I should have known it wouldn't be a good idea. Anything that sounds that good really can't be what it seems.
It was about a week after I went to see the gypsy that I started to see the changes. My hair was coming back, my gut was starting to recede, my teeth started to seem whiter. Yeah, it was all good. I took my old 34-inch pants out of storage, bought new shoes, all the people at work remarked on how good I looked. I said I had started working out. But I didn't bulk up, I just got thinner. The hair fell out of my chest and thinned out on my legs and arms. I only had to shave every couple days. It was going along gradually. I even quit smoking as it seemed to make me cough more and more every time I lit up.
Then, it all happened. I woke up in the night in more pain that I could possibly imagine. I swear I saw things moving under the skin of my arms and legs. Somehow, I managed to stumble to the bathroom and turned on the shower, lying in the tub letting the cool water diminish the pain. It didn't help much, and with one particularly agonizing twinge, I passed out.
I came to the next day, I don't know what time. I thought I was dead. Looking down at myself, I had to be dead; my whole body was covered with oozing sores, dead white skin peeling off, reddish water running down the drain. I shifted my foot slightly, and my toes came off, plopping down wetly beside my ankle. Now that is slightly odd. God, I've got some horrible African virus; if anybody finds me, the CDC will fly me to Atlanta, put me in a sealed room, and burn the plane. Except I wasn't in much pain anymore. I couldn't breathe through my nose, but after pulling off my nose with what was left of my arm, that problem went away too.
So I thought, hey, let's see what else works, and pretty soon I've managed to stand up on my stumps of feet and start washing myself off in the ice-cold water. I left about half of me on the bottom of the tub it seemed - that's interesting - then washed off half of the rest. I had to keep kicking the bloody detritus toward the top end of the tub to keep it from plugging up the drain. The last thing I did was to wash my hair (it turned out I had hair under my hair).
Only then did I get out and look in the mirror. Of course, I was frozen - some 30 minutes in cold water, and that was only after I woke up. At first, I thought I had become invisible, as there was no one in the middle of the mirror. Then, I looked down.
And there was this little 10-year-old kid staring at me from the bottom of the mirror. And oh yeah, when I looked down, he was definitely 10. But it wasn't me. My mother has burned all my childhood pictures, but my grandmother still has some, and I didn't look like this. I can't remember my childhood, of course.
Well, this is a problem, and I'm a systems analyst, I solve problems. Hmm, I'm a kid, can't solve that one yet, let's approach it from the side (as I say to my staff), let's solve the problems we know how to solve, come back to that one later. So I start picking up putrefying pieces of my former self from the tub and flushing them down the toilet. Plugged it a couple times before I got the knack, but in the end it all went down. Then I took another shower and rinsed off the tub. Dried off and wiped off the floor. Put the sheets in the wash. Had to stand on a stool to reach the laundry soap on top of the washer.
Nothing to wear now. Started to think about finding another gypsy to change me back, started giggling. Then I freaked out - I didn't even sound like me any more. I put on a big t-shirt. I had never worn it before because of the saying on it ("Make 7 - Up Yours"). I had nothing else to wear, but it didn't matter since it came most of the way down my thighs; I was well covered.
Started to call in sick to work, then realized I couldn't, nobody would recognize me. Put the deadbolt on the door and closed all the blinds. I paced the floor for a while trying to figure out what to do; amazing how big my apartment was now.
The computer saved me - "on the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog," as they say. The first thing I did was order clothes. I didn't know what size I was, so I ordered every size between toddler and grownup. Checked several sites till I found one that would let me specify delivery instructions ("leave package at the door"). (I had just spent $1000 on 3 outfits just to see what size I was.)
I ignored my boss's calls, then ignored his knocking on the door. Finally I called pretending to be my girlfriend, said we had gone to California to become Hare Krishnas. It was a fun call, I hated the SOB.
Having done everything I could, for the moment, I realized as I sat down again that I had to forget about everyone I ever knew. Now that was really depressing. I got a beer out of the fridge, thinking sadly that after my present stock of beer was gone, I wouldn't be drinking any more for a long time. I looked at TV for a while, watched Jerry Springer, realized I was a bigger freak now than even those people. I tried to think of a way to prove that I was still who I had been. Were my fingerprints the same? It wouldn't matter anyway - I had never been fingerprinted.
Then I started to cry. Hey, I was 10, right? Something about hormones, or lack of them perhaps .... No, this would not do. I went back to the computer again. I always liked chatting on the computer, usually about things like managing Windows 2000 domains, or integrating a Linux WWW server on an NT network. I guess after my second beer I was pretty drunk, because I just automatically flipped on the cam and fired up Netmeeting.
Then I realized there was nobody to talk to, nobody I knew would recognize me. Well, there was always IRC. What channel? Somehow, chatting about managing domain security didn't seem appealing any more. I found a channel called #boyslife. Well, that's me now, I thought with disgust. I just needed to talk to somebody. It didn't take long. Almost as soon as I joined the channel, MIRC popped up a box requesting a private chat.
hi, ccole!
hi
sup?
just want to talk to someone, i guess [God, that sounded pathetic! But I felt pathetic.]
im here, whats wrong?
i [What do I say now?]
we moved, i dont know anyone here
u will make new friends, i will be your friend
no, im disgusting, im all scrawny [I was getting really drunk by then, I think.]
no ur not, sweety, tho ur face would look nicer if it wasnt all teary-eyed
Oh my God, I had left the cam on, Netmeeting had automatically connected. He could see me! Eww, and I could see him! The guy was easily 45, 50 years old.
"I, I forgot I left the cam on," I said stupidly, remembering he could hear me as well.
He gave a kind chuckle. "Don't worry, sweetie. I like being able to see you. You're not disgusting, you're a very beautiful boy. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"C-christopher." This was all very weird, but it seemed like just what I needed at the moment. His voice was very reassuring.
"That's a pretty name for a pretty boy. I'm David. Do you go by Christopher or Chris?"
"Chrissie," I said, without thinking. My older brother had called me that, before he went to prison. I hadn't talked to him once since he got out, and now I never would; like everyone else, he wouldn't know who I was. It just made me tear up again.
"Sweetie? It's gonna be all right, believe me," the man said. I nodded at the screen. "Wipe your face off so I can see you."
I got up and walked to the bathroom to get the Kleenex, forgetting again that David, whoever he was, could see me. I brought the box back and wiped my face off and blew my nose.
"That's my boy. You are not disgusting, and you are not scrawny. You are a sweetheart. Are you alone in the house?" I nodded and took a swig of beer. David's eyebrows went up at that, so I put the beer back beside the monitor where he couldn't see it. "Won't your daddy miss that beer, Chrissy?"
"No," I said quickly, trying to think. "He will just think he forgot he drank it and get more."
"Does your daddy drink a lot?"
"Yes," I said. Actually, my dad did drink a lot, but that hadn't been my problem for, oh, 20 years. "He gets drunk and hits my mommy." That, I realized after I'd said it, was true as well, though I had pretended to believe all the time growing up that she was just clumsy, kept running into doors and things. I started crying again.
"Ohh, Chrissie, I'm so sorry. Does he hit you, baby?" I shook my head. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I wish I was there for you. Here." He clicked some keys, and I received a picture of a rose. "Did you get it?" I nodded. "Say something to me, Chrissie."
"T - thank you," I blubbed.
"You're welcome." He smiled gently. "How old are you, sweetie?"
"Ten," I guessed.
"You're too young to be left alone at home. Where are your parents?"
"Nebraska," I said, stupidly. It was the truth, however; they had retired there. My dad still drank, but he was too sick now to menace anybody.
"Nebraska? When are they coming back?"
"I don't know." I was getting myself in deep here. I finished off the beer in a panic.
David frowned. "How long have they been gone?"
About 20 years. I laughed, still teary-eyed. "A while." He frowned more. "They'll come back eventually." I hung my head down so as not to look at him.
David was silent for a minute. "Chrissie? I want you to do something for me. Will you do it?"
