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Our new neighbors, the Kellers, seemed okay. They had a son, Phil, a grade behind me, and a daughter, Monica, in my grade. I guess my parents had met them during one of their trips up to our new town, when they were buying the house. They hit it off with Phil & Monica's parents, which may have been why they chose this house instead of the larger one they found in a different part of town. We moved cities and houses on a Monday, unpacked (more or less) on a Tuesday, and we were supposed to go over to the Kellers' place for a backyard cookout Wednesday night. School started the following week. I wasn't thrilled about starting a new high school for my senior year, leaving behind more than 10 years worth of friends and frenemies who, while sometimes drove me crazy, at least were familiar. Couldn't be helped. Dad had a new job that he couldn't pass up, and Mom loved this town. Sometimes we came here for long weekends. Mini- vacations. When we arrived at the Keller residence, my younger sister Lauren gravitated straight to Phil. He was a year older than her, good looking. Surfer and skater. My younger brother Hal wanted to play with their dog. Monica struck me off the bat as a little odd. Kind of fascinating. I wanted to pump her for information about the high school I was about to attend, but it took a while to get to that. For one thing, it was like 90 degrees outside. Everyone else was wearing shorts and T-shirts or tank tops. My stupid sister was wearing a skirt far too short. But Monica was wearing a brown boiler suit, like she was some kind of factory worker, and work boots. Her head was shaved on the sides and her black hair, probably dyed, was short on top. She wore black lipstick. We said, "Hi," introduced ourselves, and she excused herself to her room. "Mind if I come?" I asked. "Suit yourself," she said. She sat on her bed and I sat on her desk chair. "Don't want to go outside?" I asked. "It's kind of hot as hell," she said. "Might be better if you didn't dress up like a factory worker," I said. She shrugged. "This is how I dress. Every day." "Like Steve Jobs? Makes things easy." "Sure, that's it," she said. We sat in silence, uncomfortably, for a minute, and I tried more small talk. "Looking forward to school?" "Not at all," she said. "Yeah? Why not?" "Rather not talk about it." "New school for me, you know. It could be cool if you gave me an idea of what to expect." "Huh," she said. "Okay. In the most general terms... mind your own business. Don't look people in the eye until you get to know them pretty well, make sure they aren't bad news." "Sounds like an odd social scene." "Definitely odd. More like broken." I went outside to get some chips and join my brother in throwing a ball with the dog. "Monica. What an odd duck," I thought. She was probably pretty. I thought about what she might look like without the severe haircut. What she might look like if she took under all that clothing. She seemed slim. Hard to tell though. She came out to the patio for a burger, then disappeared again. I asked Phil what her deal was. "She just kind of fell in with an odd crowd," he said. "She wasn't always like this - antisocial. She used to be pretty outgoing. We used to surf together. She was on swim team. She was good." "So, what, just general teenage angst shit?" "Uhhh, not exactly. She just became friends with someone who changed her priorities around, I guess you might say." Sounded like normal teenage shit to me, but I just smiled, nodded, ate a burger, threw a Frisbee, went home happy. Monica came out of her room only to say goodbye, and only because her mother seemed to have insisted, visiting her room privately right before the rest of us left. I had a dream about Monica that night. I dream where I was grabbing and grasping and pinching her, and she laughed all the while, though I never managed to hold onto anything but the folds of her clothes. I hadn't yet seen her laugh in real life. I woke up and couldn't stop thinking about my dream, about Monica. I was starting to get obsessed. I wandered around town on my bike, just checking the scene out, getting the lay of the land. I tried again to be social with Monica on Friday. Around 11 a.m. I knocked on their door and asked if she was around. Her mom invited me in and said she'd fetch her. I looked around the room at some old photos, hanging on the walls. Looked like Monica's natural hair color was a light brown. I focused on a seemingly recent pic where Monica was wearing a flirty blue sundress, sitting cross-legged in a field of wildflowers. She wore a white headband. Her eyes were warm, absent that permanently scolding, disgruntled look. She was smiling. "What are you doing here?" Monica asked me. I turned around. She hadn't even come all the way down the stairs, just far enough that she could see me in the entryway. "I thought we might hang out if you're not busy." She was dressed exactly as she was the night I had met her, albeit in faded blue coveralls rather than brown. "Why would you want to do that?" "Why wouldn't I?" "Do you always answer a question with a question?" "Is there any reason I shouldn't?" She looked like she was on the verge of a smile. She turned away. "It's probably better if we don't. But if you feel like coming upstairs, I won't stop you." She turned around and trudged back up. I followed quick as I could, got within an arm's reach of that little butt that was bouncing back and forth. We listened to music for a little while, just the local '80s station, without saying much. "What were you doing before I got here?" "Writing in my journal," she said. "It's kind of the only way I can keep my sanity." "Can I see what you've written?" "No way," she said. "Why are you so pushy? Why are you here?" "I don't know," I said. "Actually, I do know. I'm lonely and bored and you are really unusual, which makes me want to figure you out. And, you know. You're cute." "This is cute?" she asked, hooking her thumbs into the front pockets of her boiler suit and pushing forward. "Sure." "That's funny. I used to feel like I was pretty cute." "And what happened?" She got this soft, far-off look in her eyes for a moment, but her gaze quickly turned into a scowl again. "Life happened. Change the subject." Monica turned up the radio. She leaned back onto her bed, head on pillow, hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. She kicked her boots off and let them fall to the floor. Her socks were grey. "Did you have any plans to day?" I asked. "I hope I'm not keeping you from anything." "I need to shave the sides of my head today. Every other day. Keep it nice and