A boy called stephany by c seanmcgee

A Boy Called Stephany Copyright © C. Sean McGee CSM PUBLISHING Araraquara, São Paulo, Brazil 2018 First Edition All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1986799843 ISBN-10: 1986799840

Layout and Design: C.SeanMcGee

Negation Steven was always a little off. Even as a baby, there was something about him that was odd; it wasn’t, though, the type of thing you could easily put your finger on. It wasn’t obvious like an overbite or a conjoined twin, but there was always something about him that didn’t feel right.

At recess you could find him chasing imaginary dinosaurs down the smallest slides and fending off giant spiders by the sandpit with his two magic sticks; while in class he was quiet, always sitting at the seat closest to the door.

Steven didn’t have any friends “You’re too short,” the other children would say. “And you talk stupid too.”

The other kids were bastards to say the least, and they tormented the poor boy with insults and horrible rhymes, calling him all sorts of cruel names; only half of which were true. The songs though were the worst.

“Giant baby, stupid and crazy; face like a monkey’s bum. Giant baby, ugly, and lazy; crazy, stupid, and dumb.”

Almost as bad was that one girl who held his hand in the afternoons for no good reason; her name was Stephany, but they weren’t friends either.

None of this ever once disparaged Steven, though. No matter what anyone ever said, he never let it get to heart. His own selfinterest grew all the more extravagant the more he lost interest in the thoughts and opinions of others.

Whereas his teachers described him as withdrawn, socially anxious, and probably depressed; Steven’s mother and father saw their son as reserved, subtle, socially observant and though quietly spoken, more often, their boy was merely softly understood.

And though they had always suspected that something was amiss, like any parent, they chose to delude themselves into

believing that their son was a genius, instead of some social and cultural pariah.

“He’s different,” they would say. “Like a painter or the inventor of the wheel. He’ll change the world someday, you’ll see.”

Seeing the young boy in his own home, it was hard not to be inspired by the sparks of brilliance as he invented a world of monsters and the weapons to defeat them out of cardboard and sticky tape.

Still, though, the thought was always there; “What if he is retarded?”

“Steven,” said The Mother. “Your lunch is on the table.”

It was the last week of summer holidays. Christmas had just been. Stories about reindeer and bearded old men no longer filled the nightly news; instead, replaced by updates on market instabilities, housing shortages, missing children, third world violence, and the weekend’s sport and weather.

“Steven,” shouted The Mother.

She, herself, knew that he wouldn’t respond until the thirtieth or fortieth attempt; and even still, he wouldn’t budge until it was evident that he was tugging on the very last thread of his mother’s tattered patience and risked being dragged out by the soles of his feet.

Stubbornness was a trait of genius.

“Steven, honey,” she said, now knocking on the door. “Come and eat your lunch or I’ll throw away all your toys.”

It was clear she wasn’t fit for a negotiation.

“Steven,” she said, her voice sinking like a stone in mud.

The boy didn’t respond, though. For one reason or another, he was mute.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time,” said The Mother sternly. “And you had better respond… or else…”

Her silence hinted at the worst.

Still, though, the boy didn’t respond. He stood immotile and mute on the other side of the door, staring through a crack in his closet door; at something his mother could not see.

“Steven,” she said, knocking once. “If you don’t eat your

sandwich, a starving baby in Africa will die.”

Her voice hissed like a boiling kettle.

“Did you have an accident?” she asked.

What she really meant was had he soiled himself ?

“It’s ok if you did,” she said, suggesting that he had. “Mummy doesn’t judge.”

Little did she know that everybody judged; even mummies.

“I’m coming in, ok honey?”

As she touched the handle, she could hear the boy quietly mumbling. Already she knew he was at it again; talking to himself and his imaginary friends.

Talking to oneself was also a trait of genius.

“Steven?”

The boy was mumbling, just as she had thought.

“Steven, lunch is on. Sorry to break up your game. You can come back to it after.”

Staring through the crack in the closet door, all the boy’s only words were, “I won’t let you out. I won’t let you out.”

“Steven?”

The boy looked like he was trapped in some horrible nightmare; his face all scrunched up as it was. His arms hanged by his sides and his shoulder drooped so that he looked as if he had no neck at all. The Mother couldn’t see his eyes, but she could only imagine.