I looked back up, pushing my long blond hair out of my eyes. "What?"
"Write my phone number down. Get some paper." I got up again and got some paper. "619-442-3384. OK? That's my number. You call me if," his face darkened, "if you have a problem, OK? I'll help you."
"OK," I said.
"Sweetie, do you have food in the house?"
"Sure, lots," I said, trying to sound confident. I was afraid, for some stupid reason, that he would call the police. Funny, huh? But on three beers, I was three sheets to the wind.
"What did you eat today?"
"Um, macaroni" - David didn't seem satisfied - "and, and potato chips." That didn't help. I hadn't really eaten much that day, I was too upset. "I have lots of food. Mommy and Daddy will come back, don't worry." Both of those were lies; I never stock up on food, I like to get take-out rather than cook. And of course Mommy and Daddy would never come back. I hadn't spoken to them in 10 years.
"Chrissie, stand up and turn around." Something about his tone must have sounded authoritative, because I did just that. It made me dizzy. "Do you get enough to eat?"
"I feel sick," I said, and ran to the bathroom to puke my guts out. It came out the other end too. The shirt was a mess. By the time I wiped up everything, rinsed out the shirt and put it in the washer, and found another t-shirt to wear, I was sure David would be gone.
He was not. "Do you feel better now?" he asked sweetly.
"Yeah."
"Do you get sick a lot?"
"No. I think I drank too much." I smiled sheepishly. I hadn't gotten sick from alcohol since college.
"Little boys shouldn't drink beer," he admonished gently. "They should drink chocolate milkshakes and eat sundaes and ...."
My stomach churned. "Errm, don't talk about food."
David laughed. "I like your new nightshirt."
I looked down and realized that this shirt was somewhat smaller than the 7-Up shirt. I pulled my knees together, not knowing if he could see under it or not.
"Stand up and turn around again."
"No. I'll get dizzy."
"Turn really slow. Try to keep your eyes in one place."
I shrugged and did it. Keeping my eyes in one place helped, going really slow helped more. I held my arms out in case I fell. I didn't notice how high the shirt was riding up. Finished, I collapsed back in the chair.
"You have pretty legs." I looked down at them. I guess they were, soft and feminine looking, not knobby-kneed like most boys ... ewww, don't go there. I scowled. "You really do, Chrissie, you should be a dancer."
"I like dancing," I said. Another recovered memory. I used to turn on the radio and dance around all the time in my room, but I made sure Dad never saw me. He thought I was a little queer already. Not like my brother, he loved me.
"I would like to see you dance," David said.
"Wait a minute," I said. Must have been my intoxicated state, maybe my sense of complete hopelessness, but it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request, to dance for a strange man. I ran out of the room and found my Abba CD. I had never actually listened to it before. I bought it with a whole bunch of other CD's one time in a store in another city - like the 7-Up shirt, it was a token of something I never expressed. It had the perfect song. I had danced to it many times while my brother watched. I also got another beer out of the refrigerator and choked down a swig. I knew that tomorrow I'd be 40 again, albeit trapped in a 10-year-old body, so I didn't want tonight to end any time soon.
I came back in the room with the beer and the CD, put the CD in the stereo, took another swig and put the beer down, and picked up a ruler. Holding the ruler to my mouth like a microphone, I lip-synched:
"You can dance, you can dance, having the time of your life ... oo-o-oh see that girl, watch that scene, diggin' the dancing queen ..."
I started dancing again, like I was onstage, shaking my narrow hips, twisting on my slender legs, pacing right and left, looking at the camera.
"Friday night and the lights are low ... looking for a place to go ... where they play the right music, getting in the swing, you come to look for him ..." leaning forward, turning my head to the side, like a rock star.
I was back, it was all back, Charlie was watching me again, smiling at my antics. I shook my long hair out of my eyes and went on. I jumped up and down as the chorus started.
"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen ...." Now that I was dancing, I had no problem spinning around; I spun and sang, "You can dance, you can dance, having the time of your life ...."
I vamped it totally, just like I had done for Charlie so many years ago. Arching my back and shaking my hips, completely forgetting I was wearing effectively a mini-skirt with no panties underneath. I was a boy possessed. I was the Abba girl again.
When the song ended, I bowed, and David applauded. Just like Charlie. God, I missed him so much. I sat down and drank more beer. David frowned at me, but I ignored him.
"God, Chrissie, you're beautiful," he said. I pushed my hair away again and batted my eyelashes at the screen before I realized it was David, not Charlie. I started tearing up again. "You're marvellous, amazing, a terrific dancer. Why are you crying, sweetheart?"
"I miss my brudder," I said between sobs.
"Where is your brother, sweetie?"
"I-in jail," I said. He was out now, but that didn't matter, did it?
"Did he hurt you, Chrissie, sweetheart?"
"No, he loved me, he was the only one ...." And I cried more as I realized that he had in fact been the only one, my entire life.
"Believe me, he's not the only one, Chrissie. You'll find lots of people to love you. Maybe even me," he said, hopefully.
I looked up at him. "Nooo ..." I cried.
"Yes, sweetheart, you are so beautiful and you dance like an angel.... Why did your brother go to jail, sweetheart?"
"They said he raped a girl, but he didn't do it, I know it."
"How do you know, sweetie?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I started crying steadily and finally turned the Internet connection off. I was too tired anyway to continue. I went to bed and fell asleep soon after.
I woke up the next day with a wicked hangover, from only three and a half beers, at least one of which I had puked up. What a lightweight. I popped a couple aspirin and drank some Pepto Bismol from the bottle (who needs that little cup?). I made myself some hot tea and forced myself to stay up and get about business, which is after all the punishment you deserve for getting drunk and making a fool of yourself the previous night.
I started thinking about money. I had some savings. I just had to find a way to transfer the money without, um, actually showing up at the bank or talking to them on the phone. I decided to send the savings bank a letter. They would send me a check (hopefully - they had my signature on file), and I could deposit it at the ATM at my regular bank.
I would need to get food soon, though. Kids can buy food, at least - but I couldn't drive. I would have to take buses. I sat down and tried to work out a budget. If I could get the money out of savings, I'd have six months before I had to start running up credit cards.
All the while, I knew that if the police caught me, or if somebody became suspicious, I would wind up "in the system." And worse: I would be completely unable to explain who I was or how I came to be where I was. I would be grilled by the police and by social workers until I finally gave up and told them the truth, which they wouldn't believe, which nobody would believe. I would end up locked up with the crazy kids, doing the Thorazine shuffle between group therapy sessions and finger-painting classes.
So I needed to stay independent, until this thing wore off. And it would wear off, I thought, in about eight years, if nothing else (hollow laugh). The best thing you can say about childhood is that it's only temporary. I shuddered to think that what the gypsy had done to me might be permanent.
I needed to find a source of revenue. With what little I had in capital, I wasn't going to be a professional investor. But I didn't see any possible way of getting a job. The local paper, like most in the country, no longer employed paperboys (too much liability risk).
It all gave me a headache. I got on the Internet again and checked my email. There was a lot of stuff from my coworkers, basically asking why I'd left, some requesting passwords that only I knew; I answered them as well as I could. I also told them not to write any more, my life now was with Krishna and Vishnu (snicker). But there, near the end of the list, was the following:
Chrissie,
I liked our chat last night. You are a very beautiful boy, and a wonderful dancer! Please write back and tell me how you are doing. I'm worried about you.
I hope I get to chat with you again soon.
Your friend, David xoxoxoxoxo
Of course, he had gotten my email address from the Microsoft directory. It was pretty easy to find me, and that's the way I liked it. Well, at least the way I used to like it.
In the sober light of day, I realized that my friend David from last night was a pedophile, and it made me laugh. If he only knew! Like, hey, guy, I'm a 40-year-old systems analyst, I'm about as innocent as a crack whore, and about as attractive as a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig!
