Just Super

I don’t know what to wear to school. I could throw on some old clothes and depend on my mark to provide. That means playing outfit roulette again. Or I could put together an outfit from the clothes I ended up with the night before. That would mean actively choosing to wear girls’ clothes. 

I look at the clothes spread out on my bed. I can’t stop wondering how the girl in the mirror would look in that skirt. I check my clock. There’s time. Just because I try it on doesn’t mean I have to wear it to school.

The skirt looks good on my reflection. No, it looks amazing. None of the three tops look that great with it, though. And it would look better with some shoes that aren’t sneakers. I glance at the clock again. Outfit roulette it is. 

I dig out my smallest t-shirt and my least favorite pants and t-shirt. If I do manage to fix myself, I don't want to have ruined my good clothes. Instead of wearing the lavender trainers I appeared in on Monday, I step into one of my old pairs of running shoes. They look ridiculous, but, hopefully, they won’t in a second.

I flicker straight into a bathroom this time. I want to know what I‘m wearing before everyone else does.

The girl in the mirror is wearing a hot pink skirt that ends just above the knee, a white cami top that only shows belly if I move, and a pair of white sandals with a low heel.

She looks really happy.

Well, fuck.

There was this boy who went to my school, Roger McGee High School. He was on the varsity baseball team his sophomore year. He was good looking, or at least that’s what people told him. He didn’t really see it.

If he’d bothered to think about it, he might have told you that he saw his body as a means to an end, a tool. It made him really good at baseball. So he took good care of it. He maintained it like he would have any other valuable tool. He even appreciated it, like he would any other quality tool.

When he looked in the mirror, he appreciated what he saw. He even felt more than a little pride. Sure, his body gave him some natural advantages, but he was the one who’d tuned it to be the valuable tool it was.

And then he got his mark. That meant no more baseball. The Marked don’t get to play competitive sports. They might have an unfair advantage. They might hurt a normal person.

It wasn’t losing baseball itself that hurt. Baseball had been a means to an end. Being good at baseball had made him popular. Being good at baseball would have paid for his college. That was gone. 

It might have been different if he’d been able to stay at that school, keep the friends his popularity had helped him make. That wasn’t an option. They couldn’t be sure that the ‘normal’ kids would be safe around him. 

Shortly after starting at The School, this boy stopped maintaining this tool he had no use for. There was no point in exercise. He was never going to be a tenth as strong as the five-foot-six brunette who greeted him his first day there. He ate whatever he wanted. An extra pound or two wouldn’t matter.

He didn’t hate his body. He just didn’t care.

In case I’m being too subtle, that was me. I was that boy.

Before all this went down, I hadn’t felt anything when looking in a mirror for more than a year—since I got my mark and was sent to The School.

But the girl in the mirror? She’s happy.

I’m happy.

I have no idea how to deal with that.

At lunch I avoid the gang again. After my little freak-out earlier, I had a revolutionary idea—maybe I could just not worry about it and let myself be happy for a couple of hours. Hanging out with those three is not part of that plan.

Instead, I grab a sandwich from the serving lane and survey the cafeteria and what I can see of the courtyard from here. I don’t see anyone worth the effort of messing with, but I do spot Emily sitting with a group of friends. They’re all off limits, of course; I don’t think Emily would actually hurt me, but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

I find a seat where I can keep an eye on her without being obvious. Her friends are off limits, sure, but if there’s any sign of a falling out, well, they might lose that status. As I take my seat I remember to adjust my skirt so that it stays under me. I’m guessing that a slightly longer skirt would be a little more convenient, but damn if this one doesn’t look good.

My mind wanders, thinking about what other clothes might look good. The outfits I’ve gotten through outfit roulette have been sort of random. I wonder, if I’m stuck like this for a while, will I find a style that I stick with? I look at the other girls I can see from here and my eyes settle on Emily. 

Now, there’s a girl who knows what she likes. She’s wearing a pair of loose pants. I don’t know if there’s a name for that style, but she usually wears something similar, or shorts—probably so they don’t rip if she ends up exerting herself. She’s also wearing the same (probably) leather jacket she wears almost every day over a t-shirt. I can’t see her feet from here, but she’s probably—

She turns toward me and I realize that I’ve been staring at her for who knows how long, with a slight smile on my face. I don’t look away immediately. I know that that would be a dead giveaway. Instead, I ignore that she’s looking at me, as if I’ve been staring off into space and she just happens to be in the way. I gradually shift my gaze a few degrees away, and she turns back to her friends.

I focus my attention on my food for the rest of lunch. 

