Brothers And Sisters - Chapter 4 free porn video

I dreamed heavily that night, an occurrence usually saved for the evenings in which I've had cheese, or more especially Pizza, which really gets my serotonin levels buzzing (if serotonin is the thing to bring about heavy dreams, I'm not really sure), but in this instance the sheer extremes of the day was enough in itself to produce deep, fairly nonsensical dreams, the kind you remember in the morning. The dream, as they so often are, had been a hotchpotch of events crushed together into some kind of omelette of previous events. For some of it I was clearly at Busy Bees, and I remember feeling like I was hiding from someone, or something, to the point of feeling utter terror as I hid behind a climbing frame with Ruby, a girl who I'd gone to school with and whom I hadn't seen for nearly a year, but who seemed to know all about my story, and told me she was sorry I'd been wearing Amelia's clothes. I also seemed to remember a portion set on the bus, but that the bus didn't stop in town and instead went on into Liverpool (a place I've never been and is a long way away) where I had to walk around the city asking for directions home, but doing so while trying to hide the fact that my nails were painted bright pink, which naturally, is a most embarrassing thing for a boy. I often read that people dream of scoring the winning goal at Wembley, or of sleeping with their dream girl. Such fantastical dreams would be nice, but I've never had them. But when I woke, the reality of my situation was far stranger than any of the dreams and DEFINITELY not pleasant. The frilly of the nightie was the first reminder that - it had not been a dream! - and that I really was wearing a very little girl's nightie, and that I really was waking up in, what had been until just a few hours previously, Amelia's small bedroom. The night before had been just awful, with Mum too angry to talk to me and me too ashamed, and frightened, to unburden myself of the nightie, which Amelia took great pains to pop in and see two or three times, making sure I had a full set of "teddies and dolls" to keep me company, "good 'ickle' girl" that I was. "Shove it," I told her, sounding most unlike the little girl I presented. Waking as early as I had, and with a great desire to alleviate my mind from the constant whirring of yesterday's events, I got myself down on the floor and, closing my eyes and grimacing at my oh-so inevitable behaviour, clicked on Amelia's lavender games console, and watched with no little disgust and self loathing, but not without anticipation, as the soothing sights and sounds of Bear Island clicked into view. "Don't do this," I whispered, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the black of Sophia's pink TV and gasping at the little girl staring back, who was sitting cross-legged with the console controller placed in "her" lap, in such a way as to push down the hem of "her" nightie between her legs, and with the shoulder straps of the aforementioned garment reflecting onto the upper part of the screen like two railway lines running in tandem, but heading, eventually, in different directions. Then, as suddenly as the reflection morphed into a blast of colour on the screen, a new sensation washed over me. "If she wants a little girl in the house, she can have one," I thought, pushing some air from my nostrils to emphasise the point (if there'd been anyone to hear it). Then, as so often before, I began to float away on that most addictive, and in my case, destructive, of games. It didn't matter that I was a girl bear now, or that my cabin was "pretty." In fact, laughing to myself, I took the opportunity to craft the frothiest, frilliest dress I could find for my bear and then, in an act of dark humour, presented it to one of the boy bears as a gift, a black cross appearing over his head to signify his hatred of said gift. You and me both pal, I thought. Still, it was hard to deny that I found more fun in the two hours or so of Bear Island than I did in the whole time of playing World of Errion, sitting there as I was, alone on the rug in Amelia's room, while the world outside, oblivious to my situation, started to stir into life, starting with the cheep of a blackbird outside my window and continuing with the revving up of next door's car, a sure sign it was 6.30am. Mum came in a few moments later, already dressed in her carer's uniform and looking quite pensive. For a moment I was sure she'd come to apologise, but instead she told me softly to shut off "that machine," and then held out her hand for me to take. "Mummy, we really need to talk," I said, but then immediately realised I had no idea what to say next. "No," Mum replied, shaking her head, "we don't." She led me to the bathroom