Then I realized that in my present form (Vishnu has many incarnations, oommmm), I probably was attractive to him. I have thuch pretty legs, I giggled. Ewww, and I'd danced for him too, groaning inwardly at the thought. I have a cable modem, so it would have been a pretty good picture. Oh, but I was tho pretty and gay, he mutht love me now.
There must be a way to make this work for me, I thought. I needed money, this poor sap needed to imagine he was in love with a pretty boy. It was a confidence game, nothing more. OK, so I was turning to a life of crime - it was the government's fault for making it illegal for 10-year-olds to find productive jobs in the coal mines and dress factories of this great country.
I figured I would need at least one more chat session to reel him in. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, still wearing the shirt from last night. I looked rather bedraggled (or bed-haired), definitely not my best. The shirt was wrinkled.
I took a shower, taking especial care to wash and condition my long blond hair, brushing and blow-drying it into Leif Garrett wings. I didn't have any earrings, but I did have a nice, thin gold necklace some junior programmer had given me a few years back, thinking that if I loved her I wouldn't fire her for incompetence (I didn't love her and did fire her).
What to wear? My new clothes had not arrived yet, of course, so basically I had a nice selection of shirts. I went for the hot Brad Renfro look, cutting the sleeves off a dress shirt (square cut, without a tail) to reveal my pretty little arms, leaving two buttons undone at the top so as to show off the necklace. I even brushed my long eyelashes, which had been stuck together after the shower.
In the end, I was stunning, if I do say so myself. It turned out that I had a lot to work with, for a little boy. I had naturally large, light blue eyes, clearly not fake since contacts give you darker blue eyes. My small, upturned nose looked like Michael Jackson's before his last surgery (or was it his next to last?). My closely set eyes and pug nose rested above naturally red, bow-shaped lips, slightly thicker than a boy's should be. When I smiled, my incisors and canine teeth, much larger than the rest of my mouth, gave me a pearly-white, boyish smile that was almost vampirish - like the kid in the movies that you know is going to get himself in trouble. I had a small ears and a narrow face, leading down to a small, pointy chin. My long eyelashes drew attention anew to my pretty blue eyes every time I blinked. And the whole of it was surrounded with gorgeous, autumn-blond hair, which I had tried to make wings in, but which was so naturally straight that they kept
falling across my forehead and over my eyes.
Damn, I got a hardon looking at myself. I could be a 13-year-old girl on her first date. (Not that I had ever dated girls, or anybody, for that matter.)
I was feeling pretty weird then. It was an hour or so before the time I was on before (and when David would expect me), so I took another beer out of my diminishing stash and drank it as I paced the floor. I mean, I knew it was a confidence game, but I felt like a prostitute. Here I had made myself pretty for some man I didn't love so I could get his money. It's a way to get some revenue, I consoled myself. I need revenue, or I won't survive. I'll be locked up, and I can't let that happen. I finished the first beer and started on the second.
What if he doesn't like me? That's ridiculous. I'm the prettiest boy I've ever seen. I put Abba on again. Yes, I'm pretty. I'm gorgeous.
The time came, and, always punctual, I turned on Netmeeting. I didn't even get a chance to get on IRC.
"Hi, Chrissie."
"Hi," I replied, surprised.
"It's David again. I waited for you. I hoped you would come on." He was dressed better than last time; no more t-shirt. Oh no, he had a blue dress shirt and a tie! He didn't look like a creep when he was all dressed up; he looked like a businessman, very respectable and even somewhat fashionably dressed. Like my boss, maybe.
I felt definitely underdressed, not that I had had any choice in the matter. "You look nice," I said, "very respectable." Uncomfortable with the way he was looking at me, I turned my head shyly to the side.
"Oh, this," he said, looking down at himself, smiling. "I didn't want you to think I was some ... I wanted to look nice for you." He paused, adding, "You look very nice as well. I like your necklace. Did you want to look nice for me too?"
I looked into his smiling face on the screen and couldn't avoid feeling some butterflies in my stomach. "Yeah," I said, shyly, fingering the small aquamarine at the end of my necklace. God, I was acting like Whoopi Goldberg in "The Color Purple" when that singer sang "Miss Celie's Blues" for her. Got to get it together. I took another swig of beer.
David frowned again. "Sweetie, are you drinking your daddy's beer again?"
"Yeah," I said softly.
"Why?"
"I - it helps me not to worry about things," I said honestly.
"What are you worried about, sweetie?"
"I was worried that you didn't like me." Partial truth.
"Why, sweetheart? I already told you I liked you. I like you even more now. You are the prettiest, sweetest boy I've ever met. Don't be nervous with me. Did you get my email?"
"Yes."
"Then you know that I'm your friend. Is that OK? I want to be your friend, Chrissie."
"OK," I replied, still in "Miss Celie" mode.
"I like your hair that way. Boys never wear their hair like that any more." Neither do girls, he failed to add. "You have very pretty hair. Please lift up your face, sweetie, so I can see your pretty blue eyes."
I had a little involuntary shiver realizing that he had already noticed the color of my eyes. I never noticed people's eye color. I looked up at him and self-consciously pushed the hair out of my eyes with my index finger.
"Have you heard from your Mommy and Daddy, Chrissie?"
"Yeah, they're coming back soon," I said quickly. Too quickly.
"Chrissie, is that the truth?" he asked, quietly but sternly.
"No," I admitted, looking sad, "but they will come back eventually, they always do."
He sat frowning for a long while, and I took the opportunity to take some deep swigs off my beer. "Chrissie, would you like to come live with me?" he finally asked.
"N-no," I said quickly. "I want to stay here." I didn't want to get adopted, I just wanted to get money.
David sighed. "Do you still have my phone number, sweetie?"
"Yes." He waited. "619-442-3384," I read off my note. I smiled to calm him down.
"Will you call me if you're in trouble?"
"Yes, sir, I will," I said, somewhat peevishly.
"I just worry about you, Chrissie," he said, defensively. Trying to lighten the mood, he suggested, "You want to dance again? I'd love to dance with you."
That was so funny after what we'd been talking about that I burst out laughing. "You can't dance," I giggled.
David laughed too. "Yes I can," he insisted. "Do you want to pick the music or shall I?"
"Me!" I said with some alarm. He laughed harder. Abba was already in the stereo. I selected a track.
"I've seen you twice, in a short time, only a week since we've started...."
I started out in medium-slow dance mode, he followed me. The chorus came up soon.
"So I wanna know, what's the name of the game? ... Does it mean anything to you? ... What's the name of the game? Can you feel it the way I do? Tell me please, 'cause I have to know, I'm a bashful child, beginning to grow.... And you make me talk, and you make me feel, and you make me show, what I'm trying to conceal....
"If I trust in you, will you let me down, would you laugh at me, if I said I care for you? Could you feel the same way too? I wanna know, oh yes I wanna know, the name of the game...."
It was, as I thought, the perfect seduction song, at least for a gay boy to a pervert. His eyes were tearing up as he watched and danced with me. Finally, overcome, he just stood and watched me. When the song ended, I turned off the stereo with the remote and sat down smiling, a wide smile on my face.
Mission accomplished. Looking at him, I could tell he was in love with me. Truth was, it was a terrific song, even apart from its pervert seduction qualities (IMHO).
"That was amazing, sweetie. I want to dance with you in real life."
"You couldn't keep up with me in real life," I teased, still grinning.
He laughed. "You're probably right, but I'd sure enjoy trying. Will you meet me somewhere?"
"No, honey," I said, as "Marilyn Monroe" as possible, "but I will talk to you later."
"Are you leaving?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, I'm tired," I said, stretching and yawning theatrically.
"Chrissie? Sweetheart? Will you do me a favor before you go?"
"What?" I said, acting bored. Oooh, I could feel his heart aching.
"Stand up and twirl around for me one more time."
I realized then that the shirt had risen as I danced. He wanted another look at my perky buns and my cute little dick. He was totally hooked. I stood up and twirled for him several times, making sure that he got a good look.
"Wow," he said.
"Good night, David," I said, acting like I hadn't shown anything.