“Is everything ok, son?” she asked, slowly reaching for her son as she tiptoed into the room. The boy looked still and lifeless, yet at the same time, on the verge of explosion.

“I won’t let you out,” he whispered, over and over again.

“Steven, you’re scaring me.”

Her hand was an inch from the boy’s pale white skin.

“I won’t let you out,” he said, as his little hands turned into little fists.

The boy’s eyes were wide and deranged.

“I won’t let you out,” he said again. “I won’t let you out. I won’t let you out. I won’t let you out.”

The Mother swept in and grabbed her son.

“It’s ok, honey,” she said, turning him away from the closet door. “Mummy’s here. No monsters can get you, it’s ok; you’re safe.”

She squeezed her son as tight as he could. If he were a balloon, he would have popped by now.

“I won’t let you out,” said the boy, his voice muffled by The Mother’s woollen coat.

Rocking Steven back and forth, The Mother felt completely useless. She sighed deeply as she kissed her son’s peaceful face. It had, though, in that second, become horribly clear and far too impossible to ignore.

And so, with her one free hand, she dialled the boy’s father.

“It’s Steven,” she said, as if that alone was enough for him to drop everything and run.

“What happened?” he said.

The Mother sounded as if she’d survived a shark attack.

“I did this to him,” she said, in tears.

“What the hell are you on about? What happened? What’s going on?”

“I made him this way,” said The Mother.

“What do you mean, you made him this way?”

“He’s never gonna have a normal life.”

“Look, can this wait until after work?”

“No,” said The Mother.

“What do you mean? What did he do? Is he doing the talking thing again? How bad was it? Was it like last time? What? What?

What? Say something.”

The Mother stared at her boy in stupendous disbelief.

“Our child is crazy,” she said, accepting the truth. “He’s lost his sanity.”

Insanity, too, it had been said, was a trait of genius.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said The Doctor.

The old man tinkered about with his instruments - poking here and there, knocking this and that, and spending a great deal of time peering into the young boy’s eyes and ear canal. He looked as if he knew exactly what the problem was and where to find it.

“I tell you I’m stumped,” he said. “The boy looks fine. Reflexes are all good; eyes and ears too. He’s hearing things, you say?”

“Yes, doctor.”

The Father spoke while The Mother clung to her boy.

“Talking to himself you say…Hmmm. And how long has this been going on?”

“He’s been like this for weeks now; since the start of summer.”

“Interesting.”

The old man was stalling. He really wished the boy had a stomach bug or the flu.

“It only happens when he is left alone in his room; and always in front of his closet. At first we thought it was just an invisible friend, but it just escalated. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Escalated, you say? And you said he is hearing things too?”

“Yes. I mean, I can only assume so.”

“Well how do you know?”

The old man wasn’t being smug or pretentious; he sounded like he really wanted to know.

“Look, I know when my son isn’t right,” screamed The Father.

“I apologise if it sounded like I was suggesting anything…”

“It’s schizophrenia, right?” said The Father, interjecting.

He sounded as if he had done his research.

“I don’t want to jump to any determinations just yet. Let’s just leave the doctoring for the doctors now, should we?”

Patronizing old fool.

“Now,” he said, sounding as if he had found a root cause. “Is he getting enough fibre?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” replied The Father.

“It’s a start, young man. And every good result comes from a solid and thorough beginning. So, is he getting enough fibre?”

In the first week alone, they must have gone through a dozen doctors. All of them had the same needless questions and each seemed just as vague and dumbfounded as the other.

Worse still was that the young boy’s condition only seemed to worsen. Whenever he was left alone, he would fall into unwakeable stupors and would whisper those same words over and over again; “I won’t let you out. I won’t let you out.”

“This has to work,” said The Mother.

She had half the fight and courage that she had started with.

“Do you have schizophrenia in your family?”

The Father’s question sounded more like an insinuation.

“So this is my fault now?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Your mother’s a drunk. Maybe she has a thing. Maybe she gave him a…”

They did their best to whisper but the boy could hear everything.

“Just…” said The Father, struggling to be a voice of reason.

“We’ll see what The Specialist has to say.”

“Is he good?”

“I don’t know. I read about him, somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well what did you read?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Why not?”

