“Oh my god,” groaned Catherine. “I don’t even have a locker. There’s no locker number 450!”
“Relax,” I said calmly as I pointed across the hall. “It’s right over there.”
She jerked her head, and with a muttered thanks crossed the hall to dump out her backpack. It was the first day of middle school, and the hallway was full of students who were wandering in a daze, or freaking out like Catherine was.
Not me, of course. After all, this was the second ‘first day’ of middle school I ever had. My main concern was trying not to stand out. I had been observing Catherine and the rest of my friends all summer, making sure I could copy their behaviors. I had to make sure I blended in, no matter how uncomfortable it made me. I had to remind myself it was only uncomfortable to me, since everyone expected a girl to act like a girl. I had to play the role.
No, not a role, I scolded myself. It’s who I am now.
Catherine came back, another crisis in tow. “I don’t remember where my first class is supposed to be! I don’t know where anything is here!” she cried.
I touched her arm. “What class is it?”
“Science.”
The science classrooms were across from the library, if memory served. But I couldn’t seem too confident since Catherine wasn’t. Besides, Catherine always hated it when Matthew acted like a know-it-all.
“I think I saw the science rooms in the other hall,” I assured her. “I’m going that direction, so if you follow me we can find it together.”
Catherine nodded furtively, relieved for the moment. I took a deep breath right along with her.
“Can we follow you, too?”
I turned, seeing two other girls, helplessly hugging their folders to their chest. They also looked close to tears.
“Of course you can,” I told them, and together we navigated the chaos of the hallway. I dropped them off at their classroom, and made a beeline for my own. I didn’t recognize any of the kids in my class, but I did sit near a trio of girls with frizzy blond side-ponytails. The tallest one spied me out right away with a dismissive twist of the mouth.
“You must be new,” she said with a hint of acid in her voice.
I shrugged. “Everyone’s new today. My name’s Maya, what’s yours?”
The girl glanced at her friends with a sardonic smirk before turning back to me. “Didn’t you do your hair today? You’re not even wearing a Scrunchie!” Her two friends laughed.
Ah, I see how it is, I thought to myself. When I settled on my style this summer, I distinctly avoided bangs, perms, and especially Scrunchies. I may be living in the 90s, but it didn’t mean I had to settle for the kitschy look of the day. I went for a more conservative look of a hairband to hold my hair behind my ears. No frizzes to be found. But I didn’t need to justify myself to a gaggle of mean girls.
“Scrunchies aren’t really my thing. Kind of an elementary school thing, you know? They look good on you, though.”
Without another word, I turned my back to them and sat in my seat.
Middle school was about as plodding as elementary school was, and as usual my mind drifted off to other things as I effortlessly completed the classroom tasks. It gave me a lot of time to think about more interesting developments, like George Soros single-handedly devaluing the British pound which was all over the financial news. It was one of those current events that I corroborated with what I wrote in the Butterfly Manifesto, and it was fascinating watching it play out in real time.
Of course, I couldn’t lose myself in economic news during the most uncomfortable period of the day: gym class. Being in a girls’ locker room was inevitable, so I steeled myself as best I could. Once again I emulated what Catherine and everyone else did: face the locker, eyes forward, and change as quickly as possible. I had to remind myself that everyone was self-conscious, and just treat it like business as usual.
They say that the days are long when you’re young, but it didn’t feel that way to me. Within weeks there were no more fires to put out for my friends and school became routine. As for myself, there was a point where I forgot to check if I was matching Catherine’s behavior, and gradually it all became instinct. I also found if I didn’t dwell on the silliness I felt, being a girl came spontaneously to me. I was less tense, especially around other girls. My mannerisms and speech began to soften, and by the time Thanksgiving arrived I realized how subtly I had changed.
What’s more, it just felt natural. Simpler.
Since school-life was mostly locked in, I was able to continue following world events and update the Butterfly Manifesto as I went along. Clinton’s presidential victory was of particular note, but what was truly interesting to me was the quiet economic growth that no one seemed to notice. The Bush era was infamous for its unemployment levels, but despite public perception that the country was still in a recession, the GDP was climbing steadily. This was a prime era to invest, but it stung that I was completely without the means to do so.
I could predict market trends, but I couldn’t even open a savings account.
I tried squirreling away what meager cash I could, but the allowance of an eleven-year-old was trifling at best. Even cards and gifts I got around Christmas barely made a difference. I was too young to get a part-time job, and I refused to resort to stealing. The window to invest was still wide, but if I was going to implement anything I wrote in the Butterfly Manifesto, I needed to figure out something soon.
When March arrived, a solution presented itself.