"Good night, Chrissie. Will you be on tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Good night."
As I turned off Netmeeting, I knew that he would give me money - if I could figure out how to handle it.
The next morning, I realized that that was a problem. The simplest thing would be to just have my favorite pervert David mail me a check. That wouldn't work, since then he would know where I lived - I knew enough from press reports that it was quite possible he would stalk me. I could set up a "wish list" at some store on the Internet, but I didn't need things from a department store, I needed money for food and rent. Same deal with those Internet money accounts - they convert into stuff you buy off the Internet, not soup, milk, and bread.
Having him mail me a check would work if there was another place for him to mail it, but there wasn't. I didn't have a P.O. box, and now I couldn't get one since nobody would agree to open a P.O. box for a ten-year-old. General delivery wouldn't work, since I had no ID to claim the letter (well, I had ID, but for obvious reasons it wouldn't work any more). I could have him send it to me at work, but (a) I had told my boss I was leaving for California, giving him no forwarding address, and (b) what business does a kid have getting mail at a Fortune 500 company?
UPS came and delivered the first batch of clothes. I let them knock and didn't answer the door. As the driver left, I was relieved to see that he had left the package at the door as instructed. Looking out the blinds to see that no one was about, I opened the door quickly and pulled the large, heavy package in.
Inside were yellow shorts and blue short-sleeved shirts in boys' sizes 4 through 18, and plain white underwear in the same sizes. And a red baseball cap (that, I knew, would fit, at least). After lots of tearing open packages with my skinny arms and trying on different sizes, I ended up with one outfit, size 10, that I could wear. After two days of going half-naked, it was a relief to finally have real clothes.
Then I realized that I had forgotten shoes and socks. Of course, I couldn't go to a store and buy some since you need shoes to get in! So I got back on the Internet and ordered from the same store, every size of a particular white sneaker and every size of a particular blue, yellow, and white athletic sock that they had. I clicked on overnight delivery and put in the same delivery instructions, "leave at door." Thank God for VISA and the Internet, or I'd still be naked.
After two and a half days in my apartment, I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic. At last I could go outside, even though I couldn't go to a store or get on a bus or actually do anything. Besides, little boys go barefoot all the time, don't they? So, I looked out the blinds until I saw nobody was coming and darted out quickly.
I wandered around the apartment complex, mostly staying on the grass since the sidewalks and roadways felt hot on my tender feet. I saw some other boys coming, somewhat bigger than me (maybe 12 or 13), and I instinctively dove behind a hedge to hide from them. They didn't see me. As they passed, I slowly rose up from my hiding place, when suddenly I felt a man's hand on my shoulder. I about jumped out of my new shorts.
"Hey, sweetheart," the man said as I turned to look up at him. He was smiling. "Are those boys picking on you?"
"No," I said, looking after them to see if they had seen me.
He looked doubtful for a moment, then knelt down so we were face-to-face. "Well, I know those boys and their parents, so if you have trouble, you tell me, OK? It's not right for boys to pick on little girls." God, he thought I was a girl!
"It's OK," I said softly.
"You know," he said, "I have a daughter about your age, I bet she'd like to meet you. Her name is Amy, what's your name, sweetheart?"
"Chrissie," I said softly.
He took my hand in his big paw and shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Chrissie. I'm Andy Comfort. We're in 6-B."
"Um," I said uncertainly, "I wanna go home, OK?"
He let me go. "Sure, Chrissie. Come by and see Amy, all right?"
"OK," I said, and ran home, or as fast as I could run with bare feet (you have to look out for stickers and rocks, you know?).
Right, bad idea, I thought, as I pulled my keys out of my pocket and let myself in. I leaned against the door as I closed it behind me. I'll just stay inside here and starve. I wonder if it's a painful death?
I sprawled on the couch, exhausted by the ordeal. Being a boy was harder that I thought. Look, I finally told myself, get used to it. Unless and until you find the gypsy again to change you back, this is what you are. Deal with it.
Find the gypsy again! Why didn't I think of that before? The carnival was on the grounds of the old high school, they must have had a permit to be there, there would be public records, right? Sure there were, but they weren't online, as it turned out. I would have to go the county offices to see them. The government is so slow to adopt new technology.
I did learn, however, that I could pass for a woman on the phone, if I kept my voice low and didn't get excited. (If I did, my voice would reach octaves that only dogs could hear.) Not that it did me any good in this case, since, again, I was 10, and there was little possibility that they would let me see the files even if I found a way to get there.
Anyway, back to the problem at hand. I hadn't wanted to face it, but the fact was that the only way I would be able to get David's money was to meet him face-to-face and take it out of his sweaty hand. I dialed his number.
"Hello?" It was him. Sounds in the background sounded like an office; a copier was running.
"Hello, David? It's Chrissie."
There was a pause, shoes on a floor, a door closing. "Yes, Chrissie, I'm here."
"If it's a bad time, I can call back."
"No, it's not a bad time. Is something wrong, sweetie?"
I poured it on. "Mommy and daddy are not back yet. The man said the rent is due and ... I don't know what to do." I put my hand over the mouthpiece in case my silent laugh became audible.
"Honey, I'll come and get you."
"You'll take me awaaay," I whined.
"No, sweetheart, I won't take you away. Please don't cry, I hate it when you cry."
"I have to pay him, I don't have the money. I want Mommy and Daddy to come baaack ...." I pretended to cry into the phone.
"Oh, Chrissie," he said, choking back tears. "I want to help you. How can I help you."
"The man said $300, I need $300 more. I only have $25." There was a long pause. Time to close the deal. "Pleeease help me, David. They will throw us out and I will go into foster care again and I will never see my Mommy agaaaain." I as laying it on thick. "Please help meeee." Waaaah.
"I want to help you, Chrissie, but ...."
"I'll be nice to you (snif), I'll dance for you again." Sniffle. "I'm so scared, please come heeere."
Pause. "I'll come, Chrissie. Don't worry, honey, it will all be OK. Where are you?"
"Do you have $300?"
"Yes. Yes I do. It will be OK, sweetheart, just tell me where you are."
"I will be at the downtown Galleria at 1:00 on Wednesday. I will have on yellow shorts and a red hat."
"Why can't I just come to your house? Give me your address, sweetie."
"No, I don't want the man to see you. He will tell my parents." Good one.
"OK, I will see you there." I hadn't told him what city, and he wasn't asking, notice that? I knew he would figure it out. Easier to get what city I was in than to get my email address, and he had already gotten that.
Keys clicking in the background. "Are you online, Chrissie? I want to see you again."
Well, I guess he deserved that much. "No. I will get on though, if you want. I have to hang up, though," I said, which was not true.
"OK, we'll hang up now. I'll see you in a little bit, OK?"
"OK," I said, and hung up. I took my time about getting online and turning on the cam.
"Hello, Chrissie," said the computer's speakers.
"Hi." He was dressed in a suit. Very respectable.
"You look nice. Stand up and turn around so I can see you." I did as asked, holding my arms out straight. "Gorgeous. It's so nice to see a boy wearing proper clothes."
I just smiled and sat down again. "Mommy picks them." I really hadn't thought about current styles when I bought my clothes. I thought they fit pretty well; they were a little tight in the butt, but size 12 was way too big all over, so it was no contest.
"Your mommy picks very well. So this is what you will be wearing when I see you?"
"Yes, at 1:00 in the Galleria by the fountain."
He laughed at my earnestness. "I will be there, sweetie."
"OK, good night."
"Can't you stay on and talk to me?"
"My favorite show is on."
"And what is that, sweetheart?"
"Yu-gi-oh." I thought fast.
"What's it about?"
"Um, it's about a boy who fights duels to save the world. It's a cartoon."
"Will you come back later?"
"Maybe."
"What did you eat today?"
"Cinnamon crunchies."
He frowned at that. "Is that all?"
"And, um, peas." He didn't believe me, but I didn't want him to. "Bye, I got to go."
"OK, bye then," he said with a sigh. I turned the computer off.