It was another ten minutes before they were interrupted by a charming man with a wide smile and a firm handshake. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Doctor Startling and I’ll be Steven’s behavioural

specialist.”

Both parents stopped their arguing and stared; completely startled.

“So,” said The Specialist, crouching down so that the boy needn’t look up. “You must be Steven.”

The boy nodded. He seemed less threatened by this doctor.

If there were a piece of the puzzle that the boy had been keeping to himself, by the way he responded, it wouldn’t be a secret much longer.

The Specialist took Steven by the hand and smiled as he led the boy into his brightly coloured office. Inside, they played all sorts of games and took turns telling stories. Then there was some finger-painting, a memory game, and a game where he had to guess which animals were happy and which animals were sad.

All the while, the boy’s parents sat restlessly in the waiting room.

“It’s schizophrenia,” said The Father. “I know it.”

He was sure the problem was as common as a cold, and just as treatable.

“It’s me,” said The Mother, putting all of the blame on herself. “He’ll never be ok because of me.”

She was sure the problem was her, and that there was nothing that could be done.

“I looked it up on the internet,” said The Father. “All of his conditions are aligned with that of Schizophrenia; it’s irrefutable.”

The Father had several words like these that he saved for such occasions.

“Did it say anything about diet or vitamin deficiency during pregnancy?”

“It’s not you,” said The Father.

They’d been down this road before; it was a path well-travelled.

“You didn’t do this to him.”

“How do you know? If he’s had this his whole life then we gave it to him; we made him sick. I made him sick,” she said, assuming all the guilt.

“Or more logically he got it from somewhere else. Maybe it’s not genetic. Maybe it’s epigenetic.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s not important,” said The Father, maintaining his integrity. “It’s psychological. It’s in his brain, so it could be anything whatsoever.”

“You think?”

She sounded weak but hopeful.

“It wasn’t us. I mean, if you ask me…”

He paused to really put some weight behind his conspiracy.

“Vaccines,” he said.

The Mother’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “He just had shots like six months ago. That’s probably it. That has to be it. That’s it, isn’t it?”

She sounded doubtful, in a hopeful kind of way.

“It has to be. Statistically it’s probably and it’s the only logical solution I can think of.”

He sounded so sciencey, how could he be wrong?

“How can the government let this happen?”

Her self-blaming was quickly becoming a raging scorn.

In the background, the evening news rattled off stories about bushfires, a missing girl’s outfit, and children’s day parades.

The volume was too low to make any sense, though, so The Father judged the way people dressed instead, as something to distract him from his own crippling thoughts.

And while the boy’s parents toiled over their new found truth, inside The Specialist’s office, Steven told a wild and fanciful story about a girl who lived in the closet and was begging to come out. Were it not told in such simple and exquisite detail, you’d think it wasn’t true.

“Hi again,” said The Specialist.

He had a way about him that was as his name suggested.

“How is my boy?” said The Mother, desperate to take the child in her arms.

Steven looked different. He looked exorcised. He looked relieved. He looked happy.

“I’m a girl,” he said, with a confused look on his face.

“A… uhhhh…what?” said The Father.

“A girl,” said Steven again as if it were a scientific truth. “I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.”

“I’m sorry,” said The Father, turning to The Specialist. “Is this a symptom of the schizophrenia?”

“Oh your child is not schizophrenic,” said The Specialist, followed by an inappropriate laugh.

“So what the hell is going on?”

“Let me explain,” said The Specialist.

He took the parents into his office and sat them down on coloured squares. They all sat cross-legged in a kind of triangle; the boy’s parents looking as lost and confused as the boy himself.

“I know this is shocking,” said The Specialist. “But I need you to be open-minded and supportive; for each other, but mainly for Stephany.”

“Who the hell is Stephany?”

The Specialist smiled. It wasn’t a humiliating smile, but it did stop the questioning.

“Steven and I had a great discussion. We talked about school, home, his favourite places, and his favourite things in the world to do. We also talked about the things that scare him and the things that make him feel upset and even different.”

The Father’s defences immediately rose like a shield.

“There’s nothing wrong with our home,” he said. “This is not us. We did everything right. We did all the parenting classes and all that spiritual mumbo jumbo too. We’re good parents.”