Mom works late on Wednesdays, so I planned on just having mac and cheese for dinner. I’ve already gotten the box out when I change my mind. Instead, I pull a chicken breast out of the freezer.

My alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual Thursday morning. I have things to do.

I pull on an old workout shirt and some gym shorts. For shoes, I step into my old baseball cleats this time. It's not like I’ll ever need them for that again.

I appear in the weight room at the gym. As I planned, I’m the first student there. Other early students will just now be appearing out on the landing strip, courtesy of Checkers, but they’d have to make their way here, which will take a couple of minutes.

I know without looking down that the workout shirt has been replaced by a sports bra. The tightness across my chest and the breeze across my belly and lower back are all the clues I need. I look down anyway. I don’t mind what I see. I’m sure you will be shocked to know that the sports bra and my now snug-fitting gym shorts are hot pink; so are the trainers that have replaced the cleats.

“Doyle?”

That’s Coach Lacey. She’s already here to supervise any early birds who want to lift.

I nod.

“I haven’t seen you down here in more than a year. I thought you were going soft.”

Even though I’ve been at The School for a year and a half and seen a lot of students go through some big changes, it still feels weird how everyone just takes things in stride. There must be some daily memo that goes out to staff with the day’s big events. Tuesday morning’s probably read something like “Please be aware that Frank Doyle’s appearance has changed (see below), but that his name has not changed and he still uses he/him pronouns,” with a picture of the girl at the bottom.

For students, well, any big changes show up on the Wall almost immediately.

“It’s been a minute, for sure. Can you help me put together a new routine? I don’t think any of my old ones are what I’m going for.”

“Of course. What are your goals?”

I explain that I’m not looking for any gains, I just don’t want to lose any of what I now have. I barely notice other students coming in and starting their own routines. I’m hardly aware of their pointing and whispering.

The whispering doesn’t bother me much. If I had to guess, I would say they’re confused by the combination of my physical changes, my lack of name and pronoun changes, and my presentation. They have to wonder why, if my return to the gym is an attempt to reclaim masculinity, I’m presenting full femme.

I like that. Let them be confused. Hell, I might just lean into it.

Since I’d ghosted the gang at lunch on Wednesday, and been indisposed on Monday, I’m concerned about what might happen if I leave them to their own devices much longer. Even though I’m not excited about it, I make sure to meet up with them today.

“Nice outfit,” Marie says as I bring my tray to the table.

I can’t tell if that’s sincere or sarcasm. Her deadpan is top notch.

The outfit in question is the result of today’s second round of outfit roulette. After working out, I flickered home to change, and showed back up at school in a style that could best be called ‘Goth Punk Princess.’ 

It consists of a leather skirt, with oh so many buckles over torn fishnets; a tattered leather jacket over a lacy black blouse; and something like combat boots, but with a three inch heel (luckily they’re those wide heels, not spikes or anything). On top of the outfit change, my hair has a double fringe. The tips are still pink, but above that is an inch of platinum blonde.

When I checked out the girl in the bathroom mirror this morning, I was disappointed at the lack of make-up that really would be necessary to complete her look. She also clearly needed more jewelry.

“Thanks!” I say brightly. 

The gang are not going to be exempt from my attempts to make everyone as uncomfortable as possible with my changes. 

“You pick a new name?” Marie asks.

“No,” I reply, putting on a puzzled expression. “Why would I?”

“Frank isn’t exactly a girl’s name.”

I shrug and roll my eyes.

“I’m not a girl. I’m still a guy, and my name’s still Frank.”

“You’re fucking with us, dude,” Kyle says. “We get the whole trans thing, but if you’re a guy, why are you dressed like that?”

“I mean, look at this body,” I answer. “It would be a downright sin not to show it off.”

That kills the conversation for the rest of lunch.

The next time I look at the girl in the mirror, I decide that something beyond makeup is missing. Right after lunch, I decide that she really needs twin ponytails to complete the look (as complete as it can be without makeup). Her hair is a couple inches too short for that, though. Maybe I can fix it for her.

I think about my one success with intentionally changing my PJs, and how that felt. I think about the brief feeling of falling that occurs, right after the push, that signals a successful use of my mark. And I think about how that falling felt a little different when something more than just my location changed.

So right after third period, I flicker to the bathroom. As I feel that falling sensation, I try to change my trajectory a smidge, in a direction that I can’t define, other than ‘towards ponytails.’

The girl in the mirror has perfect twin ponytails, each with two inches of hot-pink at the tip. Nice.