=====1
A New Life
I should have known it wouldn't be a good idea. Anything that sounds that good really can't be what it seems.
It was about a week after I went to see the gypsy that I started to see the changes. My hair was coming back, my gut was starting to recede, my teeth started to seem whiter. Yeah, it was all good. I took my old 34-inch pants out of storage, bought new shoes, all the people at work remarked on how good I looked. I said I had started working out. But I didn't bulk up, I just got thinner. The hair fell out of my chest and thinned out on my legs and arms. I only had to shave every couple days. It was going along gradually. I even quit smoking as it seemed to make me cough more and more every time I lit up.
Then, it all happened. I woke up in the night in more pain that I could possibly imagine. I swear I saw things moving under the skin of my arms and legs. Somehow, I managed to stumble to the bathroom and turned on the shower, lying in the tub letting the cool water diminish the pain. It didn't help much, and with one particularly agonizing twinge, I passed out.
I came to the next day, I don't know what time. I thought I was dead. Looking down at myself, I had to be dead; my whole body was covered with oozing sores, dead white skin peeling off, reddish water running down the drain. I shifted my foot slightly, and my toes came off, plopping down wetly beside my ankle. Now that is slightly odd. God, I've got some horrible African virus; if anybody finds me, the CDC will fly me to Atlanta, put me in a sealed room, and burn the plane. Except I wasn't in much pain anymore. I couldn't breathe through my nose, but after pulling off my nose with what was left of my arm, that problem went away too.
So I thought, hey, let's see what else works, and pretty soon I've managed to stand up on my stumps of feet and start washing myself off in the ice-cold water. I left about half of me on the bottom of the tub it seemed - that's interesting - then washed off half of the rest. I had to keep kicking the bloody detritus toward the top end of the tub to keep it from plugging up the drain. The last thing I did was to wash my hair (it turned out I had hair under my hair).
Only then did I get out and look in the mirror. Of course, I was frozen - some 30 minutes in cold water, and that was only after I woke up. At first, I thought I had become invisible, as there was no one in the middle of the mirror. Then, I looked down.
And there was this little 10-year-old kid staring at me from the bottom of the mirror. And oh yeah, when I looked down, he was definitely 10. But it wasn't me. My mother has burned all my childhood pictures, but my grandmother still has some, and I didn't look like this. I can't remember my childhood, of course.
Well, this is a problem, and I'm a systems analyst, I solve problems. Hmm, I'm a kid, can't solve that one yet, let's approach it from the side (as I say to my staff), let's solve the problems we know how to solve, come back to that one later. So I start picking up putrefying pieces of my former self from the tub and flushing them down the toilet. Plugged it a couple times before I got the knack, but in the end it all went down. Then I took another shower and rinsed off the tub. Dried off and wiped off the floor. Put the sheets in the wash. Had to stand on a stool to reach the laundry soap on top of the washer.
Nothing to wear now. Started to think about finding another gypsy to change me back, started giggling. Then I freaked out - I didn't even sound like me any more. I put on a big t-shirt. I had never worn it before because of the saying on it ("Make 7 - Up Yours"). I had nothing else to wear, but it didn't matter since it came most of the way down my thighs; I was well covered.
Started to call in sick to work, then realized I couldn't, nobody would recognize me. Put the deadbolt on the door and closed all the blinds. I paced the floor for a while trying to figure out what to do; amazing how big my apartment was now.
The computer saved me - "on the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog," as they say. The first thing I did was order clothes. I didn't know what size I was, so I ordered every size between toddler and grownup. Checked several sites till I found one that would let me specify delivery instructions ("leave package at the door"). (I had just spent $1000 on 3 outfits just to see what size I was.)
I ignored my boss's calls, then ignored his knocking on the door. Finally I called pretending to be my girlfriend, said we had gone to California to become Hare Krishnas. It was a fun call, I hated the SOB.
Having done everything I could, for the moment, I realized as I sat down again that I had to forget about everyone I ever knew. Now that was really depressing. I got a beer out of the fridge, thinking sadly that after my present stock of beer was gone, I wouldn't be drinking any more for a long time. I looked at TV for a while, watched Jerry Springer, realized I was a bigger freak now than even those people. I tried to think of a way to prove that I was still who I had been. Were my fingerprints the same? It wouldn't matter anyway - I had never been fingerprinted.
Then I started to cry. Hey, I was 10, right? Something about hormones, or lack of them perhaps .... No, this would not do. I went back to the computer again. I always liked chatting on the computer, usually about things like managing Windows 2000 domains, or integrating a Linux WWW server on an NT network. I guess after my second beer I was pretty drunk, because I just automatically flipped on the cam and fired up Netmeeting.
Then I realized there was nobody to talk to, nobody I knew would recognize me. Well, there was always IRC. What channel? Somehow, chatting about managing domain security didn't seem appealing any more. I found a channel called #boyslife. Well, that's me now, I thought with disgust. I just needed to talk to somebody. It didn't take long. Almost as soon as I joined the channel, MIRC popped up a box requesting a private chat.
hi, ccole!
hi
sup?
just want to talk to someone, i guess [God, that sounded pathetic! But I felt pathetic.]
im here, whats wrong?
i [What do I say now?]
we moved, i dont know anyone here
u will make new friends, i will be your friend
no, im disgusting, im all scrawny [I was getting really drunk by then, I think.]
no ur not, sweety, tho ur face would look nicer if it wasnt all teary-eyed
Oh my God, I had left the cam on, Netmeeting had automatically connected. He could see me! Eww, and I could see him! The guy was easily 45, 50 years old.
"I, I forgot I left the cam on," I said stupidly, remembering he could hear me as well.
He gave a kind chuckle. "Don't worry, sweetie. I like being able to see you. You're not disgusting, you're a very beautiful boy. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"C-christopher." This was all very weird, but it seemed like just what I needed at the moment. His voice was very reassuring.
"That's a pretty name for a pretty boy. I'm David. Do you go by Christopher or Chris?"
"Chrissie," I said, without thinking. My older brother had called me that, before he went to prison. I hadn't talked to him once since he got out, and now I never would; like everyone else, he wouldn't know who I was. It just made me tear up again.
"Sweetie? It's gonna be all right, believe me," the man said. I nodded at the screen. "Wipe your face off so I can see you."
I got up and walked to the bathroom to get the Kleenex, forgetting again that David, whoever he was, could see me. I brought the box back and wiped my face off and blew my nose.
"That's my boy. You are not disgusting, and you are not scrawny. You are a sweetheart. Are you alone in the house?" I nodded and took a swig of beer. David's eyebrows went up at that, so I put the beer back beside the monitor where he couldn't see it. "Won't your daddy miss that beer, Chrissy?"
"No," I said quickly, trying to think. "He will just think he forgot he drank it and get more."
"Does your daddy drink a lot?"
"Yes," I said. Actually, my dad did drink a lot, but that hadn't been my problem for, oh, 20 years. "He gets drunk and hits my mommy." That, I realized after I'd said it, was true as well, though I had pretended to believe all the time growing up that she was just clumsy, kept running into doors and things. I started crying again.
"Ohh, Chrissie, I'm so sorry. Does he hit you, baby?" I shook my head. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I wish I was there for you. Here." He clicked some keys, and I received a picture of a rose. "Did you get it?" I nodded. "Say something to me, Chrissie."
"T - thank you," I blubbed.
"You're welcome." He smiled gently. "How old are you, sweetie?"
"Ten," I guessed.
"You're too young to be left alone at home. Where are your parents?"
"Nebraska," I said, stupidly. It was the truth, however; they had retired there. My dad still drank, but he was too sick now to menace anybody.
"Nebraska? When are they coming back?"
"I don't know." I was getting myself in deep here. I finished off the beer in a panic.
David frowned. "How long have they been gone?"
About 20 years. I laughed, still teary-eyed. "A while." He frowned more. "They'll come back eventually." I hung my head down so as not to look at him.
David was silent for a minute. "Chrissie? I want you to do something for me. Will you do it?"
