Chapter 11: 11. A Whole New World of Girl

Friday can't come soon enough. I while away the rest of the week counting down to the weekend, and my first social appointment as a girl. I think my excitement must be noticeable; even Tom, usually so self-absorbed, comments on it during Friday morning's form. "You seem in a really good mood today, Harry," he says. "Are you alright?"

"It's the weekend." I'm not about to try and explain to Tom that I'm a girl, and that I'm excited to spend time with my newfound friends.

He raises an incredulous eyebrow. "There's one of those every week," he says. "You don't usually get all bubbly about it."

"Bubbly?"

"You know. Excited."

"Yeah, well, I'm still on summer time. School is draining me."

This seems to ring more true for Tom. "I feel you, brother," he says, with a lazy-eyed grin.

I'm not bothered by him calling me 'brother'. He doesn't mean any harm by it, doesn't know any better. At least he's still talking to me.

Mum's been silent since my Wednesday confession. We had only stilted conversation on the drive home, and since then she's not uttered a word to me. Not so much as a hello. The last two mornings she's found excuses to be out of the kitchen until I've finished my breakfast. Yesterday she spent three quarters of an hour folding clothes in the laundry room. Beth, later, informed me that there was nothing but a couple of t-shirts in the laundry room--and they were already folded.

I suppose avoidance is better than outright hostility, but it feels awfully isolating. Beth invited me to sit in her bedroom last night to watch crap on TV. We talked about nothing important, least of all Mum, but the companionship and empty chatter helped a lot. Tonight, I'm meeting up with Jessie after school and going straight to hers. After the last lesson of the day—French with Monsieur Smythe-Ffoulkes, quelle horreur—I wait awkwardly in the main foyer. I count at least a hundred kids who mill past me and out before, at last, I see Jessie approaching. Despite myself, a broad smile forces itself onto my face. You'd think it had been months since I saw her last, not the slightly-over-an-hour since lunch.

Jessie returns the smile. That makes my heart leap.

"Sorry," she says, as she breaks off from the stream of kids on their way home to join me. "Got kept late in Geography. Miss Jackson had a bug up her arse about homework, or the lack thereof."

"I didn't know you'd had homework already." Most teachers could never be bothered in the first week of term.

Jessie laughs. "At least half the class thought the same as you," she says. "Sadly, that was the problem."

"Did you do the homework?"

"Always," says Jessie, putting on an air of mock-offence. "And I'm scandalised that you would think anything different."

*

The walk to Jessie's place isn't a long one, but it does feel weird fighting against my muscle-memory when the route diverges from the one I've taken to get home every day for the past five years. She lives in a house in Gold Umbel Park, one of the more gentrified parts of town; it's the sort of neighbourhood where even the cheapest houses have about five bedrooms. Jessie's has six, including one in a separate annexe where she can make as much noise as she wants without the risk of her parents hearing. "I promise you I'm not a spoiled toff," she says, as I gape open-mouthed at the property. "Dad got a lucky draw on the Euromillions. He used to work as a doctor, so he'd already paid off the mortgage on a house, and there was really nothing else for him to spend the money on."

I'm distracted by a fountain, a statue of a cherubim spewing water into the sky, and only make a vague grunt.

"Come on," says Jessie. "My room's this way." She grabs my hand and leads me into the annexe; it's really just a bungalow that happens to be on the same property as the larger house. You could probably live comfortably in the annexe alone, but without the rest of the package it wouldn't be luxury. Still nice, though. Still way nicer than anything I've ever seen before. Her bedroom is at the end of a lavishly-carpeted hallway that runs the length of the bungalow. After a brief detour into a small but fully-decked-out kitchenette to grab two cans of Coke, Jessie opens the door and leads me inside.

"So, uh, what happens now?" I stand awkwardly in Jessie's bedroom, a bower of pinks and whites that looks to have been plucked straight from a kiddie princess book. "I've never done this before."

Jessie gasps. "I forgot you've never had a girls' night."

"I've never had any sort of night," I say. "The boy I pretended to be was terrible at making friends."

"You're telling me you've never been to a friend's house before?" When I nod a confirmation, Jessie shakes her head. "Then let's make this the best damn weekend of your life. Tonight, we'll probably just order in a pizza and chat while we eat. I do have some chick flicks on DVD--have you ever seen The Lakehouse?"