Mom and I were downtown for my mandatory monthly physical. Researchers had been tracking my progress methodically trying to figure out exactly how I spontaneously changed genders. I’m sure they had many hypotheses, but I doubted anything about my biology would be able to explain anything. I considered demanding if I should be getting compensated for wasting an afternoon in an examination room every month, since I was clearly healthy. I wouldn’t mind being a guinea pig if it meant earning starting capital.
Like most of my visits, I sat while they took various samples, recorded my weight and proportions, and checked my physical health. Mom sat next to me in the examination room with a magazine while the nurse used the measuring tape on me. I stood still while she took the measurements of my torso, but when she reached for the pen and clipboard her elbow brushed against my chest, causing me to cry out in pain.
“Oh, I am so sorry, my dear,” she apologized. “I hope I didn’t bump you too hard.”
I gripped my chest, wincing. “It’s fine. You didn’t hit me hard, it’s just been really tender lately.”
While the nurse made a quick note on her clipboard, I saw Mom looking at me sternly and appraisingly. I never liked when she had that look in her eye.
“We’re going to stop by Dayton’s on the way home, I think,” informed Mom as we walked out of the clinic and to the car.
“Okay,” I replied. “Are we going to look at clothes or something?”
“Mm hmm,” murmured Mom. “I think it’s time to look at training bras.”
I groaned. “I don’t need one of those! I don’t even have boobs!”
“Not yet,” she replied, not noticing me flinch, “but that’s not what they are for. Today wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed how sensitive your breasts are.”
“Ugh, don’t say breasts…”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Maya. A training bra can give some much needed protection, and if you’re anything like me you’re going to need it.”
I huffed again, having once again no choice in the matter. Granted, I had been having issues with my chest for a while. The slightest touch could be excruciating. But growing breasts wasn’t something that I was prepared for yet, nor something I wanted to acknowledge would happen to me. I did take note of Mom’s generous bust size; if she was any metric, I was in for trouble. I was definitely not ready yet.
The two of us entered the girls’ section of the store, and into the brassiere section. While I was fine with the girls’ clothing section, this section was a bit too frilly for me. Mom knew my chest size, and quickly was able to locate an appropriate bra for me that had ample padding. It fit just fine, but I still felt embarrassed trying it on.
Once we selected a handful of the bras, we poked through the racks seeing if there was anything that caught our eye. As we did so, a well-dressed woman approached us. “Annette? Annette Peterson?” she asked tentatively.
Mom looked up from a shelf of leggings. “Yes, that’s my – wait, Marie!? Marie Thompson?”
The two women laughed and immediately hugged. “I thought that was you! Oh my god, how long has it been?”
“Ten years at least. College seems like centuries ago. How have you been, Marie? You look wonderful!”
“Oh, I am wonderful.” Her eyes fell on me and she pursed her red lips. “And who is this lovely young lady with you?”
“This is my daughter, Maya. We’re just doing a bit of shopping today.”
Marie had a quizzical look on her face. “I might be mixed up, because I swear you had a baby boy the last time we saw each other.”
“No no, that was Maya,” Mom pivoted coolly. I kept a tight, if not awkward smile.
Marie chuckled softly. “Well, it really has been too long if I can’t even remember that much. What are you doing now? We have to catch up. There’s an amazing restaurant upstairs and it is my treat. I will not take no for an answer!”
Mom quickly agreed, and I was dragged along with the two old friends as we sat around the table of the aforementioned restaurant. While they caught up with each other’s lives I sat pliantly with my hands in my lap, listening to their conversation. It turned out that Marie was a marketing executive for Dayton’s, which happened to be one of the larger retail chains at the time. She oversaw the publishing of the seasonal catalog, and by all accounts was one of the movers for the brand.
Marie kept glancing at me as they conversed. “I can’t get over how lovely your daughter looks, Annette. She has such a…striking poise. Has anyone ever told you this?”
I turned my eyes to her. Poise? I thought. I just didn’t slouch, like girls are supposed to. At least that’s what I assumed.
“Well, she is quite a young lady,” Mom said.
Marie appraised me, stroking her chin. “And such focus too – she has your eyes, Annette.”
It was odd getting complimented so openly. I knew I was pretty, but I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Well, except for moisturizing. I read somewhere it prevented pimples, so I had written it down in the Butterfly Manifesto and applied it every day.
Marie turned to Mom. “I have to tell you, and please don’t think I am crazy, but have you two considered modeling?”
“Oh, Marie, I don’t know about any of that.”
“I only ask because we’re always on the look out for a variety of children for the catalog. In fact, we’re a bit short for our summer issue. I really think that Maya has that…that presence. If you were interested, I could at least give you an audition slot. We’re having one next weekend.”
“Well,” murmured Mom as she twisted her mouth thoughtfully, “It would have to be Maya’s call. What do you think, dear?”
I smirked. “How much does it pay?”