“This is not about you,” said The Specialist. “This is about Steven; or more so, this is about Stephany.”

“Who the hell is Stephany?”

“Stephany is the girl in the closet.” said The Specialist.

“What girl? What closet?”

“Our closet?” said The Mother. “Is there someone in our closet?”

The Father shook his head.

“It’s not literal,” said The Specialist. “The closet is a

metaphor. It’s a way for Steven to explain what he is going through.”

“And what pray tell is he going through?”

“A transformation,” said The Specialist.

“A transformation? Into what?”

“From a boy to a girl.”

“A what?”

The Father leaped to his feet.

“What do you mean to a girl goddamnit? What are you tryna say?”

“Right now, Stephany is in the closet. That’s the metaphor.

It’s what Steven has been trying to tell you. It’s time for Stephany to come out of the closet. But Stephany,” he said, “can’t come out or he’ll get in trouble. You see? He is so frightened of being judged that he is trying to repress the girl within him from coming out.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“The more he does,” said The Specialist, affixing his glasses.

“The more terrible and dire will be his immediate and future psychological circumstances. Stephany is in the closet. Stephany wants to come out of the closet. And Stephany will come out, you can rest assured. But it’s whether she comes out hurt or not is up to you.”

He reached his hand on both the parents’ shoulders.

“Let her out,” he said with woeful consideration. “Look into your hear and let her out.”

The Mother was the first to well up.

“That’s why he was standing all that time,” she said. “He’s been trying to tell us.”

“Exactly,” exclaimed The Specialist triumphant. “But lucky for Stephany, now you are ready to listen. When Steven says ‘I won’t let you out’, it’s the voice of fear, ridicule, and shame that is saying that, trying to keep Stephany in the closet – trying to repress her.”

“I had no idea,” said The Mother.

“No-one ever does,” said The Specialist. “Who has the time?”

“My son is not a fag,” said The Father puffing up his chest

and declaring his masculinity.

“Geoffrey Reginal Boulder!”

The Mother was clearly offended.

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Exactly,” said The Father, taking his wife’s meaning in the wrong light. “Where the hell do you get off calling my son a poofter?”

“Please,” said The Specialist in a soft and gentle manner.

“This is a delicate matter. How you react in the next two minutes with Stephany will determine how the rest of her relationships develop in the future.”

“Can you stop saying her? It’s he. His name is Steven. He was a boy when he came in here and he’ll be a boy when he goes home. He’s just a little screwed up is all. What the hell kind of doctor are you? What about his schizophrenia?”

“He doesn’t have schizophrenia. He suffers from the recently ubiquitous phenomena referred to as Gender Dysmorphia.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

The Father was furious, and The Mother resorted back to tears.

“It means that although Stephany has male genitalia, she defines her gender as a woman; not a man.”

“He’s a five-year-old boy. He doesn’t know jack about shit.

He can’t even tie his own shoelaces for fuck’s sake. Now you’re trying to tell me that he’s had some epiphany that inside he’s really a girl?”

“If this is so hard for you,” said The Specialist. “Imagine how hard it is for Stephany.”

They all looked out into the reception at the small child, be it boy or girl, chasing imaginary dinosaurs up and down the slippery slide.

“This Gender Dystopia...”

“Dysmorphia,” said The Specialist, interjecting.

“Whatever. What is it? Is it treatable?”

“Gender Dysmorphia is a psychological syndrome with physiological ramifications, that...”

“You mean like schizophrenia, BSD, anorexia, and the like?”

“Yes and no.”

“Well you treat the rest with drugs and exercise, why is this any different? Why are we pretending his dysmorphia is real when all the others are clinically delusional?”

“We live in a different world now. Psychology is important again; and psychologists and therapists are finally being interviewed on television programs. This is a defining moment for humanity and the humanities. Up to this point therapy was merely a confessional for upper-middle-class atheists but finally we are on the cusp of a revolution.”

“You’re telling the kid with monsters under the bed that not only are the monsters real, but that if the whole world doesn’t recognise his monster, it’s a hate crime. That seems a little dangerous and delusional.”

“It’s far more complex.”

“Well then explain it to me, doc. Tell me why I’m supposed to believe my son is a girl.”

“The universe owes us no explanations. It is not for us to understand; but merely accept.”

