have the same supple limbs and rounded proportions. I even had
a little girl's protruding belly and dimpled bottom-cheeks. Strange I'd
never noticed it before. There was only one part of my body that wasn't
female, and that was a very small part indeed. If it wasn't for that ...

Kneeling down before the dresser, I opened the top drawer and started
sorting through the piles of shorts and socks and t-shirts, pulling out
several items and taking them over to the bed. Again, I avoided stepping
on the loose floorboards. Mom had probably passed out by now, but I
couldn't afford to take any risks. I had to keep this a secret from her,
a secret from everybody, for that matter. I couldn't have said why, I
hardly even knew what I was doing at that point. Somehow, I understood
that there couldn't be any witnesses to this particular game.

I pulled on a pair of cotton underpants; white hipster briefs with a
tight elastic waist band. They weren't exactly the same as what Chrissie
had been wearing today, but they were close enough for what I had in
mind. Turning back towards the mirror, I froze in mid-breath. With my
hair spilling over my shoulders and my panties drawn up to my belly
button, I was no longer a boy. Raising a hand to my throat, I regarded my
image in round-lipped silence. My mother had been right.

I looked just like a girl.

Sitting down on the bed, I reached for the next article of clothing.
Chrissie normally wore frilly pink ankle socks (the ones with the strip
of lace running around the top; I'd always found them unbelievably
sweet). They were an essential part of her wardrobe, as pretty in their
own way as her little satin panties. I didn't own anything even half as
cute, but a pair of white nylon school socks would serve the same
purpose. I slipped them on one foot at a time, watching myself closely
in the mirror. It was easy to picture Chrissie doing precisely the same
thing every morning before she went out.

I stood up in my socks and panties, posing in the mirror. My pulse began
to quicken; a rare, fine color invaded my cheeks. I ran my fingertips
slowly down my torso, raising hum of goose flesh over my bare tummy.
Fluttering my eyelids in gasping response, I reached down for the last
piece of my costume. It was time to finish the illusion.

I didn't have a short red sunfrock, but I did have an outsized cotton
t-shirt of the same color. I dropped it lightly over my head, allowing it
to hang loosely down to the tops of my thighs. And somehow, as it molded
itself against my girlish shape, it became a dress. Not like the one
Chrissie had been wearing today: it didn't have a bow on the back or
small yellow buttons running down the front, but it was a dress all the
same. A high-waisted scarlet shift so sheer I could almost see the ghost
of my underwear through it.

A child's imagination is a wonderful thing.

4.

I'm standing on the lawn on a glorious summer morning when the cicadas
call from tree to tree and the sky seems to go on forever. A light June
mistral whispers through leaves and branches alike, lifting my skirt with
teasing, invisible fingers. Squealing with surprise, I push down on the
blossoming fabric and lift my face towards the wind. My veins are flooded
with liquid joy, the kind of joy only a child can experience on a morning
like this.

Sweeping along in the thrill of the moment, I canter about the yard with
my head thrown back in the breeze. My long blond hair whips out behind
me, platinum curls blazing in the sun. I skip and dance across the turf
with my dress kicking up to my thighs, tracing a broad circle beneath the
trees. The world streaks by in a riot of greens and blues and lavenders,
all of the colors of summer thrown together in a single glance.

Raising my hands over my head, I launch into a long, spiraling cartwheel.
Gravity snatches at my dress, and a moment later, my pretty white panties
are staring at the sky. I scream an embarrassed protest as the skirt
falls over my face, cutting off my view, but I know my pants are still on
full exposure. I can feel the breeze flittering over my bare tummy. I
splay my legs apart and tilt my center of balance. The dress slips down a
few inches, disclosing more of my pale midriff.

I complete the cartwheel and immediately sweep into another, star-rolling
across the lawn with my hemline flipping topsy-turvy. My hands and feet
scarcely touch the ground; it's as if I'm soaring through the endless
blue skies. The ground rushes up at terminal velocity then plummets away,
over and over again.

I finish the performance with a handstand, holding position for maybe ten
seconds. The dress instantly flutters inside out, dropping over my waist
and torso. Handstands are even better than cartwheels; you get to show so
much more. I arch my spine and wriggle my bottom slightly, allowing the
frock to peel away from my body, inverting all the way down to my
shoulders. Warm, fluid delight bubbles through my bloodstream as I
imagine how I must look. And for one breathtaking moment, I can actually
see myself: a petite little girl suspended upside-down with her long,
sleek legs waving in the air. My dress pools on the grass in a soft red
heap, covering my head and arms; pristine white panties flash in the
bright June sunshine. The image fills my heart with unvoiced laughter.

Dropping lightly to my feet, I glance around the yard, grinning from
cheek to cheek. A high, fine color darkens my features. It was time for
the spinning game.

Drawing in a deep breath, I pirouette on my right foot like a ballet
dancer: like Chrissie on the very first day I met her. My skirt begins to
balloon around my hips, rising slowly up my thighs. The thrill of showing
off my panties is utterly irresistible. They're so pretty; so dainty and
girlish. The hem inches up by tantalizing degrees: a hint of gusset, a
dash of lace, a delicate satin frill. A mischievous zephyr whickers over
lawn, sweeping irresistibly up my legs. The dress billows above my waist,
revealing everything in a flash of white satin.