where, while I stood in silence and with about 100 emotions fighting for prominence, she first had me brush my teeth and then undressed me, before I was shooed into the warm, already filled, bathwater. The lotions and soaps smelled softer than usual, and though I asked what they were, she only continued on with her, clearly planned, list of tasks. Next she washed my hair, and with baby shampoo too, the smell somehow transporting me back to a very young age and bringing to mind the smell of some of the little children at playgroup, including Lexie. When done, she wrapped me in a large white fluffy towel, but instead of heading back to Amelia's room, she walked me gently to her room, and to the vanity against her far wall. "Mummy," I started again, really now wanting to talk about recent events. "Sssh," she replied, starting the, seemingly never-ending, task of brushing my hair, using an old wooden brush which I'd seen her use on herself and on Amelia. It hurt more than once, and I yelped to indicate it, but eventually I was more taken by how my hair transformed in front of my eyes, from the curly, unruly mess it had been, to a straight flow of sparkling blond hair that, on account of straightening out the curls, almost fell to my shoulders! "God," I whispered. She wasn't done. Moving the brush around, she pulled two ends into small bunches and secured them with small purple hairbands, before returning to the top portion and deftly creating a flicked, delicate fringe which cascaded down my face and touched the tops of my eyebrows. There could be little doubt now I thought, as my face transformed for that of a messy boy to that of a cute little girl, that yesterday's events were for real. "Mummy," I tried again, the soft fragile voice quite at home coming from the girl in the mirror, "what are you doing?" A stupid question of course, for I knew exactly what she was doing. While all this was happening the sun had come out, sending a shock of light through the crack in the curtains around the bay windows of her room, and Amelia had started to barge about too, emerging from the crack in the bedroom door that used to be mine. "I can't have my hair like this," I continued in a soft voice, still trying to come to terms with the madam looking back at me, one who looked older than Lexie, but not much older, if at all, than Sophia. But Mum remained silent as, still clad only in a towel but now with pig- tails tickling my shoulders and a fringe tickling my forehead, I was finally led back to Amelia's room, mercifully avoiding Amelia en-route, and with the hall-way feeling so cold in my exposed state. "You need to tell me what's going on!" I tried again, louder and more agitated this time. "Am I going to work, or....." "You're not going to work," she shot back, pointing towards the bed to signify I should sit down. That was a relief. "Good, I don't think I could stand Busy Bees today." "Oh," Mum said, "you're going to Busy Bees. Do you think I'm going to let you sit around the house all day, on your own, playing that." She looked down at the console with disgust. "Game?" "But...." I began to stammer, again not finding any words after that. "I've spoken to Angela, and to that girl you work with, Rachael. They know what's happened." "Happened? What has happened? I thought it was just an argument." "I told them," Mum continued, "that we all thought it best if you tried living as a girl full time for a while. That it would help you. That you'd feel more comfortable." Mum had warned of a scenario where I might go to Busy Bees as a child rather than a worker, and one where I might do it in pig-tails and be Jessica, but I'd hardly thought it possible, even those few short weeks ago. "Oh no Mummy, no!" I said, rising off the bed to pull at her hands. "The children there will laugh at me! Sophia, Paige, Lexie....Louie..." "Sit back down," she barked, sending me, shamefully, scampering back to the bed with the towel still wrapped firmly around my waist. "It's all agreed Jessie. The girls have been kind enough to look after you, and to all intents and purposes, you're going as a girl, and a 9 year old girl at that." "9 years old!" I whimpered, feeling like my chest had fallen down to my feet. By then Mum had returned, and though I continued to protest feebly, I could do little but watch as a pair of pink knickers were pulled into place, at which point she placed me down in front her and held out the purple sundress in-front of my terrified, humiliated eyes. The dress had a floaty, almost pleated skirt, with a blue belt for contrast and a fold down embroidered collar, out of which emanated two frilled shoulder straps with bows on the top that rested perfectly on either shoulder-top. Then, sitting on her lap again, she found a pair of white and