I looked back up, pushing my long blond hair out of my eyes. "What?"
"Write my phone number down. Get some paper." I got up again and got some paper. "619-442-3384. OK? That's my number. You call me if," his face darkened, "if you have a problem, OK? I'll help you."
"OK," I said.
"Sweetie, do you have food in the house?"
"Sure, lots," I said, trying to sound confident. I was afraid, for some stupid reason, that he would call the police. Funny, huh? But on three beers, I was three sheets to the wind.
"What did you eat today?"
"Um, macaroni" - David didn't seem satisfied - "and, and potato chips." That didn't help. I hadn't really eaten much that day, I was too upset. "I have lots of food. Mommy and Daddy will come back, don't worry." Both of those were lies; I never stock up on food, I like to get take-out rather than cook. And of course Mommy and Daddy would never come back. I hadn't spoken to them in 10 years.
"Chrissie, stand up and turn around." Something about his tone must have sounded authoritative, because I did just that. It made me dizzy. "Do you get enough to eat?"
"I feel sick," I said, and ran to the bathroom to puke my guts out. It came out the other end too. The shirt was a mess. By the time I wiped up everything, rinsed out the shirt and put it in the washer, and found another t-shirt to wear, I was sure David would be gone.
He was not. "Do you feel better now?" he asked sweetly.
"Yeah."
"Do you get sick a lot?"
"No. I think I drank too much." I smiled sheepishly. I hadn't gotten sick from alcohol since college.
"Little boys shouldn't drink beer," he admonished gently. "They should drink chocolate milkshakes and eat sundaes and ...."
My stomach churned. "Errm, don't talk about food."
David laughed. "I like your new nightshirt."
I looked down and realized that this shirt was somewhat smaller than the 7-Up shirt. I pulled my knees together, not knowing if he could see under it or not.
"Stand up and turn around again."
"No. I'll get dizzy."
"Turn really slow. Try to keep your eyes in one place."
I shrugged and did it. Keeping my eyes in one place helped, going really slow helped more. I held my arms out in case I fell. I didn't notice how high the shirt was riding up. Finished, I collapsed back in the chair.
"You have pretty legs." I looked down at them. I guess they were, soft and feminine looking, not knobby-kneed like most boys ... ewww, don't go there. I scowled. "You really do, Chrissie, you should be a dancer."
"I like dancing," I said. Another recovered memory. I used to turn on the radio and dance around all the time in my room, but I made sure Dad never saw me. He thought I was a little queer already. Not like my brother, he loved me.
"I would like to see you dance," David said.
"Wait a minute," I said. Must have been my intoxicated state, maybe my sense of complete hopelessness, but it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request, to dance for a strange man. I ran out of the room and found my Abba CD. I had never actually listened to it before. I bought it with a whole bunch of other CD's one time in a store in another city - like the 7-Up shirt, it was a token of something I never expressed. It had the perfect song. I had danced to it many times while my brother watched. I also got another beer out of the refrigerator and choked down a swig. I knew that tomorrow I'd be 40 again, albeit trapped in a 10-year-old body, so I didn't want tonight to end any time soon.
I came back in the room with the beer and the CD, put the CD in the stereo, took another swig and put the beer down, and picked up a ruler. Holding the ruler to my mouth like a microphone, I lip-synched:
"You can dance, you can dance, having the time of your life ... oo-o-oh see that girl, watch that scene, diggin' the dancing queen ..."
I started dancing again, like I was onstage, shaking my narrow hips, twisting on my slender legs, pacing right and left, looking at the camera.
"Friday night and the lights are low ... looking for a place to go ... where they play the right music, getting in the swing, you come to look for him ..." leaning forward, turning my head to the side, like a rock star.
I was back, it was all back, Charlie was watching me again, smiling at my antics. I shook my long hair out of my eyes and went on. I jumped up and down as the chorus started.
"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen ...." Now that I was dancing, I had no problem spinning around; I spun and sang, "You can dance, you can dance, having the time of your life ...."
I vamped it totally, just like I had done for Charlie so many years ago. Arching my back and shaking my hips, completely forgetting I was wearing effectively a mini-skirt with no panties underneath. I was a boy possessed. I was the Abba girl again.
When the song ended, I bowed, and David applauded. Just like Charlie. God, I missed him so much. I sat down and drank more beer. David frowned at me, but I ignored him.
"God, Chrissie, you're beautiful," he said. I pushed my hair away again and batted my eyelashes at the screen before I realized it was David, not Charlie. I started tearing up again. "You're marvellous, amazing, a terrific dancer. Why are you crying, sweetheart?"
"I miss my brudder," I said between sobs.
"Where is your brother, sweetie?"
"I-in jail," I said. He was out now, but that didn't matter, did it?
"Did he hurt you, Chrissie, sweetheart?"
"No, he loved me, he was the only one ...." And I cried more as I realized that he had in fact been the only one, my entire life.
"Believe me, he's not the only one, Chrissie. You'll find lots of people to love you. Maybe even me," he said, hopefully.
I looked up at him. "Nooo ..." I cried.
"Yes, sweetheart, you are so beautiful and you dance like an angel.... Why did your brother go to jail, sweetheart?"
"They said he raped a girl, but he didn't do it, I know it."
"How do you know, sweetie?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I started crying steadily and finally turned the Internet connection off. I was too tired anyway to continue. I went to bed and fell asleep soon after.
I woke up the next day with a wicked hangover, from only three and a half beers, at least one of which I had puked up. What a lightweight. I popped a couple aspirin and drank some Pepto Bismol from the bottle (who needs that little cup?). I made myself some hot tea and forced myself to stay up and get about business, which is after all the punishment you deserve for getting drunk and making a fool of yourself the previous night.
I started thinking about money. I had some savings. I just had to find a way to transfer the money without, um, actually showing up at the bank or talking to them on the phone. I decided to send the savings bank a letter. They would send me a check (hopefully - they had my signature on file), and I could deposit it at the ATM at my regular bank.
I would need to get food soon, though. Kids can buy food, at least - but I couldn't drive. I would have to take buses. I sat down and tried to work out a budget. If I could get the money out of savings, I'd have six months before I had to start running up credit cards.
All the while, I knew that if the police caught me, or if somebody became suspicious, I would wind up "in the system." And worse: I would be completely unable to explain who I was or how I came to be where I was. I would be grilled by the police and by social workers until I finally gave up and told them the truth, which they wouldn't believe, which nobody would believe. I would end up locked up with the crazy kids, doing the Thorazine shuffle between group therapy sessions and finger-painting classes.
So I needed to stay independent, until this thing wore off. And it would wear off, I thought, in about eight years, if nothing else (hollow laugh). The best thing you can say about childhood is that it's only temporary. I shuddered to think that what the gypsy had done to me might be permanent.
I needed to find a source of revenue. With what little I had in capital, I wasn't going to be a professional investor. But I didn't see any possible way of getting a job. The local paper, like most in the country, no longer employed paperboys (too much liability risk).
It all gave me a headache. I got on the Internet again and checked my email. There was a lot of stuff from my coworkers, basically asking why I'd left, some requesting passwords that only I knew; I answered them as well as I could. I also told them not to write any more, my life now was with Krishna and Vishnu (snicker). But there, near the end of the list, was the following:
Chrissie,
I liked our chat last night. You are a very beautiful boy, and a wonderful dancer! Please write back and tell me how you are doing. I'm worried about you.
I hope I get to chat with you again soon.
Your friend, David xoxoxoxoxo
Of course, he had gotten my email address from the Microsoft directory. It was pretty easy to find me, and that's the way I liked it. Well, at least the way I used to like it.
In the sober light of day, I realized that my friend David from last night was a pedophile, and it made me laugh. If he only knew! Like, hey, guy, I'm a 40-year-old systems analyst, I'm about as innocent as a crack whore, and about as attractive as a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig!