Staring at her — at the ponytails, specifically — I have my revelation. I know how to turn back.

I don’t want to try it here. Not at school. But flickering home in the middle of the day is hard. I can do it, and teleporting back should be easier, but I don’t want to take a risk. The fewer variables I introduce to the experiment, the better.

So I sit patiently (read, I don’t literally bounce in my seat) through French class, and flicker to the cafeteria the moment it’s over.

I chose the cafeteria because it’s likely to be empty right after school. People will be coming in for club meetings any minute, but I only need a few minutes of peace and quiet to focus and gather my thoughts.

I think about my bedroom. That’s almost always my landing spot for teleporting in from outside the apartment. The odds of Mom being in there are effectively zero, so I’m not going to accidentally give her a heart attack by appearing in front of her.

I apply the lightest pressure with my mark. It takes hardly any effort to flicker home once school is out, as I’m as likely to be there as not, and I don’t want to trigger the actual teleport quite yet.

I go through all the memories of recent flickers that I can summon up. I analyze what feels different about each of them. Then I pick the direction that I think will get me what I’m trying for and push. I fall toward ‘boy’.

I don’t even have to look down. I know it worked. There’s a moment of exultation. I did it! I figured out how it works!

And then I look down.

I’m wearing a navy blue t-shirt and jeans. The pink trainers are gone, replaced by a dark gray pair. My hair is short. My chest is flat. My ass is flat. Everything is flat.

The boy in my bathroom mirror is flat. He is so dull.

I can fix that, though, can’t I? Maybe I can dye my hair just a little. Guys can dye their hair. I can add a little color to my wardrobe. Guys don’t have to wear drab clothes. 

But I can’t imagine what that would look like. When I try, I only see her.

I plod back to my bed. This is fine. This is me.

I lie down and close my eyes. I reach up to my ear and am half surprised not to feel the little hoops I’d never bothered to take out. Guys can wear earrings.

I open my eyes so I’ll stop seeing her reflection. I look around my room. The new clothes from Tuesday night are neatly folded on my dresser. I hadn’t even gotten around to wearing them.

Everything is so dull. There is a layer of gauze between me and the world.

Was this how it’s always been? Whatever. I’ll get used to it. 

I’ll go back to school tomorrow, and in a couple of days no one will even remember her.

I feel like someone punched me in the stomach. No, I’d rather have been punched in the stomach. I’d have understood that. 

I need to just suck it up. It will be fine. I don’t even know why I’m dreading it.

I get back off my bed. I can’t lie there. I needed to do something.

Rip off the band-aid.

I stand back in front of the mirror.

I can do this. I can be this guy again. I’ve been him for years. My breathing starts to calm. It’s going to be okay. I’ll show up to school tomorrow and—

Ugh. Being here, in my room, alone, is one thing, But having everyone seeing me looking like this? My gut clenches up. It’s ridiculous. I was embarrassed because the school knew how badly I fucked up, but I couldn’t remember even once being uncomfortable being seen as her—not after the initial shock wore off, anyway. 

It was the other kids who were uncomfortable with me. Right? A lot of them couldn’t seem to deal with me being her, but still being a guy. It’s almost a shame to walk away from that. Isn’t it?

But I don’t have to, do I?

I look at the clock. After-school clubs still have fifteen minutes before they have to close up shop, so I won’t set off any alarms. I can do this. Do I really want to do this?

Fuck yes.

I close my eyes, give myself a push, and fall into her.

I’m in the girls’ locker room again. 

This time, I take a moment to look round, 

It isn’t all that different from the boys’ locker room, except for smelling better. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the locker rooms at all, since I don’t have a gym class this semester, but there might be a few more full length mirrors, too.

The biggest difference, of course, is who I see in those mirrors. 

There she is, in all her goth punk princess glory. She’s smiling at me, clearly happy to be back. She’s been gone less than an hour, but it felt like forever.

My bedroom is brighter than it was a few minutes ago.

I shrug that off and grab my wallet from my dresser. I never take it to school, since there is no way to spend money there anyway, and we don’t need IDs.

I realize my problem when I go to slide it into my back pocket. Apparently, pockets are not really a thing on multi-buckled, goth-punk-styled leather skirts.

I look at the small pile of new clothes on my dresser.

The jeans are mostly comfortable, but they’re low-rise, and I keep finding myself trying to pull them up. Also, I want to file a complaint about whoever decided that the pockets should be so tiny. I had trouble fitting my wallet in, and it isn’t very big.