fuzzy." "Ever thought about letting it grow out again?" "Nope. I mean, I'd like to, but... never mind." "Why don't you?" She sat up. "You think I like keeping my hair like this? I don't." "Then why--" "Drop it," she said. "Fine." She laid back into her relaxed position and I sat at the foot of her bed, just looking at her. Her black lips. So weird. I really, really wanted to kiss them. But I just chilled and stared and listened to '80s music and the interstitial advertisements for mostly local businesses. After about an hour, she finally opened her eyes. "Excuse me. Need to use the bathroom." When I heard the door of the bathroom close, I started snooping. Quietly as I could, I opened her closet. I counted seven pairs of similar jumpsuits, hanging, and three more pairs of work boots. Shoved to the back of the closet were shoes closer to what typical teens would wear - cute, sparkly things, ankle boots, Mary Janes, sandals. Even further back were dresses, skirts, blouses. I closed the closet and was about to check her dresser, but I heard footsteps. I went back to the bed. Yes, I felt like a creep but I was trying to figure this girl out. And I was a teenaged boy. Restraint was not my top quality. Her mom came into the room. "You two having fun? Oh, where's Monica?" "She excused herself." "Oh. How does she seem." "Surly? Fine?" "That's about how it goes with her these days. I was hoping a cute boy moving in next door might shake her out of it, but I suppose that was too much to hope for." When Monica came back to her room the sides of her head were freshly shaved. "Hey, you accomplished your goal for the day. Good job," I said. "Fuck off," she said, but in a kind of good-natured way, and took her position back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. "Now what?" "Staring at the ceiling," she said. "Maybe if you leave I'll read a book. I don't know." Just then, both a ring and a buzzing sound came from Monica's chest. She sat up like a shot and pulled a cell phone out of her left chest pocket. "Hello?" she said. "Yes, hi. No, I'm not doing anything. Of course I can meet you. Probably half an hour? I don't have a car today. I'll have to walk or take the bus. Yes, I shaved it just a couple minutes ago. Right. Yes, I've worn them every day. Of course. Right, see you soon." Monica hung up and put the phone back in her pocket. She started getting her big work boots back on. "I need to go. Sorry. Thanks for hanging out. Sorry if it wasn't, you know, that exciting." "It was fine. Where are you going?" "Meeting someone." "Who?" She paused from tying her boot. "Probably better you don't ask too much. I know that'll be a problem for you, because you seem like a very nosy boy. But really. Mind your business. We can hang again tomorrow if you want. Maybe we can even go somewhere. If you leave now, and if you stop pestering me." "Okay. It's a date." "It's not a date." Just like that, Monica whooshed down the stairs and was clomping down the street in those heavy boots, double-timing like she had a deadline. I stood in front of her house, watching the cadence of her butt shifting back and forth until she disappeared from view. Mrs. Keller came outside just as I could no longer make Monica in the distance. "Where's she going?" "Said she had to meet someone? Wouldn't tell me who." "I suppose it's that Myrna. Monica is so wrapped around Myrna's finger that she can't even bother to tell me she's leaving the house. She must've been gone for most of the summer. Great." Another element to the mystery - 'Myrna.' "What can you tell me about her? About Myrna?" "Oh, dear - I'm sorry, I think I may have said too much. Never mind. Thank you for visiting. Feel free to come by whenever, okay?" "Why don't you want to talk about Myrna?" "Peter, please go home." "But--" "Now would be best. Thank you again for keeping Monica company." Mrs. Keller scuttled back into the house and shut the door with a little more force than I am guessing she intended. I spent the rest of the day exploring and playing old video games in this pizza place I'd discovered not too far from my house. I went to bed that night still utterly confused. I wanted to learn more about Monica, about this Myrna, but nobody was talking. I didn't understand. Monica answered the door herself when I knocked Saturday mid-morning. Back in her brown suit. "Pete. Hi." She seemed close to happy. "What's up?" "Want to go get lunch?" "Yes. Yes I do," I said. We walked down to that pizza place I'd played games at before. Monica said it wasn't great food, but not very crowded, and that suited her. "What's wrong with crowds?" "I don't like being stared at." "Um, then why do you dress and put on makeup and wear your hair in a way that, you know, makes people stare?" "Can't be helped," was all she said. I dropped it. We each had a slice and a coke and played two-player Galaga for a while. I called her out on it when I saw her smile. "You smiled! I saw it." "I'm just happy to get out of the house. First time this summer. I was going a little crazy. Has nothing to do with you." "Of course not. But why now and not before? Does it have to do with your friend you met up with yesterday?" She didn't respond, but her deliberate silence told me that, yes, that had everything to do with it. Like she'd asked permission to go out? And it was granted maybe? As we were getting ready to leave, a couple of girls about our age were coming in. When one of them, a pretty, tall blonde, saw Monica, she laughed and too-loudly said to her friend, "oh my god, one of them is here." "What's she talking about?" I asked Monica. "No idea," Monica said. When we walked past their table, the other one, an athletic redhead, called to Monica. "Hey, I thought you guys only hung out with each other. Does Myrna know you're out with a boy? She'll be mad." Monica whipped around and glared. "Oh, god, it's Monica," said the blonde. I didn't recognize you at first, in your costume." "You know what makes Myrna mad?" Monica asked them. "Making fun of her girls." "Her 'girls.' You mean followers, right?" the redhead said. The girls both laughed. "You want me to tell her, Gretchen? You want me to tell her, Florence? Should I tell Myrna that you think she's a joke?" They instantly quieted down. "No, sorry," said the blonde. "Look, we weren't thinking. Please just let it go." "We'll owe you one," added the redhead. They seemed pretty serious. "Um, hi, I'm Pete. I just moved here," I said. I offered a hand to the redhead, who was the closer girl to me. She ignored me. They both did. Just kept staring at Monica. "Don't let it happen again," Monica said. We left. Walked in silence for about half a