"That thing with Sandra Bullock?"

"The very same. Hannah, you are going to love it. And tomorrow we'll hit the shops. It's time you had some cute clothes to match your cute face."

"My face isn't cute," I tell her.

"It could be." Jessie squints. "A little bit of make-up and you'll be pretty as anyone."

I laugh. "It'll take more than a little bit of make-up to make me not look like a manly mess."

"I've told you before, Hannah, you don't look manly. Like, at all. You just can't see it, because of the dysphoria."

*

We watch The Lakehouse. It's good. Sad. I think I'd have enjoyed it just as much if it was the world's crappest film. Just the fact that I'm watching it with Jessie is enough. To her, I'm Hannah, even if I don't look like Hannah—and despite what Jessie says, I know that I don't look like Hannah, especially not in my scruffy boys' uniform. The aspect of the night I treasure most is this newfound kinship, this sense of sisterhood and belonging. I never felt so at ease in my time as a boy. That's a big part of the reason why I never really made friends. Here, now, I don't have to hide a chunk of myself. I don't have to conform to some perceived ideals of masculinity. I can just be me, freely. The film and the pizza are just icing on the cake, really.

When the film is over and the pizza is gone, Jessie and I talk about... well, nothing, really. It's all empty conversation about things which, in the long run, mean nothing, they're just fun to talk about. Which actors we find hot. Which bands we like. We come to the conclusion that all the hot actors seem to be women; neither of us can think of a man who we find anything more than 'cute'. I figure that's because women are fucking awesome and I'm so so glad I get to be one. Eventually, the conversation peters out, and we drift off to sleep. Jessie's mum—a dumpy woman with dirty-blonde hair piled into a messy bun on the top of her head—pushes a camp-bed into the room at about seven o'clock, chastising Jessie for forgetting to do so earlier. "Sleep well, girls," she says. And I know I will now. Because I'm girls.

I barely even have time to get comfortable before I'm out.

*

"Wake up, sleepy!" I open bleary eyes to see Jessie standing over me. She's already up and dressed, and I blink for a moment. Jessie looks different. It takes me a second to realise that she's wearing make-up today; school rules prohibit make-up, and it occurs to me only now that I've never seen Jessie away from school before this weekend.

"What time is it?" I groan.

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"Time you were up. Come on. Shops open in twenty minutes."

One of the biggest lessons I learn today is that Jessie is better at chivvying me along in the morning than Mum is. I feel for her future kids. They won't stand a chance at grabbing an extra two minutes' rest while they put on their socks. It takes her less than twenty minutes to get me dressed and in her Mum's car, with nothing but a banana for my breakfast. It's clear that this girl has a plan for the day, and she's not about to let my lazy ass put a crimp in it.

Her Mum drops us off in a pull-in across from the town hall, rather than going all the way into the multi-storey and having to pay for an hour's parking. It means we have a few minutes' walk to get to the shops. That gives me time to find out what, exactly, Jessie's planning.

"We're getting you kitted out," she says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Every girl needs at least one dress."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for a dress," I say.

"Stick with me," Jessie says. "You'll be fine. I have excellent taste in clothes." I consider trying to explain to her that it's not her taste in clothes that I'm doubting; I'm just really not feeling like I'm ready to go full-force into feminine fashion just yet, especially not in public. Instead, I say nothing. An insipid part of my brain thinks that saying no to a dress might make Jessie think I'm not really a girl at all.

Jessie, who is clearly experienced with navigating the shops, goes directly for the Next store, and upstairs to the second floor, without even pausing to make sure I'm still behind her. I am, of course. I shadow her tightly.

She leads me to a rack of summer dresses in assorted shades of pastel. A pair of young women, about Beth's age from the look of them, are already at the rack when we get there. They glance at us, and I wonder if they're judging me for an imposter. But after a quick glance they return their attentions to the rack.

By then, Jessie is already working through the dresses. "This cut would look delightful on you," she says. "And the way it sits on the hips might even give you a figure. What colour, though? Would yellow suit you, maybe?"

I've lived my life in greys and blacks and generally not liking what I wear. I don't know what colours suit me.

Jessie takes one of the yellow dresses and holds it against me. She pulls a face. "Not sure about yellow," she says. "Perhaps a green?"