Luckily, it’s even smaller once I flicker to the mall. It was a pretty standard men’s folding wallet, but once my mark is done with it, it’s a thin little two-sided thing with a series of pockets on each side for cards, IDs, etc., and space in the middle for cash.

My ID also changed; at least the picture did. My name is still listed as Frank Linden Doyle Jr. I wonder if the gender marker would have changed if my state hadn’t stopped putting that on licenses and IDs a few years back.

I went with the cami top because I wasn’t quite ready to figure out the bras. Not just yet. I’m not sure it would have been any more complicated than getting everything arranged properly in the top, but I’ll figure that out later.

My first destination is Sephora. I’ve given myself a tight budget, but I figure I can get a few basic makeup items to practice with. I leave the store with a single small tube of lipstick, and a stunned expression on my face. The lipstick cost three quarters of the money I’d set aside for makeup. The salesperson was so nice, though, that I felt like I had to buy something.

On the bright side, the lipstick looks incredible on her.

For clothes, I decided my best bet is someplace that sells used clothes. A quick Internet search points me at a place called Buffalo Exchange. In theory, I could flicker there, but unlike the mall, I don’t know a spot there where I can appear without drawing attention.

It isn’t illegal to use my mark in public, of course, but The School advises against it. It’s too easy to get in trouble. Some rando could decide I was using my mark against them (which, with mine, how?). Even in the likely event I was completely cleared, the process would suck.

So, mass transit it is.

Buffalo Exchange isn’t quite as overwhelming as Sephora. That’s not saying a lot, but I take what I can get. 

I buy a pink hoodie with “It’s a boy!” on the back in big, curvy, baby-blue letters. I have no idea why such a thing exists, but I’m happy that it does. It has to be mine..

I try on a silver skirt that goes almost to the floor. It looks nice on my reflection, but I wasn’t going to get it. Then I do a little spin, and seeing the skirt spin around gives me a feeling almost exactly the opposite of the gut-clenching discomfort I’d had earlier. I so very buy it.

I also pick up a small trove of jewelry. I find that I’m drawn to plain metal pieces—silver or steel, mostly. I end up with six simple rings, three pairs of earrings, and a steel chain necklace with no pendant.

At home, the first thing I do is dump my loot out on the bed. I’m relieved to see that none of it changed in transit. I didn’t think it would, but wasn’t sure, since I haven’t nailed down the pattern yet.

I put all of it in my bottom drawer, under a couple pairs of jeans. Mom never comes into my room, so I probably could leave it out, but I really don’t want to risk making her more upset than she already is with the situation, and apparently, me.

I keep the cami top and jeans on. Goth punk princess might give Mom a heart attack. 

I’m in the kitchen making dinner when Mom comes in from work. Thursday nights are my night to cook. The meatloaf is almost ready, and I’m putting together a salad to go with it. 

“Hi, Frank,” she says. “That smells delicious. Meatloaf?”

There’s something in her voice that makes me uncomfortable.

“Yep,” I reply. “Everything okay?”

Her sigh answers that question.

“Of course not, honey. You still look like that…” she pauses ”…but I’m sure you’ll be better soon.”

That statement has the opposite effect on me from what she probably intended. 

She carries the meatloaf to the table, while I carry the salad and the rice.

“No mac and cheese?” 

“I read that brown rice is good for you. I’m trying to eat a little better. I can make you some mac and cheese if you’d like.”

“No, no. That’s fine.” She doesn’t sound like it’s fine. 

She looks me up and down, and doesn’t like what she sees.

“I’d ask if you’d made any progress on turning yourself back, but I guess the answer is obvious.”

That makes me feel like dirt. Sure, I’m not technically lying to her, but is not correcting her any better in this case? But if I tell her I can turn back, she won’t let it go until I do, and stay a boy. Not that that would be terrible or anything. Obviously, I’ll be doing that eventually anyway. If I change back now, though, I’ll miss out on all the confusion I’m hoping to sow. 

“I see you got more earrings.”

I panic a little and instinctively reach up to touch my ears. I hid everything else, but forgot to take out the new earrings. That’s not good. 

“I’m sorry, Frank. You don’t have to be embarrassed around me. I know it’s not your fault.”

The guilt keeps coming. It’s not enough to make me come clean, but I have to do something about it. I set a time limit for myself. This is Thursday. People around the school have had three days of the girl (I don’t count Monday because of ISS). Three more days seems reasonable.

The weekend won’t count, of course, so next Tuesday evening, I’ll switch back, and just not mention that I could have done so days before. Wednesday evening at the latest.

That makes me feel better. Sort of.