block. "Don't let them ruin your day," I said. "What was the deal anyway?" "Don't worry about it," Monica said. "You must understand how weird this is for me, right? Can you explain anything?" She stopped walking and faced me. "Sure, Pete. I'll explain this much: I do like you, so maybe, for your own sake, you should stay away from me after today. At least until you get used to school. Maybe after a few days you'll understand." "What, why two bitches making fun of you gets you so upset? Or why they feel they have to make fun in the first place? I mean, where I come from, there's more of a 'live and let live' attitude, you know?" "I'm not that upset at them. I mean, I get it. I used to be friends with them, at least the blonde, Gretchen. We were on swim team together. I used to feel the same way when I saw someone... who dressed like me, like I do now. Threatened, I guess. I gave them a chance I never got. If I told Myrna, they'd be, well... anyways. Let's go home." I tried to visit Monica on Sunday, but she blew me off. Then Monday, first day of school, came. And the weirdness just exploded to the next level. I was standing in line for class registration and I saw a mid-sized girl right in front of me in the requisite coveralls, short 'do, shaved sides. I was about to speak with her when she actually turned around for some reason, and I realized it wasn't Monica. Someone else with her exact style. I took a look around and grew even more surprised - two, three, five more girls, some plump, some skinny, some tall, some short, all with the exact same look. Same lipstick, same eyeliner. The only slight variance were the colors of the coveralls, which varied between dark blue, brown, black. I saw one wearing olive green. "Did you need something?" the girl I'd first thought to be Monica asked me. "No," I said. "Good," she replied, then turned her attention back the queue. After getting my schedule, I wandered the hall looking for my homeroom and saw a few more girls in Monica's "club." How many were there? Was it some kind of sorority? I didn't get it. They all seemed morbid and miserable. I didn't actually see Monica though. My homeroom was a comparative lit class, and the reading list was mostly stuff I hadn't read, which was unusual, since I am a big reader, and I was happy about that. It was a class of about 30. Our teacher was a slim, grey-haired woman who I guessed to be in her mid-50s. She started calling role right after the bell rang, during which another one of these Monica-types walked in. Shorter and plumper than Monica. She had fair skin and blue eyes, so I guessed her hair should've been light, but it was, of course, dyed black and shaved on the sides. She checked the seating chart and walked up to an occupied desk. "I'm supposed to be here," she said to the current occupant, who replied, "Pick another seat." This girl that who was sitting in the wrong seat was like something out of a teen movie - skinny, boobs too big for her frame, perfect makeup that must've taken forever, tight jeans, a gauzy little top, long auburn hair. "No, I would like to take my assigned seat. Thanks." The occupier turned to her and laughed. "Oh, you're one of them. Am I supposed to be scared? No, I want to sit here. Behind my friend." Her friend turned around and counseled otherwise. "Becca, just move." "The freak can move." The girl in the coveralls just shrugged and trudged to the empty seat, presumably Becca's. I listened carefully for her name at roll call. Was this the mysterious Myra? No. This one's name was Jane. She seemed less surly but equally miserable to be there as the girl in line had. I almost - almost - tried to talk to her after class, but kept my mouth shut. Monica's advice about chilling and figuring stuff out echoed in my head. Five more classes, and two more of them had representatives from Monica's little clique. On the walk home from school, I realized that (a) I hadn't bothered trying to make any friends at this new school; (b) I was no closer to figuring out what was up with my new neighbor. I walked with Lauren, of course. She'd made several friends, at least potential friends. The hemline of her skirt nearly guaranteed the boys would've been interested in cozying up to her. She blathered on about her new potential besties, if she should go out for the cheer team or the spirit team (I didn't know the difference and didn't care to find out), and other things. When I finally got a chance to speak, I asked her if anyone dressed like Monica was in any of her classes. "Funny, yeah, a girl in my social studies class. Same exact look, down to the boiler suit and the boots and bad makeup. I thought I saw a few more girls dressed like that walking around. I asked one of my new friends what the deal was, and they kind of blew the question off. I wonder what's up with those girls." "Yeah, me too." "Speak of the devil," said Lauren, who pointed ahead. Monica was half a block in front of us. We hustled and caught up with her. "How was your first day of school?" she asked. "Fine," we both replied. "I was a little surprised to see so many people with, you know, your look," Lauren said. "Do you guys like coordinate? What's the deal?" Monica shrugged. "Something like that." "Yeah, I saw at least seven girls," I added. "How many are you guys? Is it like a club? I thought you were so unique when we met." "Sorry to disappoint you," Monica said. "Oh, I didn't mean it like that," I responded. "Fine. Let's see - I think maybe a dozen now? With the girls Myrna added, minus the graduating seniors... yeah, thirteen. Pretty sure." "What's it all about?" Lauren asked. "Why, you want to join?" Monica asked. "Um, would I have to... dress like you?" "Yes, you would." "Then not really." "Then don't worry about it. I think you guys are safe talking to me, because I told Myrna I had new neighbors that I liked and she's okay with that. But, really, I would recommend avoiding anybody else you see." "That's dressed like you?" "With the whole package - outfit, eyes, lipstick. Okay? If you know what's good for you." We did, and we dropped the subject. When we got home, Lauren went inside and Monica and I stayed outside on the sidewalk bridging our houses to chat. "It's more important for her to keep her distance," Monica said in a low voice. "Do not repeat this, but a boy should be... safe. Lauren, though -- she should really mind her business." "Okay," I said. "Are you... are you in danger?" She laughed. "No. I'm fine. Worry about Lauren. About yourselves," she said. "See you tomorrow. Ton of homework on the first day. Can't believe it." I was in the same boat, and spent the rest of the day gritting my teeth about math I probably wasn't yet qualified to do. The next morning, in home room, the strangeness was kicked up to another level. Jane, the girl in Monica's clique who'd argued about her seat the prior day, arrived early and took her actual, assigned seat. I expected more fireworks when Becca came in, yet it didn't happen. Instead Becca came in seconds after Jane did. Her long, auburn hair was mostly gone, and it was no longer auburn, but dyed black. She was wearing rough blue coveralls, work boots, the whole shebang. Black lipstick. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. She trudged past her friend, who turned around. "Oh my god, Becca!" she cried out. She got out of her chair just as Becca had sat down in her assigned seat. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine," Becca said. "Leave me alone." "Yeah, leave her alone," Jane said. "I..." the girl started to respond, but held her tongue. "Okay. Sorry." The teacher ignored the whole exchange best as she was able, though it was clear she was a little shaken. Her voice cracked during the lesson several times. She never made eye contact with Jane nor Becca. When class ended, and most of the students trudged out, including the two in Monica's little club, the teacher gave an audible sigh of relief and collapsed into her desk. "Only nine more months to go, Kerry," she said aloud. "No sweat." I'm pretty sure she didn't realize I was still sitting there, lost in my own thoughts. I guess this confirmed that membership in that weird group wasn't strictly voluntary. I wondered what Monica had done to be drafted, who she'd offended enough that they'd shaved most of her head and forced her into a new dress code. And how they could enforce it? It was so weird. At lunch I happened to wander by a grassy area where it seemed the whole club was hanging out. I counted 15 girls, 14 of them dressed alike. One girl wasn't, though. She was tall and dark skinned and had long wavy hair. Very cute. She sat on a picnic bench. She wore cutoff shorts and a gauzy, colorful sleeveless shirt of some sort. Monica was sitting on her lap, silent. The caf?-au-lait-colored beauty chatted away. In fact, she seemed to be the only one talking. Was this Myrna? She turned her head and seemed to lock her eyes on me. I got the chills. I looked away, spotted Becca hunched over, picking at some lunch with one hand. She looked miserable. I looked back at the presumptive Myrna. Her gaze hadn't wavered. I folded. Turned away. I walked off, quick as I could. My sister and I saw Monica's rear end in front of us again on the walk home, but we didn't bother trying to catch up. I said I was tired, but the truth? I was afraid. The following few days I kept my head down, listened in class, did my schoolwork, and avoided eye contact, or any contact for that matter, with girls wearing coveralls. This became problematic on Friday, for the oddest reasons. It actually kicked off on Thursday, the sequence of events. Math, my last class of the day. Only one of Myrna's acolytes was in that class, a skinny, sour-looking senior named Bella. She never spoke in class, until that day, anyway. I didn't really get what was going on, but Bella, after we got our test results, was up at the teacher's desk, protesting her grade. Mrs. Chance was apologetic but unflinching. "You earned the grade you got, Miss Seger. I'm sorry, but it's in the books and I can't change it." "You don't understand. I can't graduate a semester early without an 'A'. This puts me behind. I'll have to be perfect for the rest of the semester. I. Need. To. Get. Out." Bella's face suddenly flushed red and she bit her black lip, realizing that perhaps she said something she shouldn't have. Not that she was talking back to the teacher; that she was expressing emotion at all. None of those girls seemed to do that, express anything except for a general dissatisfaction. After a minute, Bella quietly told Mrs. Chance that she'd regret it. After what happened next, I'm guessing Bella was right. On Friday, Mrs. Chance stood at the front of her class, changed. Somewhere between when I'd seen her enter the teacher's lounge before lunchtime and now, they'd gotten to her. She stood in front of the class wearing brown coveralls and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. Her long and curly hair had mostly vanished; she now wore it with the signature shaved sides, short on top that the rest of Myrna's group did. Black lipstick. Black work boots. "Shit," I murmured. "A teacher. A teacher?" I may have been the only person stupid enough to say something aloud, it was clear the rest of the class, aside from Bella, felt the same surprise. Many stares, many mouths agape. Bella acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary; her eyes were fixed to her math book. "I suppose I should say something," Mrs. Chance said. "I'll trust that you can be mature young adults, and focus not on, for example, your teacher's wardrobe or her hairstyle. This is a class, and we will all conduct ourselves appropriately." She went on to conduct a lesson, pass back tests, assign new homework, almost as if nothing were different. Except it was. She seemed diminished. Resigned. After school, I sat on a bench near the parking lot waiting for Lauren to finish cheer practice, which was running late. I saw Mrs. Chance walking to her car. I felt guilty for thinking how terrible she looked with that haircut, and how her new outfit sort of made her ass seem huge. I wondered if, despite her outward coolness, she was embarrassed on the inside. And why she couldn't take a stand and do something about it. She was an adult, after all. And wasn't she married? What would her husband think when she got home in that costume? I was explaining all of this to Lauren on our walk home a little while later. "I just don't get it - what does she do, like hypnotize people into behaving a certain way?" "I don't know, Pete. I just avoid them. Like Monica said we should. Oh, but there's this one thing that happened - one of the cheerleaders, I guess from a few years ago, came back for a visit. She seemed cool, right? One of the other girls told me that she'd quit the squad senior year because - get this - she became one of them. But today she seemed normal. Cute outfit. Long hair. Sophomore at State U. right now. So, whatever it is... it doesn't last forever." "Gah. For Mrs. Chance's sake, I hope you're right." We walked past the Kellers' house. Lauren noticed Monica standing next to their mailbox before I did. Lauren put her head down and marched quickly to our house, her little cheerleader skirt bumping up and down with the force of her