This goes on for some time, Jessie going through all the options while I wait for the hammer to fall and someone to accuse me of malign intentions for being a boy, browsing women's clothes. That never happens, though. If anything, the few women we actually interact with are kind. A saleswoman who, having asked Jessie if she needed help, was told that Jessie was looking for a dress for "her girlfriend" (she pointed at me when she said that) didn't so much as bat an eyelid, instead agreeing that "Jessie's girlfriend" would look fabulous in the green.

So that's what Jessie went for. She grabbed a dress, then, heading via the lingerie section to pick up a five-pack of pants and a bra, proceeded to the till to pay.

 "You told the saleswoman I was your girlfriend," I say, as we leave Next.

"Would you rather I'd said you were my boyfriend?" Jessie quips.

"No. Obviously not. But... we're not..."

"Platonic girlfriend," Jessie says hurriedly. "A girl who is my friend. Come on, Hannah, time's a-wasting."

She drags me down the street at a pace I can barely match, like an apex predator that's just caught sight of her prey in the tall grass. I follow without protest. I'm just enjoying being in her company.

I do voice a protest when I see where Jessie's taking me. The women's room—if the stick figure in a triangular skirt wasn't enough, the sign beneath it with "LADIES" written on it was. "I can't go in there," I tell her.

"You're a woman, aren't you?"

"Yes, but..." I gesture at, well, everything. "Have you seen me? We'll cause a scene."

"You have every right to use the women's room, Hannah. Don't be hard on yourself."

"I'm not being hard on myself," I tell Jessie. "It's just... I know I'm a girl, you know I'm a girl, but most people don't see 'girl' when they look at me. They'll think there's a boy in the ladies' toilets, and they'll cause a scene. What if I get kicked out of the loos? What if I get arrested? Mum'll hate me more than she already does."

Jessie pushes open the door and pokes her head in. "There's nobody in there," she says, "so you'll be fine. And we can hide in a cubicle while you get dressed."

"I'm not sure—"

Jessie pulls me in before I have a chance to finish my protest. To my surprise, the women's toilets aren't really all that different from the men's toilets I'm familiar with. There's an extra row of cubicles where the urinals would have been, and a wicker basket of sanitary products between each of the sinks, and otherwise the two rooms are the same. That makes me feel better. Once I'm safely ensconced in a locked cubicle, the carrier bag containing my new dress and shoes at my feet, I feel even better still.

"I'll be waiting here while you get changed," Jessie says, from outside the cubicle.

I start removing items from the bag and putting them on. The pants are easy for me to understand; they may be cut differently to the boxer shorts are used to, of a softer material and in a cuter colour, but they go on the same way. But the bra is more of a challenge. It doesn't help that, at least briefly, I feel like a perv holding a bra. Then I snap myself out of it—the bra is mine, I have every right to wear it—and start trying to figure out how it goes on. And let me tell you, there should be an instruction manual included in the packaging. It takes me several tries to even get it to sit evenly around my chest, and that doesn't cover doing it up. Jessie ends up asking me if I'm doing okay, after I've spent five minutes or more wrestling with this forsaken thing. When I tell her the cause of my travails, she giggles. "Do it up with the eyes at the front," she says, "then wriggle it round afterwards."

That does the trick. Once the bra is on, I unfold the dress, taking a second to fully bask in its glory. It's a pale green piece, cinched a bit at the waist, with scalloping around the hems and a long zip running down the back. I undo the zip fully, then step into the dress. It feels so soft I could almost cry. I want to wear clothes like this all the time. Comfy, cute, all the boxes checked in one go. What else could a girl want from her clothes? I adjust the sleeves so that they sit smoothly over the straps of my bra, then reach for the zip.

I can't reach. My hands just won't bend that way, not if I want to be able to actually grip the zip to pull it up. "Jessie," I call. "How do I do this up?"

"You have a friend," she says. "Just one reason why a girl should never go to the bathroom alone. Come on: I'll zip you up. There's nobody here, Hannah, you're fine."

Reluctantly, conscious still of my too-short hair and masculine face, I undo the cubicle and step out. At once, I feel like an imposter again. My eyes dart around the room, and settle on the door to the bathroom. It's shut. At any second, it feels, it might open up, and my world might come crashing down around me.

"This fits you well," Jessie muses, fiddling with the zip. "I picked the right size."

"You did," I agree.

Then I hear a noise. The door, slowly swinging open. My heart freezes.

And somebody walks in.