I cyclone across the grass in a crimson blur, spinning so fast that my
skirt threatens to fly away completely. I'm giggling with delicious,
girlish rapture: my panties are on display to the entire world, and I've
never felt so unashamedly NAUGHTY in my life. A vast surge of pleasure
overwhelms my nervous system; it strikes me like a bolt of summer
lightning. I swirl the dress ever faster, ever higher, until the hemline
is standing out at right angles from my body, an undulating scarlet disk
flying level with my ribcage.

Then suddenly, it's over.

I'm stretched out amongst the dandelions, watching the vast, lazy clouds
circling overhead. I seem to be floating inches above the ground; gliding
away without actually moving. It's a strange, dreamlike sensation, one
I've felt before but had almost forgotten over the years. And I feel
something else too, something I've never known before. It courses
through my body like waves of electric fire, making my nerve-endings buzz
and jangle. Parting my lips in wordless bliss, I inhale a draught of
sweet morning air, listening to the frantic beating of my heart.

Far away, like a voice in a distant memory, I hear my Mother calling my
name ...

5.

I opened my eyes, staring up at the blistered yellow ceiling. My body was
still humming with that strange tingly feeling. My entire nervous system
lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve. It seemed to pulse and flow
like a static charge. The images were still tumbling through my mind's
eye: memories and fantasies and scenes that never happened and yet
somehow felt completely real. Real enough to make my heart thunder like a
steam locomotive, real enough to dilate my pupils and darken my
complexion several shades.

I was lying on the bed with my t-shirt thrown up to my midriff, casually
exposing my white cotton briefs. The room was still a little on the warm
side, but I was covered with a thin film of sweat, cool and moist in the
evening breeze. I barely noticed the humidity anyway. Something had
happened to me, some change had occurred -- and, once again, I hadn't
seen it coming. For a few minutes I'd become someone else. No -- that
wasn't right. I hadn't become someone else.

I'd become my real self.

I got off the bed and walked over to the mirror, unconsciously adjusting
my t-shirt to a more modest position. Even now, it looked more like a
girl's shift than anything else. I leaned in to study my reflection once
more, knowing that what I was thinking was impossible. Such things only
happened in the realm of Long Ago and Ever After, and I hadn't put much
stock in fairy tales since my seventh birthday. It was silly, really --
crazy, in fact -- but I honestly couldn't help myself. I had to see.

Needless to say, there was no change whatsoever. For a second I thought
maybe my face was a little fuller than I recalled, but that was just my
imagination. And while a child's imagination was a wonderful thing, it
had its limitations. It could turn a t-shirt into a sundress, but it
couldn't change a boy into a girl. Even at nine, I understood that
wishful thinking didn't get you anywhere. Look at how my parent's
marriage had turned out. Placing a hand on the top of the dresser, I bent
forward in to study my features at extreme close up --

And froze.

There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy, slumping footsteps; the
sound of a drunken woman hauling herself along the bannister. It was Mom!
She was awake. I stood bolt upright, staring at the door. Had I woken her
up, cartwheeling across the floor like a lunatic? Was she coming up to
investigate? Leaving my face in the mirror, I padded back to bed, pulling
the t-shirt over my head. I couldn't let her catch me wearing it, she'd
know I was playing around when I should have been asleep.

I flung the t-shirt aside and all but dived under the covers. I was
frightened. Mom had a mean temper this time of night, but that wasn't
the extent of my fears. Illogical though it was, I was sure she'd work
out what I was doing. And if that happened, she might make (what I
imagined was) the obvious connection; that this was all somehow tied in
to the girl next door. She'd be absolutely furious, banning Chrissie
from our home and forbidding me to see her.

And that simply could not happen.

The footsteps approached my bedroom door. Reaching over the side of the
bed, I flicked off the nite-lite and snuggled down against the pillow,
forcing my breathing to slow to a snail's pace. Then she's standing in
the hallway right outside, I can almost feel her hesitating by the door,
looking down at the knob. I lie in knife-edged silence, waiting for it to
turn ...

Five seconds pass. Ten.

I heard her footsteps receding down the hall towards her bedroom.
Returning my gaze to the ceiling, I remembered to breath, realizing for
the first time that I was trembling under the sheets. It took me several
minutes to relax completely; for some reason, I'd been close to all-out
panic. I ran my fingers through my hair in a calming gesture, unable to
explain my near-terror. Mom had a mouth that could gut a fish, but even
in her worst moments, she'd never done anything to really hurt me.

A sort of midnight quiet began to descend over the house, broken only by
the odd rustle and creak of settling foundations. I wanted to get out of
bed and play the spinning game again, but eventually decided not to risk
fate twice in the one evening. Pushing the covers to the bottom of the
bed, I found one of the few remaining cold spots on the mattress and made
myself comfortable.

I looked towards the darkened window, remembering how it had felt,
twirling across the yard with my dress soaring over my tummy-button. I
could recall everything: the glaring of the sun through the leaves, the
roaring of the trees overhead. The scent of freshly trimmed grass, the
rush of the wind through my outstretched fingers. The gentle waving of
the dandelions as I drift off to the place where dreams are born . . .

Dozing lightly on the lawn, I heard my Mother calling from the veranda.

Her name is Eve.


Let me know if you'd like to read more.


kristyleigh2001@hotmail.com