Then I realized that in my present form (Vishnu has many incarnations, oommmm), I probably was attractive to him. I have thuch pretty legs, I giggled. Ewww, and I'd danced for him too, groaning inwardly at the thought. I have a cable modem, so it would have been a pretty good picture. Oh, but I was tho pretty and gay, he mutht love me now.
There must be a way to make this work for me, I thought. I needed money, this poor sap needed to imagine he was in love with a pretty boy. It was a confidence game, nothing more. OK, so I was turning to a life of crime - it was the government's fault for making it illegal for 10-year-olds to find productive jobs in the coal mines and dress factories of this great country.
I figured I would need at least one more chat session to reel him in. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, still wearing the shirt from last night. I looked rather bedraggled (or bed-haired), definitely not my best. The shirt was wrinkled.
I took a shower, taking especial care to wash and condition my long blond hair, brushing and blow-drying it into Leif Garrett wings. I didn't have any earrings, but I did have a nice, thin gold necklace some junior programmer had given me a few years back, thinking that if I loved her I wouldn't fire her for incompetence (I didn't love her and did fire her).
What to wear? My new clothes had not arrived yet, of course, so basically I had a nice selection of shirts. I went for the hot Brad Renfro look, cutting the sleeves off a dress shirt (square cut, without a tail) to reveal my pretty little arms, leaving two buttons undone at the top so as to show off the necklace. I even brushed my long eyelashes, which had been stuck together after the shower.
In the end, I was stunning, if I do say so myself. It turned out that I had a lot to work with, for a little boy. I had naturally large, light blue eyes, clearly not fake since contacts give you darker blue eyes. My small, upturned nose looked like Michael Jackson's before his last surgery (or was it his next to last?). My closely set eyes and pug nose rested above naturally red, bow-shaped lips, slightly thicker than a boy's should be. When I smiled, my incisors and canine teeth, much larger than the rest of my mouth, gave me a pearly-white, boyish smile that was almost vampirish - like the kid in the movies that you know is going to get himself in trouble. I had a small ears and a narrow face, leading down to a small, pointy chin. My long eyelashes drew attention anew to my pretty blue eyes every time I blinked. And the whole of it was surrounded with gorgeous, autumn-blond hair, which I had tried to make wings in, but which was so naturally straight that they kept
falling across my forehead and over my eyes.
Damn, I got a hardon looking at myself. I could be a 13-year-old girl on her first date. (Not that I had ever dated girls, or anybody, for that matter.)
I was feeling pretty weird then. It was an hour or so before the time I was on before (and when David would expect me), so I took another beer out of my diminishing stash and drank it as I paced the floor. I mean, I knew it was a confidence game, but I felt like a prostitute. Here I had made myself pretty for some man I didn't love so I could get his money. It's a way to get some revenue, I consoled myself. I need revenue, or I won't survive. I'll be locked up, and I can't let that happen. I finished the first beer and started on the second.
What if he doesn't like me? That's ridiculous. I'm the prettiest boy I've ever seen. I put Abba on again. Yes, I'm pretty. I'm gorgeous.
The time came, and, always punctual, I turned on Netmeeting. I didn't even get a chance to get on IRC.
"Hi, Chrissie."
"Hi," I replied, surprised.
"It's David again. I waited for you. I hoped you would come on." He was dressed better than last time; no more t-shirt. Oh no, he had a blue dress shirt and a tie! He didn't look like a creep when he was all dressed up; he looked like a businessman, very respectable and even somewhat fashionably dressed. Like my boss, maybe.
I felt definitely underdressed, not that I had had any choice in the matter. "You look nice," I said, "very respectable." Uncomfortable with the way he was looking at me, I turned my head shyly to the side.
"Oh, this," he said, looking down at himself, smiling. "I didn't want you to think I was some ... I wanted to look nice for you." He paused, adding, "You look very nice as well. I like your necklace. Did you want to look nice for me too?"
I looked into his smiling face on the screen and couldn't avoid feeling some butterflies in my stomach. "Yeah," I said, shyly, fingering the small aquamarine at the end of my necklace. God, I was acting like Whoopi Goldberg in "The Color Purple" when that singer sang "Miss Celie's Blues" for her. Got to get it together. I took another swig of beer.
David frowned again. "Sweetie, are you drinking your daddy's beer again?"
"Yeah," I said softly.
"Why?"
"I - it helps me not to worry about things," I said honestly.
"What are you worried about, sweetie?"
"I was worried that you didn't like me." Partial truth.
"Why, sweetheart? I already told you I liked you. I like you even more now. You are the prettiest, sweetest boy I've ever met. Don't be nervous with me. Did you get my email?"
"Yes."
"Then you know that I'm your friend. Is that OK? I want to be your friend, Chrissie."
"OK," I replied, still in "Miss Celie" mode.
"I like your hair that way. Boys never wear their hair like that any more." Neither do girls, he failed to add. "You have very pretty hair. Please lift up your face, sweetie, so I can see your pretty blue eyes."
I had a little involuntary shiver realizing that he had already noticed the color of my eyes. I never noticed people's eye color. I looked up at him and self-consciously pushed the hair out of my eyes with my index finger.
"Have you heard from your Mommy and Daddy, Chrissie?"
"Yeah, they're coming back soon," I said quickly. Too quickly.
"Chrissie, is that the truth?" he asked, quietly but sternly.
"No," I admitted, looking sad, "but they will come back eventually, they always do."
He sat frowning for a long while, and I took the opportunity to take some deep swigs off my beer. "Chrissie, would you like to come live with me?" he finally asked.
"N-no," I said quickly. "I want to stay here." I didn't want to get adopted, I just wanted to get money.
David sighed. "Do you still have my phone number, sweetie?"
"Yes." He waited. "619-442-3384," I read off my note. I smiled to calm him down.
"Will you call me if you're in trouble?"
"Yes, sir, I will," I said, somewhat peevishly.
"I just worry about you, Chrissie," he said, defensively. Trying to lighten the mood, he suggested, "You want to dance again? I'd love to dance with you."
That was so funny after what we'd been talking about that I burst out laughing. "You can't dance," I giggled.
David laughed too. "Yes I can," he insisted. "Do you want to pick the music or shall I?"
"Me!" I said with some alarm. He laughed harder. Abba was already in the stereo. I selected a track.
"I've seen you twice, in a short time, only a week since we've started...."
I started out in medium-slow dance mode, he followed me. The chorus came up soon.
"So I wanna know, what's the name of the game? ... Does it mean anything to you? ... What's the name of the game? Can you feel it the way I do? Tell me please, 'cause I have to know, I'm a bashful child, beginning to grow.... And you make me talk, and you make me feel, and you make me show, what I'm trying to conceal....
"If I trust in you, will you let me down, would you laugh at me, if I said I care for you? Could you feel the same way too? I wanna know, oh yes I wanna know, the name of the game...."
It was, as I thought, the perfect seduction song, at least for a gay boy to a pervert. His eyes were tearing up as he watched and danced with me. Finally, overcome, he just stood and watched me. When the song ended, I turned off the stereo with the remote and sat down smiling, a wide smile on my face.
Mission accomplished. Looking at him, I could tell he was in love with me. Truth was, it was a terrific song, even apart from its pervert seduction qualities (IMHO).
"That was amazing, sweetie. I want to dance with you in real life."
"You couldn't keep up with me in real life," I teased, still grinning.
He laughed. "You're probably right, but I'd sure enjoy trying. Will you meet me somewhere?"
"No, honey," I said, as "Marilyn Monroe" as possible, "but I will talk to you later."
"Are you leaving?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, I'm tired," I said, stretching and yawning theatrically.
"Chrissie? Sweetheart? Will you do me a favor before you go?"
"What?" I said, acting bored. Oooh, I could feel his heart aching.
"Stand up and twirl around for me one more time."
I realized then that the shirt had risen as I danced. He wanted another look at my perky buns and my cute little dick. He was totally hooked. I stood up and twirled for him several times, making sure that he got a good look.
"Wow," he said.
"Good night, David," I said, acting like I hadn't shown anything.