purple striped ankle socks with a frill around the top, and a old purple pair of Converse, faded and scuffed, which like everything I was wearing, had one been Amelia's. There was little to be said, the mirror, as hurtfully truthful as it always tended to be, presented a most cherubic, angelic little girl wearing a sundress and with hair in pig-tails. A girl who could easily pass for 11 or even 10, and who shuffled very nervously as Mum inspected the dress one final time. "I....I...." I muttered. "What?" Mum snapped, making a minor adjustment to one of my pig-tails. "...I can't go out like this!" "Enough Jessica, you look perfectly adorable." At this moment her face softened a little, and she pulled me back onto her lap, the frothy skirt of "my" dress enveloping the pale blue trousers of her carer's uniform. "You know," she said, not unkindly, "I now realise how wrong I've been all this time. How unfair it was on you, to try and make you be all manly. I have a suspicion Jessica, that this will do you better than any forced attempt to make you 'act your age' or 'man-up.'" "What? How could it?" I said, mortified at the suggestion. "Because, poppet, you look the part. And you'll play this part perfectly. And, like I say, I think you'll like it." "How is that going to make me a boy again?" I said, shaking my head in such a fashion that my pig-tails danced around my shoulders. "Maybe that's a forlorn hope," Mum replied, giving me a kiss on the cheek, "maybe, for now, we should accept you as the very pretty, very sweet, very adorable, little girl you are." I was dreading Amelia seeing me, as I sat very nervously and very scared, both trying to get used to wearing a real, honest to God, little girl's sundress, but also trying to wrap my head around my regression, in double quick time, from the "man of the house" (technically), to the little girl. And also that I, Jessie Neville, was about to attend playgroup. But Amelia, bounding into the kitchen later than usual and with her hair hidden by a cap, said little of my attire, other to mention that she "remembered that dress" and that to agree with Mum that I was "adorable." That conversation was halted by Amelia's proclamation of her own, namely that she had thought about it, and that she would like everyone to start calling her Harry from now on, and that she would like to try living as a boy full time! "Are you sure?" Mum said, stopping what she was doing. "How can you be surprised," I thought, a smile almost coming to my lips. This was ALL Mum's doing, I had decided. She was the one who'd planted the idea of Amelia being a better boy than I. She was the one who had so desperately tried to alleviate Amelia to the role of big brother. She was the one, I considered as she sat down between us, who'd created all this confused mess. "Well I suppose, if that's what you want?" Mum said, stirring her tea. "It is, for now," Amelia replied, "and tonight, after Soccer Camp, I was hoping you'd take me to the hairdressers? The men's hairdressers, on the high street? I'd like my hair shorter." At this she glanced over at me, as I sat there with pig-tails flapping around my head. "Well, we'll see," Mum replied, "maybe have a bit more of a think about that matey. It'll take a while to grow back, so you better be sure." "I don't want it grow back. Never!" It was difficult to consider Amelia's - or Harry's - situation too much when I had such pressing and immediate issues of my own, like what Louie was going to say when he saw me, or what Sophia would make of me trussed up in a sundress exactly like the ones she wore, but still, I felt a pang of annoyance and sadness on her part, thinking her an inexperienced mountain climber taken up Everest on the completely wrong path by a devious or incompetent Sherpa. I was about to tell Mum, more forcefully this time, that our current, silly situation really must stop. That I would stay in Amelia's room and let Amelia have mine (it did make sense on account of her height) but that we should go clothes shopping that evening and return my poorly made purchases, and now I knew my size better, make new purchases. And that I should go back to Busy Bees again tomorrow, but as an employee. But as I went to form the words in my mouth Mum's phone rang, and she headed into the front room to take it, and then started pacing around the room and speaking in a tone just low enough that neither of us could hear. Almost like a delayed response caused by a trauma, Amelia used the intermission as an opportunity to better inspect my outfit, touching the ruffled straps of the dress with her right hand and then moving it up to push one of my pig-tails back and forth. "Stop it!" I said, moving away slightly. "I beat the fourth witch last night," she told me, as if such things