footsteps. Monica ignored her. She looked at me. "Pete." "Monica." "Are you avoiding me? I feel like we haven't talked for a few days." I just shrugged. "Okay, so you are avoiding me. I'm not dumb enough to ask why... you can run on home. Maybe in a few months or whatever you'll feel better about talking to me. Feel free. I won't bite." "It's not you I'm worried about," I said. "I just think this whole cult thing is weird, and I was extra freaked out when I saw Mrs. Chance today." "Yeah, that sucked. Not my decision. I mean, nothing is my decision." "But you participated somehow?" Now she shrugged. "Not like I have a choice." I almost just walked away, went home, did the safe thing, but like a dummy I had to ask questions. "Monica - when will you have a choice again? When does it end?" "You really want details? I'm not really supposed to talk about it." "But you will?" "Sure. I mean, the general thought is that it ends when high school is over. That's how it's been for older girls, anyway. But this is anecdotal. I'm sure that she could keep it going if she wanted to. She had no trouble keeping us all in line all summer, right?" "So what does that mean for Mrs. Chance? She's never leaving high school. I mean, it's her job." "Maybe she can quit. Maybe when you-know-who finally graduates she'll relax her grip on Mrs. Chance. Who knows?" "Was she the first adult?" "No, the second. That girl Becca, in your homeroom? Her mom actually confronted us shortly after Becca joined in. The lady was obnoxious. Would not let up. Myrna tried to warn her, but finally got sick of dealing with her. Now Becca's mom pretty much only leaves the house to take her kids to school. Or when there's a special request. Like if Myrna needs money or a ride somewhere." "You mean she's... one of you too?" "Lock, stock, barrel." "Okay, look, why doesn't somebody stand up? What on earth could happen if you wore different clothes or let your hair grow? What could she possibly do to you?" "That's the hardest part to explain, Pete. I have no idea. I just don't want to. I mean, I want to. For god's sake, can you imagine wearing this fucking thing every damned day?" She put her hands into her waist pockets and tried to vanish into her coveralls. "Going to the bathroom is a colossal pain in the ass. And during that summer heat? It was torture. But, you know, Myrna says it and we do because that's just how it is. She takes priority. I'd do whatever she asked. I guess I'm lucky she doesn't make us do anything truly terrible. Because I'm pretty sure I would." "So, what, her goal is... to embarrass you?" "I can't even guess, and I won't speculate." "What do you sleep in?" "What?" "You can't tell me you - all of you - wear coveralls to bed." "I sleep in underwear or pajamas or whatever. Just like always. So long as the door is closed. I'm not supposed to let people see me without being, um, properly dressed." "Huh." "Anything else I can answer for you?" "Are you unhappy?" She actually had to think for a minute. "Making Myrna happy gives me so much joy. I know up here--" she pointed to her head, "that it's forced, false, artificial, but it's like it doesn't matter. The real me? I'm trapped. Miserable. Waiting for it to be over. But, you know, the false joy feels real, so it's tolerable." "Anyway..." she continued, "hope you're less, you know, afraid to talk to me. Having you hang around makes this suck a little less." She started walking back into her house. I admired the rear view, which made me then feel guilty again about how awful Mrs. Chance had looked in nearly the same attire. Then I thought of something. "Monica," I called. "Yeah?" I closed the gap between us. "I know you can't get undressed, but is there any rule against... me going in?" "What do you mean?" I poked my hand inside her waist pocket and fished for her underpants. "Like this. And maybe higher. Or lower." "Feels okay to me." She led me upstairs by the hand and we closed the door, even though none of her parents or siblings were home. I made her moan, several times, even though it was tricky to get down there without removing any of her clothes, strictly speaking. Luckily that zipper went pretty low. After that, she used her mouth on me. It was fantastic. I kept holding her head steady by the sides, felt that peach-fuzz of the shaved hair brush my hands. It was so pleasant. I came all over her chest. We both panted for air for about five minutes. "Well, shit, I hope this wasn't a one-time thing." "We'll see what Myrna says." "Really? You're gonna tell her?" "She probably knows. Hope she's not mad." "Worth it," I said. "Worth it," she echoed. "You need to leave now, though. I need to change. Do laundry. I can't believe you came all over my favorite coveralls. Would be better before my family gets home." I left and wore a stupid grin on my face that night, the next morning, the whole weekend, even Monday morning through my first few periods. I passed Monica in the halls once. She didn't look at me. That was fine, but my dumb grin faded. Maybe it would prove to be a one-time thing. I waited after school again for Lauren's practice to finish. I noticed that day Becca's ride home - indeed, her mom, or some adult woman picking her up in a minivan anyway, was wearing the outfit, a green coverall, and had the signature hair. I stared without meaning to. She stared back, with a glare, and said something to Becca, who turned and also glared. I turned away. When I turned back, the car had left. When we passed the Kellers' place on Monday after school, Monica wasn't waiting. I went and knocked. No answer. On Tuesday, Monica's apparent snubbing of me was barely on my mind because I was actually feeling a little threatened. Every single one of those girls - whether passing in the halls or sitting in one of my classes - made a point of stopping what they were doing to glare at me. It was nerve-wracking. Maybe it was foolish, but at lunch I went to the lawn where they usually ate. Nobody was there. It was curious and for some reason scarier than if they'd all been there, glaring at me. I was on my way back to my locker toward the end of lunch when it happened. I rounded the corner, walked down the hall, passed the girls' bathroom, when I heard something come up from behind me. When I turned around, it turned out to be not one thing, but several, many - at least five or six girls in coveralls with partly-shaved heads. They came from out of the ladies' room and grabbed me. It happened fast enough that I only recognized Becca and her mother. They were grabbing my arms hard, I couldn't move. Why was someone's mother on campus? I tried to twist around and saw that one of my attackers