“And so what, we just pop him in a dress and pretend like he doesn’t have a dick and balls?”

“Honey! Don’t be disgusting.”

“Well what the hell do you make of this?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to keep an open mind. Our boy….

Our child, sorry, is not well.”

“Our boy is perfectly fine.”

“What if he’s right?” said The Mother, now pleading to The Father’s doubtful reason.

“And what if he’s wrong?”

They both pondered painfully about the weight of this decision. As they argued, The Specialist took some brochures from his desk, a prescription pad, and a small box of pills.

“There are groups,” he said. “Parents just like you who are going through the same transition. There’s more than you think.”

“So this is common?” said The Mother, sounding somewhat

relieved.

“As common as a cold,” said The Specialist.

He handed the box of pills to The Father.

“What are these?”

“They are puberty blockers.”

“Puberty what now?”

“Puberty blockers. This specific medication is called Lupron Depot. They delay the onset of puberty which allows Stephany here…”

“Steven.”

“Stephany,” repeated The Specialist. “To make the choice when she is old enough to either transition to a woman or transition to a man.”

“You mean whether he cuts off his penis or not? You know this is messed up, right?”

“Read the literature,” said The Specialist. “You’d be surprised not only by the prevalence of this condition, but of how vast the condition is. It’s not just common mums and dads like yourselves; it’s celebrities too. Liam Neeson for example; you like his movies right?”

“Well yeah,” said The Father.

What a redundant question.

“He was born Leah Máiréad Neeson; a fair-skinned, blueeyed girl.”

“I don’t believe you. Liam Neeson is a man’s man.”

“Imagine then, if he still wore culottes.”

It was clear on The Father’s face that his opinion was starting to turn.

“So this is normal?” he asked.

The Father loved Liam Neeson. He had seen each of his films a dozen times.

“Absolutely normal.”

“And what if he doesn’t …or she doesn’t… what if Steven isn’t Stephany? The drugs and all that, what effect is there? What long-term effect?”

“Oh there’s none. Puberty blockers are as natural as

ice-cream and cotton candy. If Stephany decides at eighteen that she wants to transition to being a man, all she has to do is stop the puberty blockers and her puberty will start – delayed of course – but it will kick start without any problems.”

“None at all? It doesn’t sound right, stopping something like puberty.”

“Do you take the pill?” The Specialist asked The Mother.

She nodded.

“It’s the same thing. The only difference is, instead of wanting or not wanting to have a baby, Stephany is delaying the choice of being one gender or the other. Should she choose to transition to a woman, we will look at surgery to make a vagina out of what penis there is there to work with, and she will commence puberty but aligned with female hormones. She will grow to be a functional and happy adult woman. And just the same if Stephany chooses to transition to being male. No surgery will be necessary of course, but once the puberty blockers are ended, Steven can then go through the normal growth spurts and changes like any young man.”

“And you’re sure there are no side effects.”

“Oh absolutely none,” said The Specialist.

He sounded so confident.

“And you’re sure Liam Neeson was a girl?”

“Definitely,” said The Specialist. “It’s there on page four in the booklet.”

The boy’s parents took a minute or two in silent discourse.

They merely stared at one another as if a thousand words were being said. And when they had stared enough, they both nodded in concurrence and sighed in massive relief.

“Ok,” they both said in unison. “We’ll do it.”

“Great,” replied The Specialist. “I’ve already given Stephany her first pill.”

“So what now?”

“I’d suggest finding the right dress,” said The Specialist.

“Something with unicorns.”

Steven loved the summer. He loved waking up whenever he wanted and watching cartoons all day long; if that’s what he wanted too.

He loved eating breakfast really late and staying up and watching the cartoons that only played in the early hours of the morning; when only drunks and junkies were watching.

In the summer, you could do what you want and be where you want; if that’s what you wanted. You could do nothing all day long and as long as you didn’t break anything, nobody was ever upset.

Summer was the opposite of school.

And oh did Steven hate school. He hated everything about it. He hated math, he hated spelling his name, and he hated having to be helper for the day. He hated homework and classwork; and he hated all the stupid toys in the playground too. He hated the teachers and the other kids; and even that girl who held his hand for no good reason. There was pretty much nothing about school that was good.

The last week of summer, though, was starting to feel a lot like school.