mattered at all anymore, "it was soooo hard. Remember that cauldron we found in the Oxbow Tavern? Well, I had to...." "I don't care." "Oooh, sorry missy," she said mockingly, flicking my pig-tails again, "can you believe we've swapped totally now, and that I'm the big brother and you're the little sister? Do you like wearing that dress?" "No," I shot back bitterly. "But you look so cute in it." "Shut up Amelia." "It's Harry now," she shot back, angrily. "Yeah whatever," I said, shaking my head. At this Amelia's expression turned dark, and for a moment I thought she might barrel into me, fists flying and head down like a bull as was her way. But instead she seemed to pull herself back from the precipice, and smiled, "Mum says boys shouldn't fight with their little sisters. I wouldn't want to hurt a delicate little thing like you." She was making kissy noises now, and had gone back to flicking my pig-tails. So, this is what it's come to? I thought incredulously, pushing myself from the table to get away from her mockery. I intended to find Mum to make one final, desperate plea in her direction, but she met me half-way towards the living room, phone in hand and looking very cross indeed. "That was Rachael. She and Angela and the other girls had discussed it, and they don't think it's right you go to the playgroup." "Really!" I said, heart lifting and I had to supress a little girlish skip of happiness. "They don't think the other parents would like it if they found out, and they think the children will find it confusing." With this she stared down at me. "Honestly Jessica, what are we going to do now?" "I could stay here," I replied, the idea like manna from heaven, "oh Mummy, I'll be so good, I promise!" By now I'd taken hold of her arm, clinging to it like a monkey might cling to a tree, my dress bobbing against my legs as I jumped up and down slightly in desperation, fully aware of my childish appearance but not able to care. Thank God! Thank Buddha! Thank Everyone! I wasn't going to Busy Bees! "We need to go!" Amelia was yelling, with equal urgency, while she scooped up the last of her football kit. "Well can I stay here?" I continued. "Please, please, please, pleasssee?" "OK OK!" Mum shouted, pushing me away ever so slightly. Had I really just begged to be let stay home alone? And while wearing a little sundress? "But don't do anything silly, or answer the door to anyone," she warned, both of us obviously thinking about the guttering man, "in fact, go to your room and stay there until I'm back." "My room?" I asked, "do you mean my room or Amelia's room?" "Your room, your room," she replied, even more harried now as Amelia tugged at her. "Jessica's room." "Oh," I replied, feeling oh-so infantile and girlie, "of course." She made sure I was in there before she left, sitting as I was on Amelia's bed and suddenly mindful of the importance of sitting correctly when in a short dress, and most of all not wanting Mum to admonish me for such an embarrassing failure as giving a flash of my knickers. I promised to be a "good girl," feeling quite ridiculous as I do so, but oh-so terribly happy not to be going to Busy Bees still. Of course, I did have one nemesis in close proximity - the purple console sitting just a few feet away - the source, essentially, of all my troubles. I was torn. Part of me wanted nothing more than to deposit myself in-front of the calming world of Bear Island, and to be AMELIAXXX again, and to let my manifold problems to melt away, like an ice-cream left outside in the sun, ready only to form again when put in the freezer. Yet the bigger part of me, and the one that was winning the internal monologue, was saying that to turn on that game - that beautiful, horrible game - would really be the final straw, dressed as I was, and that doing so really would serve as a final confirmation that I didn't deserve to be man, and may never. "C'mon Jessie," I whispered, pulling my eyes away from the half- reflection of myself in Amelia's mirror, which should just a pair of dangling bare legs which ended in girlish socks and buckle up shoes, just like those all the little girls at playgroup wore. "You're not one of them." I steeled myself with, "You're JESSMESS02, not AMELIAXXX. You know you are." Full of a most delightful rush of energy and hope, I leapt off the bed (wincing at the swishing of my dress as I did) and stormed towards my room, full of the kind of vigour and determination that really should have been killed off by my recent humiliations. Once inside I shook my head at the personalisation already carried out by Amelia - the Tottenham poster, the World of Errion poster - and then quickly availed myself of each item of girlie clothing, putting them in the wash-basket, before fetching out a pair of the