was Mrs. Chance, of all people. They dragged me into the ladies' restroom, pushed me against the wall. I opened my eyes and saw them, all of them. At least fifteen of them, including Monica. She just looked like nothing was happened, ho-hum. They all kind of looked like that. And Myrna was there, wearing a checkered dress and red lipstick. "Pete?" "Yeah?" "You ask a lot of questions." "Yes." "Do you want to ask me any questions now?" "No." "I think you're lying. Ask." "Are you angry because of what I did with Monica?" "Angry? No, Pete. I'm glad when someone is smart enough to see past people's outward appearance and recognize them for some inner beauty. It's something that most people have a problem with. And why I hate them." "Then what's all this?" I asked. I struggled but couldn't move even a finger, let alone an arm or leg. Of the 15 or so acolytes, I think half were holding me. "Usually I encourage people to join the team when they upset me. You're one of the first who's joining because I want to get to know you better. And my first boy. Can't wait to see how this turns out. I wasn't sure about turning grownups either, and we saw how that turned out my way. Right Mrs. Chance? Mrs. Griep?" "Yes, Myrna," Mrs. Chance and Becca's mom replied in unison. "Let's get started then," Myrna said. She planted her large, bright-red lips on my forehead and gave a loud kiss and, despite wanting to struggle, I fell into a sort of malaise. I lasted another 30 seconds maybe in the land of the living - long enough to see that someone had handed Myrna a pair of hair clippers - before completely blacking out. The light faded back into my vision slowly. I was sitting, slumped against the bathroom wall. Myrna was kneeling in front of me, looking me in the face. Only Monica and Mrs. Griep were still in there with us. "I'll admit it. This was unexpected," Myrna said. "How do you feel, hon?" I put my hands to my hair. Fuzzy on the sides. "You shaved my head," I said. My voice sounded weird. I attributed it to passing out. "Yes. We did. But you love it." "I do," I agreed. "Only problem, ladies, is this may be a bridge too far for the masses to handle. Should we take her to office? Take her home? Act as if nothing happened, as if everything is normal? This could scare people to the point there they try something dumb. Which we could handle, of course, but it would be a bother." I wondered what they were talking about. Who they were talking about. "My sense is you should do whatever you want, Myrna," Mrs. Griep said. "But the easiest thing would be to normalize it. Change her name, have the rolls changed in the office, act as if she's been like this all along. That will make it easier for them to go along with it. Rather than stick their faces in it." "What about her family?" "I'll take care of her family," Monica said. "What--" I started, but Myrna shushed me. "We're talking, sweetie. Speak when spoken to when you're with me." I nodded. I noticed then that I was not wearing my shorts and T-shirt anymore. Just brown denim coveralls. Hah. Not that surprising. Black work boots. In my size? They seemed small. I was wearing something on my chest too. It fit weird for some reason I couldn't quite put my finger on. "Okay, ladies, thanks for the help. Mrs. Griep, please go instruct the office on Pete's new status. Monica, why don't you take her home after school. Maybe call her something else. Make it easy. 'Petra.' Okay?" She got in my face. "How do you feel about the name 'Petra'?" I shrugged. "That's what I thought. Come on, lazy bones, get up." Myrna pulled my hand until I stood up, and it seemed she had a large hand for a girl her size, until I figured out that, in fact, my hand was now smaller. "Look in the mirror. Get used to it." I looked and saw myself, yet smaller, with more delicate features. No sideburns. I grabbed my chest over the rough brown denim. Breasts underneath, definitely plump female breasts. I think I was more disturbed by my outfit than my new assets, though. I think if my mind hadn't been clouded by Myrna's priorities, I'd have grabbed my crotch and screamed bloody murder. As it was, I looked at my face and noticed something was wrong. "Something's not right," I said. "What's that?" Myrna asked. "My lips." "Good job, Petra!" Myrna said. She handed me a tube of lipstick. Black. She watched me as I put it on. "No, honey, that's too hard. Softer. Now blot it. Yeah. Very good. You ready to introduce the new you to the world?" "No." "Good. Because the plan is to act like you've been like this all along. You can correct people on your name, though." I nodded. And that's what I did. I went to my next class, sat down, and anybody who stared too much, well, I just met their gaze and they looked away instantly. "She can do it to guys too?" someone commented. I didn't make note of who, and I didn't care. In fact, "caring" seemed to be something of the past, for the most part. From that point on, I had ghost worries, little concerns on the edge of my brain that I thought about when I was alone... but that was it. Questions like "When will this be over?" "Will I ever be a boy again?" "Why did this have to happen?" "What could I have done differently?" "Is there any way to stand up to her?" Obviously not. Everyone caved to Myrna. Monica walked me home that day and introduced me, the new me, to my parents. At first they didn't believe her, but when they heard my voice - same speaking patterns, same voice, really, just an octave higher - and looked closely at my face, they knew it had to be true. My dad started to make a big fuss, but I explained (a) how I was happy now, (b) how there was nothing he could do about it, and (c) how Myrna had transformed other parents into her acolytes, and the last thing this family needed was a second person transformed. "Think about Mom," I said. "Don't worry about me. I'm happy." My mother just wanted to be helpful, wanted to know what she could do to support me. More underwear, I said. More bras. I didn't know where they'd gotten the ones I was wearing. She helped me buy more coveralls, so I wouldn't have to do laundry every single day. She gave me "the talk" -- what to expect when my monthly visitor came. She also moved my younger brother Hal into Lauren's room. She thought sharing a room with his sister would be better than making either of them share a room with the new me. It was a smart move. Having someone else make the decisions for me made the year go by so quickly. I settled into a routine. Walk to school with Monica, sometimes hand in hand. Classes. Lunch with Myrna. Sometimes she paid attention to me, which was glorious; sometimes she didn't, which