“I don’t want to wear it.”

“You have to,” said The Mother sternly.

“But I don’t want to.”

“It’s not for you Steven, it’s for Stephany.”

“Then give it to Stephany.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Stop being so darn difficult.”

“But Stephany’s in the closet.”

“I know,” squeezing the outfit over her son’s broad skull.

“Then why are you putting it on me?”

“Because you won’t let her out,” said The Mother struggling.

“But if I let her out you’ll be mad at me. You’ll shout again.”

He cowered as he spoke, as if he was reliving every time she had shouted his name.

The Mother wasn’t callous; not in the slightest.

“My poor baby,” she said, hugging Steven as she affixed the back of his pink tutu.

Steven felt red hot and stupid.

“I’m not a girl,” he said. “I’m a boy.”

He hadn’t seen how ridiculous he looked yet; imagine how he’d feel then.

“I’m sorry, my love,” said The Mother; her tears impossible to hold back. “This hasn’t been easy for anyone. I wish it were a different way. I wish you weren’t a girl; I really do.”

“But I’m not a girl. Look,” he said, pointing down. “I have a peepee. Girls don’t have a peepee.”

“I wish it was that simple. Gender is not just about peepee.

It’s more complicated.”

The boy looked even more confused.

“Mum?” he said, sounding every inch a five-year-old boy.

The Mother was borderline hysterical at this point.

“What is it?” she said, barely able to form words.

Steven stared at the pink tutu he was wearing, and then back at his mother.

“What does gender mean?”

The Mother collapsed on the floor beside her son.

“I don’t know,” she said, crying.

It was clear now that sometimes mothers didn’t know everything.

“I wish I didn’t have to wear this.”

“I know.”

“If I wear it, will daddy come home?”

All of The Mother’s inadequacies were right there to see.

“I don’t know,” she said as if it was the only thing she knew.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Steven hated to see her like this. No child ever wanted to see their mummy and daddy cry; or for their daddy to be so sad that he had to run away. Steven was angry, mainly at Stephany, and he wanted to punish her for what she had done to his family. Instead, though, he took his mum’s hand and gave it a little kiss.

“We can go to ballet class if you like.”

Who knows what made him give in in the end; maybe he was a girl after-all and just finally accepted in and finally let her out. Or maybe it was just one of the many compromises children made to keep their parents from collapsing and falling apart.

And so the last days of summer were splashed with the colour pink.

Steven did everything that only girls get to do. He was enrolled in every dance class that his mother could find and any group whatsoever whose focus was on dressing like mums and playing with dolls. Steven, though, was terrible at everything.

He tried to dance as best he could, but it always looked as if he was falling over. He had about as much poise and grace as he did balance. The girls all mocked him; first because of how ridiculous he looked, and then because of how bad he was.

Girls were worse than boys.

By the end of the week, he was completely segregated; sitting alone in each of his classes, picking at the necks of rubber dolls with plastic knives. He tried to pull all their heads off but no matter how hard he tried, the knives couldn’t cut through the thick rubber necks; and they broke in two whenever he tried to poke out their eyes.

And on the last day of summer, he had had enough.

“I don’t wanna be a girl anymore,” he said.

“This is for Stephany,” said The Mother, tying a neat bow in the boy’s hair. “Summer’s over now. Tomorrow is first day of school. And we have to see if the new school dress I picked up fits.”

“I hate Stephany,” shouted Steven.

“Sounds like someone needs to up their medication.”

By now Steven was on a concoction of puberty blockers, Clozapine, and B-12 tablets.

“I hate dresses,” he said as if he were being force-fed a spoonful of peas.

“But girls wear dresses.”

“I hate girls.”

“But you’re a girl,” said The Mother, sternly.

She had had enough.

“When would he stop fighting and just accept it?” she thought, as she laid out a blue pleated school dress on the boy’s bed.

“Dinner will be in thirty minutes,” she said.

She sounded like the warden of a prison now.

“Try on the dress. See if it fits right on the hips as well as the shoulders. And don’t be scared to give it a swirl,” she said. “In case you have to use a sipping rope or use a hool-a-hoop.”

“I hate being a girl,” said Steven, snatching the dress and scrunching it under his angry folded arms. “I wish I was a boy.”