black boxer shorts and socks I'd bought the day before, and then one of the polo shirts and the too big-jeans. Once dressed, and trying to hold up the jeans with increasing frustration, I emptied my wardrobe of all Amelia's football kits and other clothes and piled them onto her bed, feeling a tremendous sense of satisfaction as they covered her quilt and hid the console controller, which had been sitting atop the pillows. "Come on Jessie," I repeated to myself in a hushed whisper, "what else can you do?" The remembrance of the con-man at the door gave me the idea, and I rushed into the back garden to find the pair of tall ladders I knew Father had left in the shed. Then, after dragging the ladders against the wall with no little difficulty, I looked up at the shoddy looking guttering above, and thought to myself once more, "This is a great idea!" Mum had always been on at me to clean the gutters, but such a climb had always seemed too terrifying. She would obviously, therefore, be pleased to see me taking this initiative and of showing this kind of bravery (bravery that was wavering as I made three, then four steps up the ladder), with perhaps me earning enough kudos to end this crazy situation. "Steady," I warned myself, still struggling with the flapping of jeans around my trainers and starting to wonder, for the first time, if I had any idea of what I'd do when I reached the gutters? Just throw the mess down and then clean it up afterwards? Or..... I'll never be able to tell you of my next thought because, as I climbed the sixth or seventh rung, I felt my right trainer catch amongst my jeans and then, as my blood ran quite so thoroughly cold, my hands slipped from their position and I began to fall backwards, quicker and quicker, until the only thing I could do, as I crashed onto the patio below, was the sunny clear skies above. Blood! I thought woozily. My blood! "JESSIE?" Mum cried, emerging from the back door like a vision. "WHAT HAPPENED?" At this point, perhaps as a result of staring down at my poor, bloodied hands, a wave of desperate self-pity washed over me. I'd even failed at climbing a bloody ladder, and the pain in my backside and the stinging in my hands was really quite unpleasant. Another failure, another failure, another failure, I thought bitterly, as Mum rushed towards me. I began to sob. Sob like a little child. A little girl. A little toddler. "Oh sweetie, it's alright," she said, scooping my head upwards with her arms and cradling me, "you're not badly hurt." "I'm sthorry Mummy," I sobbed. It was only then I noticed a lisp to my voice. "You've lost a tooth," Mum said, pointing down at the small white item glimmering nearby in the sun. "Actually two," she continued pointing to another. I hadn't felt my face hit the ground but it surely must have done, and when Mum put a finger inside my mouth it came back bloody. "A front tooth, blimey," she said, "and one from the bottom too. You must have taken quite a whack. Poor baby. We should pop to the A&E really, and probably the dentist too." "No, I don'th wanth too!" "C'mon baby, Mummy will carry you," she said, actually picking me up and cradling me to her chest, my legs dangling around her back and my arms wrapped firmly around her neck looking, I imagined, like an overgrown toddler. This, I thought to myself bitterly, as the stinging in my mouth began to increase, had not gone well. We were home, mercifully, not long after 12, though I felt perfectly rotten and quite battered and bruised, and more than a little zonked out by the myriad of painkillers I'd received between the A&E nurse and the hospital dentist, who told me we'd have to let the gums heal for a while before thinking about implants. All this, along with an acute sense of shame, left me feeling very clingy towards Mum, who carried me back inside in the same fashion as she'd carried me out and had retained, throughout the ordeal, a calm, kind, loving tone. "Jessie," she whispered very softly, after we sat down on the sofa, me on her lap and with my arms still wrapped around her neck, "would you like Mummy to look after you?" I found myself nuzzling closer into her shoulder, my eyes feeling oh-so heavy and tired. Still though, I knew exactly what she meant, and the thought of it made me feel so warm and safe inside that all I could do was nod, and with great effort say, "Yeth pleath." "OK baby, don't you worry about a thing. Poor old Jessie. Things are never easy for you, are they? And watching you sitting in that dentist chair I.....," she was crying a little now, "I felt so sorry for you. I've been so awful. Let Mummy make it better." I existed only in a half-awake state as she carried me upstairs to her bed and laid me down upon it, before very gently removing my battered polo shirt and