was, curiously, okay too. Like I wasn't allowed to be disappointed with anything she did or didn't do. It was fine. My first post-transformation report card was top-notch - straight As. Even the once-impenetrable math. Schoolwork was really the only thing in my life besides the occasional favor for Myrna. I was never social, except with Monica sometimes, because we both realized our families were more comfortable when we weren't around, so we took turns just lying still next to each other on each other's beds, sometimes took long walks at the park or the beach, still fully clothed and booted, of course. No toes in the sand or testing the water for these two. We were of a similar size now; people not in the know thought us to be weird sisters. For that time, I did think of her as a sister. Sometimes I recalled how sexually attracted to her I'd been, how amazing getting that blowjob from her and bringing her to orgasm with my finger had been that day. Now I realized what it had represented: that Monica was extraordinarily strong willed and, while never verging on breaking from Myrna, seemed to be able to fudge the boundaries a little. Even the fact that she kicked her boots off that one time in front of me and let me see her socks. The thought of me doing that filled me with dread and despair. Fully clothed when not alone, says Myrna. I could not fudge the boundaries. I was a good disciple. Perhaps, I thought in ghost thoughts as I was on the verge of asleep, because less of my original self remained than those who merely changed up their hairstyles and clothes. Less to hold onto. Virtually unrecognizable in the mirror. My family took a trip for Christmas vacation that year - a cruise ship for five days to somewhere warm. It was too late to return my ticket, even if my parents had felt like letting me stay home alone. I stayed in my room on the ship, in the air conditioning, all day every day, only emerged to eat. Some of the boys I wandered past made remarks, poking fun or of a sexual nature. I just smirked, thinking about how Myrna would punish them for me if she were around. And then I had ghost thoughts realizing I was gleeful at the prospect of someone else going through this. And then those thoughts vanished and I forgot the boys, their comments, and just concentrated on eating, on the heat, and on getting through five days without seeing Myrna, which in itself made me sad. I was grateful to get back, giddy to actually see Myrna at lunch. She mostly ignored me that day, but it didn't matter. We, Myrna's girls, kept our ranks pretty steady for the rest of the year, adding but one more member after me. It was, perhaps coincidentally, one of those girls Monica and I had run into at the pizza place before school started last summer. I got to help hold her down, felt jealous when Myrna planted a kiss on her forehead, saw the change in disposition instantly - like the girl's naturally smiling turned sour, her brows angled just a touch, her lips folded into something like an impatient furl. Was this how I looked? I supposed it must be. We shaved her head at the sides, pulled off her dress and tights and cute little shoes and pulled oversized coveralls onto her slim body, tied her into work boots, and lo, we had a new sister. She tried to cry when she came to. We could tell. But she couldn't bring herself to cry, because she was happy that Myrna had recruited her. She admitted to still being a little sad that she wouldn't be on the swim team anymore. I never found out what her great offense was. Or if, as Myrna claimed in my case, Myrna just liked her for some reason. Again, I guess I was grateful that someone else was calling the shots, because senior year was over before I knew it. I crossed the stage in cap and gown, hearing them call "Petra Donovan," and accepting my diploma to a mostly silent response. We all cheered when Myrna collected her diploma. I was heading to the local junior college next year; I still didn't know what Myrna planned to do. But whatever it was, it seemed she didn't need to drag us all along with her, because when I woke up the next morning, after graduation, she was out of my head. Totally. I smiled and laughed and then freaked out a little because god damn it I still had boobs and no penis, so I indulged myself in a good cry. "Fuck, I thought I'd turn back," I moaned. I showered and for the first time had to get used to my changed body with a clear mind. I'd never processed it before this, that I had such big assets, and when I noticed how good it felt to tweak ad touch them, I guiltily stopped because it felt wrong to take pleasure in something that shouldn't be possible, shouldn't have happened. I put on my usual outfit - I had no other clothes that fit me - and borrowed some sandals from Lauren in lieu of work boots, though. I almost applied that terrible black lipstick out of habit and instinct, but stopped myself. I went to my parents' room and woke them up. "Good news and bad news," I said, and explained that I seemed to have regained my free will, yet it also seemed that they would have two daughters and one son permanently. They seemed to take the news okay; I suppose no longer dealing with a near zombie was reward enough. I sauntered over to the Keller residence. Monica was sitting on the porch, as if she knew I'd come. She was wearing a very pretty blue sundress and low-heeled, strappy sandals. She had pale pink lips. "I would have come over here in my panties if I were you," she said. "How can you stand those coveralls anymore? Come inside; I'll find you something to change into. Then we can burn those fucking things." We were both so relieved and happy. We giggled when she made me wear a skirt for a minute, but, perhaps overly seriously, I proclaimed I would never let anyone tell me what to wear again, and then she felt bad. We found a pair of her old jeans that I said were too tight, but she said fit me perfectly and that was just the style for girls. "I was hoping not to be a girl anymore," I said. "I was hoping the same for you," she said. "But at least we have our brains back." I went home in those jeans and a top that Monica had lent me. I was so happy for short sleeves and a loose fit that the lace and flower details barely bothered me. "So what now?" Lauren asked. "No idea. I guess I figure out how to live as a girl." "Woman," my mother corrected. "You're 18." With their help, we found a new wardrobe for me, a piece here, a piece there, over the next few weeks. Monica and I made up for lost time - not in a romantic way, but in a meaningful friendship kind of way. She chatted about books, watched TV, went to the movies. Our hair grew