"Good night, Chrissie. Will you be on tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Good night."
As I turned off Netmeeting, I knew that he would give me money - if I could figure out how to handle it.
The next morning, I realized that that was a problem. The simplest thing would be to just have my favorite pervert David mail me a check. That wouldn't work, since then he would know where I lived - I knew enough from press reports that it was quite possible he would stalk me. I could set up a "wish list" at some store on the Internet, but I didn't need things from a department store, I needed money for food and rent. Same deal with those Internet money accounts - they convert into stuff you buy off the Internet, not soup, milk, and bread.
Having him mail me a check would work if there was another place for him to mail it, but there wasn't. I didn't have a P.O. box, and now I couldn't get one since nobody would agree to open a P.O. box for a ten-year-old. General delivery wouldn't work, since I had no ID to claim the letter (well, I had ID, but for obvious reasons it wouldn't work any more). I could have him send it to me at work, but (a) I had told my boss I was leaving for California, giving him no forwarding address, and (b) what business does a kid have getting mail at a Fortune 500 company?
UPS came and delivered the first batch of clothes. I let them knock and didn't answer the door. As the driver left, I was relieved to see that he had left the package at the door as instructed. Looking out the blinds to see that no one was about, I opened the door quickly and pulled the large, heavy package in.
Inside were yellow shorts and blue short-sleeved shirts in boys' sizes 4 through 18, and plain white underwear in the same sizes. And a red baseball cap (that, I knew, would fit, at least). After lots of tearing open packages with my skinny arms and trying on different sizes, I ended up with one outfit, size 10, that I could wear. After two days of going half-naked, it was a relief to finally have real clothes.
Then I realized that I had forgotten shoes and socks. Of course, I couldn't go to a store and buy some since you need shoes to get in! So I got back on the Internet and ordered from the same store, every size of a particular white sneaker and every size of a particular blue, yellow, and white athletic sock that they had. I clicked on overnight delivery and put in the same delivery instructions, "leave at door." Thank God for VISA and the Internet, or I'd still be naked.
After two and a half days in my apartment, I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic. At last I could go outside, even though I couldn't go to a store or get on a bus or actually do anything. Besides, little boys go barefoot all the time, don't they? So, I looked out the blinds until I saw nobody was coming and darted out quickly.
I wandered around the apartment complex, mostly staying on the grass since the sidewalks and roadways felt hot on my tender feet. I saw some other boys coming, somewhat bigger than me (maybe 12 or 13), and I instinctively dove behind a hedge to hide from them. They didn't see me. As they passed, I slowly rose up from my hiding place, when suddenly I felt a man's hand on my shoulder. I about jumped out of my new shorts.
"Hey, sweetheart," the man said as I turned to look up at him. He was smiling. "Are those boys picking on you?"
"No," I said, looking after them to see if they had seen me.
He looked doubtful for a moment, then knelt down so we were face-to-face. "Well, I know those boys and their parents, so if you have trouble, you tell me, OK? It's not right for boys to pick on little girls." God, he thought I was a girl!
"It's OK," I said softly.
"You know," he said, "I have a daughter about your age, I bet she'd like to meet you. Her name is Amy, what's your name, sweetheart?"
"Chrissie," I said softly.
He took my hand in his big paw and shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Chrissie. I'm Andy Comfort. We're in 6-B."
"Um," I said uncertainly, "I wanna go home, OK?"
He let me go. "Sure, Chrissie. Come by and see Amy, all right?"
"OK," I said, and ran home, or as fast as I could run with bare feet (you have to look out for stickers and rocks, you know?).
Right, bad idea, I thought, as I pulled my keys out of my pocket and let myself in. I leaned against the door as I closed it behind me. I'll just stay inside here and starve. I wonder if it's a painful death?
I sprawled on the couch, exhausted by the ordeal. Being a boy was harder that I thought. Look, I finally told myself, get used to it. Unless and until you find the gypsy again to change you back, this is what you are. Deal with it.
Find the gypsy again! Why didn't I think of that before? The carnival was on the grounds of the old high school, they must have had a permit to be there, there would be public records, right? Sure there were, but they weren't online, as it turned out. I would have to go the county offices to see them. The government is so slow to adopt new technology.
I did learn, however, that I could pass for a woman on the phone, if I kept my voice low and didn't get excited. (If I did, my voice would reach octaves that only dogs could hear.) Not that it did me any good in this case, since, again, I was 10, and there was little possibility that they would let me see the files even if I found a way to get there.
Anyway, back to the problem at hand. I hadn't wanted to face it, but the fact was that the only way I would be able to get David's money was to meet him face-to-face and take it out of his sweaty hand. I dialed his number.
"Hello?" It was him. Sounds in the background sounded like an office; a copier was running.
"Hello, David? It's Chrissie."
There was a pause, shoes on a floor, a door closing. "Yes, Chrissie, I'm here."
"If it's a bad time, I can call back."
"No, it's not a bad time. Is something wrong, sweetie?"
I poured it on. "Mommy and daddy are not back yet. The man said the rent is due and ... I don't know what to do." I put my hand over the mouthpiece in case my silent laugh became audible.
"Honey, I'll come and get you."
"You'll take me awaaay," I whined.
"No, sweetheart, I won't take you away. Please don't cry, I hate it when you cry."
"I have to pay him, I don't have the money. I want Mommy and Daddy to come baaack ...." I pretended to cry into the phone.
"Oh, Chrissie," he said, choking back tears. "I want to help you. How can I help you."
"The man said $300, I need $300 more. I only have $25." There was a long pause. Time to close the deal. "Pleeease help me, David. They will throw us out and I will go into foster care again and I will never see my Mommy agaaaain." I as laying it on thick. "Please help meeee." Waaaah.
"I want to help you, Chrissie, but ...."
"I'll be nice to you (snif), I'll dance for you again." Sniffle. "I'm so scared, please come heeere."
Pause. "I'll come, Chrissie. Don't worry, honey, it will all be OK. Where are you?"
"Do you have $300?"
"Yes. Yes I do. It will be OK, sweetheart, just tell me where you are."
"I will be at the downtown Galleria at 1:00 on Wednesday. I will have on yellow shorts and a red hat."
"Why can't I just come to your house? Give me your address, sweetie."
"No, I don't want the man to see you. He will tell my parents." Good one.
"OK, I will see you there." I hadn't told him what city, and he wasn't asking, notice that? I knew he would figure it out. Easier to get what city I was in than to get my email address, and he had already gotten that.
Keys clicking in the background. "Are you online, Chrissie? I want to see you again."
Well, I guess he deserved that much. "No. I will get on though, if you want. I have to hang up, though," I said, which was not true.
"OK, we'll hang up now. I'll see you in a little bit, OK?"
"OK," I said, and hung up. I took my time about getting online and turning on the cam.
"Hello, Chrissie," said the computer's speakers.
"Hi." He was dressed in a suit. Very respectable.
"You look nice. Stand up and turn around so I can see you." I did as asked, holding my arms out straight. "Gorgeous. It's so nice to see a boy wearing proper clothes."
I just smiled and sat down again. "Mommy picks them." I really hadn't thought about current styles when I bought my clothes. I thought they fit pretty well; they were a little tight in the butt, but size 12 was way too big all over, so it was no contest.
"Your mommy picks very well. So this is what you will be wearing when I see you?"
"Yes, at 1:00 in the Galleria by the fountain."
He laughed at my earnestness. "I will be there, sweetie."
"OK, good night."
"Can't you stay on and talk to me?"
"My favorite show is on."
"And what is that, sweetheart?"
"Yu-gi-oh." I thought fast.
"What's it about?"
"Um, it's about a boy who fights duels to save the world. It's a cartoon."
"Will you come back later?"
"Maybe."
"What did you eat today?"
"Cinnamon crunchies."
He frowned at that. "Is that all?"
"And, um, peas." He didn't believe me, but I didn't want him to. "Bye, I got to go."
"OK, bye then," he said with a sigh. I turned the computer off.