jeans, and then my underpants and socks too. "Ssh now baby," she said, "there's a good girl." "I'm not a girl," I thought, unable to vocalise the sentiment but also luxuriating in the softness of her tone and the feeling of being very safe. With eyes opening and closing periodically, I had somewhat of a sense of her actions, but not the wherewithal to question or resist them. I certainly remember being washed with a warm sponge, and of having a new pair of underpants pulled on, as well as a new nightie, but I couldn't have told you that the nightie was a pink version of the yellow garment I'd been put in the night before, neither could I tell you of the thick woolly pink socks put on my feet. They all felt quite nice though. Like being in a warm-bath, or sitting by a fire. When I did wake a little more - I couldn't say how much later it was - I was still on Mum's bed but under the covers now, and she was next to me, my head resting on her lap with one of her hands patting my head and the other holding one of the slushy romance novels she enjoyed so much. "My jaw...isth really hurthing..." I said, somewhat pathetically. "I know baby," she replied, "I know." At what point she gently inserted the pink dummy into my mouth I couldn't have said, only that it came about in such a way that I wasn't sure if it were a dream or not, and whether the solace I was finding in it was real or imagined. Had I crafted a baby's dummy on Bear Island? I was sure you could, but then, what was real and what wasn't anymore? It all seemed so far away. I slept in her bed that evening, waking up once or twice and feeling her warm arm placed protectively around my chest, and taking a moment to realise where I was, what I wearing, or what the pains were in the face and hands. What I did know was that I had such an urge to snuggle into her more tightly, her nightie intertwined with mine, a Mother caring for her injured, helpless little daughter. By daybreak certain pains, and the grogginess, had lifted, enough that Mum helped me onto the sofa, where she wrapped me in a quilt and showered me with weak milk and, eventually, tomato soup. "What a good girl," she would say often, "don't you worry about a thing." In truth, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn't worried. Amelia, perhaps sensing her own sense of guilt, was just as nice to me, even when she learned she'd need to miss Soccer Camp, on account of Mum not wanting to leave me. It was Amelia who furnished the sofa with the three soft pink plush toys, and Amelia who brought through her console for me to play, sitting next to me as I tried my best to raise the energies required to bring AmeliaXXX to life. I recovered slowly as the week went on, eschewing the dummy by Wednesday afternoon and starting to forget about the stinging in my hands by Friday. At this point I'd succumbed completely to being the house's little girl in just about every form imaginable. I let Mum dress me in a pink denim pinafore and white ribbed tights. I sat with my head in Amelia's lap while we watched the cartoon version of Bear Island on a cartoon channel. I slept in Mum's bed, surrounded by my plush toys. By the time Sunday came around I was feeling far more like my old self, but still with no urgent sense to press my claim for manhood again. Hell, I couldn't rouse the strong-enough feelings to push for being a 10 year girl or boy again, such was the ease of life that had come with being "Mummy's little buttercup." And so, when Mum called me into her room just before church and asked, in a soft, caring voice, whether I wanted to go to church as Jessica or Jessie, I quite shamefully, didn't feel strongly either way. Even if that meant others seeing me as Jessica. "Why don't you be Mummy's little girl then?" she said. "I know Harry wants to wear his suit (the suit I had bought, of course), and so I'd like to have one pretty little girl with me at least." I nodded my consent, feeling a knot in my stomach as I did so, not least at the thought of all those church-goers I'd known for so long now seeing me in girl clothes, but also because, suddenly, I found the idea of wearing a pretty dress more appealing than wearing that horrible, ill- fitting suit. "You look very pretty," Mum said, after helping me dress. I felt like crying again as I looked in the mirror, but wasn't sure what emotion was driving it this time. I did look pretty, so much couldn't be argued, in one of Amelia's white church frocks, this one with a yellow sash and a dainty petticoat underneath that fluffed out the skirt around my tiny legs. On my feet were a pair of lemon coloured socks with a fold down frill, as well as a pair of white buckle-up shoes with a heart on each buckle. Quite what people were going to think of an 18 year-old in such