The Mother didn’t argue. How could she? Her son was midst of a transition.

“I know you do,” she said. “And I love you for that. I’m so proud of you, did you know? You’re so brave.”

Steven smiled at first; until he looked at the dress laid out on the bed. Then he shook and cringed; and made wrecking balls out of his tiny little fists. Like some week old coffee, his mother’s attention was the sweet sugar to the bitter reality that he would have to be a girl from this point on.

“Love you,” said The Mother as she walked away. “Thirty minutes!”

Her voice seemed to echo. It sounded like a tin can being kicked down a stairwell. Her words didn’t seem important; they didn’t seem like they mattered.

“I know,” said Steven, mumbling out of pure annoyance.

Steven slowly put on the blue pleated dress; and because he knew she’d ask, he even put on the white socks and Oxford’s. After that he took a sharp knife out from beneath his pillow, and stood in front of the mirror.

He made himself look the meanest he could, with his face all scrunched up and his eyes rolled to the top of it head. And he held the knife so that it stuck out and looked like a sidewinders or laser cannons.

“You can come out,” he said, peering over his own shoulder

at the closet in the mirror.

The closet door budged just a little.

“No,” said a little girl’s voice from behind the door.

Steven got really mad; so mad that he didn’t have to pretend to be mean anymore.

“Tomorrow’s school,” said Steven.

“So?” said the voice of the little girl in the little boy’s closet.

“That means summer’s over,” said Steven, sounding as if he were mourning a grandparent. “And it means we’re over too. Now come out,” he said, sounding anything but five.

“I don’t want to.”

Steven waved his big silver knife through the air like a Samurai Sword.

“Don’t you want to play?” he said, pretending to stab and cut.

“No.” “Why not?”

“I want to go home, Steven. I’m scared. I want my mummy.”

Steven pressed his face right up against the closet door, having to squint just so he could see the little girl kept prisoner inside.

“Come out,” he said, shoving his knife through the crack in the door. “Come out or I’ll get you out.”

“No.” “Why not?”

“Because you’re gonna hurt me.”

“No I’m not,” said Steven He sounded like a perfectly normal child at that point.

“Yes you are,” said The Girl. “You have a knife. You’re gonna hurt me.”

All of a sudden, the boy’s tone changed entirely.

“You dumb stupid girl,” he screamed. “I’m doing this because of you.”

As he stabbed his knife through the crack in the door, Steven stared at his reflection in the mirror. If it weren’t for the knife he was holding, he’d probably look really stupid right now.

“I didn’t do anything to you, Steven.”

She was trying to negotiate her way out; to paint herself as a victim.

“I’m not Steven,” said Steven. “I’m Stephany.”

The little girl screamed.

“No,” she cried out. “I’m Stephany.”

Steven stabbed the knife a couple more times.

“Shut up,” he said. “My mum find out.”

The girl instantly went quiet.

“I have to wear this stupid dress because of you,” said Steven. “And I have to cross my legs all funny. And it hurts to do.”

“That wasn’t me. I didn’t make you wear a dress. I want to go home, Steven. I’m sorry. Please. I won’t hold your hand anymore. I promise,” she cried out. “I want my mummy.”

Now it was Steven who had had enough. He knew that the only way to deal with the end of summer was to get it over and done with. And so he turned off the bedroom light so his neighbours wouldn’t see, and he slowly opened the closet door. The whole room was pitch black but there was no mistaking the small girl shivering and shaking behind a rack of coats and jumpers.

“I know,” said Steven as his mum had to him. “But summer’s over.”

The way he held that knife, you’d think he had once killed a hundred wild boar.

“It’s time to come out,” he said.

The small girl’s heart nearly stopped.

Steven stared at the knife in his hands.

He knew it wouldn’t bend.

He knew it wouldn’t break.

Also by C. Sean McGee: A Rising Fall (CITY b00k 001) Utopian Circus (CITY b00k 011) Heaven is Full of Arseholes Coffee and Sugar Christine Rock Book Volume I: The Boy from the County Hell Rock Book Volume II: Dark Side of the Moon Alex and The Gruff (a tale of horror) The Terror{blist} The Anarchist Happy People Live Here The Time Traveler’s Wife Ineffable London When it Rains The Inscrutable Mr. Robot

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