in. I kept mine short enough that I didn't have to style it, but long enough that it didn't draw attention. Monica wanted to grow hers as long as possible. I was happyish. Still, every time I looked in the mirror I was surprised to see a woman, and every time I saw that woman I wondered who the hell I was now. The weird thought that Myrna might be attending the same JC as me occurred to me one night, and I grew cold. Monica was headed to a four- year university upstate, and figured there was far less of a chance of such a thing happening. The weekend before she was due to leave, we caught a movie that wasn't very good, then went out for some frozen yogurt. We were mostly being quiet, just enjoying each other's company for the last time for a while, when a slim young woman came up to our table. "Glad to see you guys are still friends." It was Myrna. We both froze. I almost felt like apologizing for being out of uniform - I was wearing cutoff shorts and a snug red top. Then I felt relief that I hadn't burned my coveralls, saved them just in case Myrna ever sunk her claws back into my head. But before I could say something dumb, Myrna touched both of our hands. "Relax, guys. High school is over. Bigger and better, am I right?" She made to leave, but I realized this may be my last chance. "Myrna - can you do something about this? About these?" "Your boobs? Petra? What are you even talking about?" "You know, you ... did this to me. Made me a woman. Can you change me back into a man?" She stroked her chin and pursed her pretty lips. "Pretty sure I can't. A lot of that little club of ours ... it wasn't me. There was something in my head. Some kind of weird curse, some kind of creature that invaded me after an incident my very first day of high school. These girls wearing black lipstick. They shaved my head. Beat me up a little. I was humiliated. I made some kind of proclamation and prayer and some kind of hell creature answered it. You might say I was as much a victim as you guys; something weird inside me made me convert you guys. I mean, I loved it. Luxuriated in it, I won't lie. But I'm not sure I was really in control of my actions, at least not totally. Now it's gone. I think. And a little of that power is still in me, but not nearly as much. I'd bet that a power exists somewhere that can, in fact, help you. But I can't. All I can do is massage your head a little and make you happier to be... how you are. Would that help?" "No!" I hadn't meant to shout. "I... I'm sorry. I'll just deal." She went and got herself some yogurt and Monica brushed my hand. "Honey, I am so sorry." "Hey, at least we know. And at least... at least we know more about what caused that whole weird thing." Monica and I hugged and promised to keep in touch. A few days later, when registering for classes, I spotted Myrna in the line as well, flanked by Becca and Jane, of all people. Becca was wearing a tennis skirt and flats, and Jane was in jeans but still sporting the shaved hairstyle, black lipstick, still sucking up to Myrna. I slowly backed out of the room and, when I got home, told my parents I needed a year off, and that I wanted to apply for state schools. They were okay with that, so long as I worked and contributed to the family, so that's exactly what I did. My dad was able to convince a business acquaintance of his to give me a receptionist job at his law firm, and despite the fact that the position required me to wear a long skirt and hose and heels every day, the money was better than an entry-level-job-seeking 18-year-old could hope for. I wish I could put a cap on this, with a happy love story - say Monica and I seeing past being the same gender and living our lives together. But the truth was now that she'd achieved separation from our ordeal, she rarely came home and only saw me by coincidence during those rare visits. I wish I could put a cap on it with some sort of "I went looking for a cure and found one" story, but I never found one. Myrna vanished at some point and I never again met anyone with any talent resembling magic. I still saw some of the girls around town, and the weird thing is many of them seemed to forget that we'd been mind-controlled, more or less. Like Becca, who I ran into at my OB/GYN's office, of all the horrors. Of course, it was doubly weird for me in that I was carrying a blowling- ball-sized weight in my belly, which was straining against my tunic and my maternity jeans. She rubbed my belly, without asking, and began reminiscing fondly to me about how much fun we'd had in our little clique in high school, and said things like "weren't we weird and fun and different?" "I still break out the black lipstick sometimes, ha ha," she mentioned, trying to seem youthful and edgy. I guess the only cap I can put on this is that I got used to it. My brain never quite got used to having sexual curiosity about men -- not a preference, but a curiosity. But it was undeniable that I was curious, enough to try out my equipment. I never went to college because my boss and I had something of an inappropriate fling, and I got pregnant after our first time. When I told him - possibly the most humiliating conversation I'd ever had - he instantly "did the right thing" and asked to marry me. I didn't fancy being a single mom, and I was nervous about getting the fetus, you know, taken care of. And the sex had felt nice, and he was pretty well off... I mean, it seemed like an easier path than going it alone. So I said yes, and we moved in together, and I learned to rely on him and he learned to rely on me, and I guess that's the cap: we have a nice relationship. Is he the love of my life? Well, no. But I like him enough, I guess, and enjoy the sex, even if I still think about supermodels or Monica when I close my eyes. And we have our two kids, whom I adore, and my family gets along with him. He and my dad still golf when my family visits. And he will never, ever know that I started out as a guy. Which I know would weird him out. My family was good about dumping, or at least hiding, all photo evidence of my original self. I never spoke with any of the old gang after seeing Becca when I was pregnant with that second kid; we moved cities at my request. I made up some excuse but really it was because I figured that to embrace my present and future, I needed to cast off my past, leave it behind. At this point, finding a "cure" would ruin my life. I'd have to start from scratch. And I love my kids, I really do. Appropriately enough, my friends think I'm the least-nosy person they know. I guess I've learned not to ask questions. I've learned first-hand the sort of trouble being over-curious can bring.