an outfit, I had no idea. Amelia, looking very smart in her suit, held my hand as we approached the church, the butterflies in my chest pounding greatly now as we met the throng of people, and their whispers, head on. It was at this moment, as I pushed towards Amelia for extra protection, that I had my strongest doubts about coming. In fact, but for a cheery shout in my direction I might just have fled back to the car. "JESSIE," Lexie cried, bounding over in her own little white frock, the bottom of her tights muddied and her hair already askew, "YOU'RE A GIRL NOW AS WELL?" "I suppose," I whispered, not quite understanding her full implication. That become clear when, moments afterwards, we were joined by another little girl, this time in a purple frock, and with short black hair. It was only after a focussed better (I was still a little woozy at times) that I realised the little girl in front of me, nervously playing with her hands, was Elliot! "Everyone is becoming a girl," Lexie said, "that's funny." Lexie and Elliot made it clear that they MUST sit with me, and so we entered the church hand in hand, quite possibly the oddest group of little girls ever seen. We passed Sophia as we entered who, eyes widening, wanted to ask a hundred questions, but for Amelia telling her to worry about it later, as she wanted to tell Sophia about Soccer camp. How was it that, in group of 2 boys and 3 girls, that my sister was the only boy left? By the end of the service, the three of us giggling often, I had almost forgotten about the ridiculousness of our situation (those around us less so, judging by the whispering) but if a reminder were needed it came in the form of Louie, who had been taking part in a small game of football by the side of the church with two or three friends, but turned his attention to the five of us (including Sophia and Amelia) as we exited the church. "Look," he shouted, his belly bobbing around under this shirt, "it's the freaks!" "Shut up," Sophia cried. "Yeah, shut up," Elliot added. At this he kicked the ball in our direction, sending everyone but Amelia scattering out of its path. Smirking instead, she dribbled the ball back towards the boys in her suit and started to keep the ball away from them with her quick feet, serving only to antagonise Elliot and his rough looking friends, while Lexie, Sophia and Elliot cheered. "You're not cheering too?" Sophia said. I was not. I felt a completely different emotion suddenly. One that fermented quickly, and one with suddenly made me feel oh-so tall. It was time, I told myself sternly, to stop playing games. Now, the boys had grown more than tired of Amelia (sorry, Harry) making them look stupid, Louie, devoid of skill or guile, took instead to picking up a pebble from the ground to throw at poor Harry, who managed to dodge the first couple but then came under furious rain of all kinds of projectiles from the boys - clumps of dirt, pebbles, coins from their pockets - until she had to cover her face in a panic. I was sure I could hear her begin to cry, and the sound resonated in me as surely as if the church bells above had begun to ring. Stop playing games, I thought again. Head down, staring at the grass below, I ran full pelt for the boys, my frock dancing crazily around me as the wind caught it and my pig-tails trailing behind me like streamers attached to a car. A soft belly against my elbow told me I'd made contact with Louie first, who groaned and then keeled over like a pig with a bad stomach, oinking in surprise as he lay prostrate on the floor. Quickly, Sophia had joined in, her frock also flying everywhere as she took out one of the other boys, who used the chance to get up and run away afterwards. Then, with Elliot and Lexie cheering loudly and the adults moving in to break things up, Harry threw a well-aimed punch square into the jaw of the third boy, who screeched in agony, before imparting the same on a terrified looking Louie, finally rising from my blow, before sinking to the ground again. He was crying like a girl at this point. "Not bad for a little girl," Amelia/Harry said, punching me on the shoulder. "Not bad for a boy," I replied, returning the compliment. I played Bear Island once more, but this time dressed in the smart polo shirt and dark jeans Harry and I had bought together. It was fun to relax for a few moments in the calm of my newly decorated bedroom, especially as we joked and giggled at all the silly things we had crafted together, but after an hour or so I think we both knew our time with Bear Island was up. Once we shut it down, we never played it again. There is a pretty dress in the back of what used to be Harry's wardrobe, but which I now call my own. I put it on now and again because, after all, it's fun to pretend sometimes.