Too Pretty to Be a Boy -10- Lajien

I set my phone on the nightstand, the little clunk loud in the quiet, then flopped onto the bed for a second. Today was a crazy day, and I hoped tomorrow wouldn’t be as packed.

I closed my door, not wanting Johnny to accidentally see me in my panties and bra. I started taking off my clothes, beginning with the pantyhose, which felt nice against my legs, followed by the skirt, then the blouse. I looked through my new wardrobe and picked a pair of leggings and a baggy, knee-length sleeping shirt with short sleeves.

I hung the skirt and blouse in my closet. I had no idea what to do with the pantyhose, though. Laundry? Wear it again? No clue. I left it on the back of a chair for now. In the mirror, I checked out my look in just the panties and bra.

How come I never realized I was never a boy? People always mistook me for a girl, saying I was too pretty to be a boy. I’m glad I came here; no one in New York would help me pick out lingerie. If Dicky and Peter found out, I’d be scared for my life. I didn’t want to think about the worst, but it could happen.

I’d had enough mirror time. I walked over to the clothes and got dressed. Once ready, I headed downstairs to the living room. “Don’t try it,” I said as Johnny tried to sneak up to scare me.

“I swear to god, you have eyes on the back of your head. How do you do that?” Johnny asked, a bit annoyed. He always liked teasing me, but unlike the twins, I enjoyed Johnny’s jokes.

Because I lived with two psychopath brothers who tried to kill me all the time, I’m always very aware of my surroundings. “You can thank Peter and Dicky for that,” I explained, and Johnny’s face dropped. He was always the big brother for all of us, not just me. If it weren’t for Peter and Dicky trying to kill me every chance they got, we’d get along just fine.

“Speaking of your brothers, I think I know what their problem is,” Mom explained, walking into the room. She held a tray with her signature drink. I swear, no one knows what’s in it except that there’s chocolate. She never even told me the name of it.

She set down the tray before taking a seat on the couch, patting the seat next to her. I sat beside her, and she kissed my forehead. “I believe Dicky and Peter think you stole Johnny from them,” she explained.

“Stole Johnny from them?” I repeated, a confused frown creasing my forehead as I settled onto the couch next to Mom. Johnny had already cued up some action movies, the opening credits rolling across the screen with loud explosions. “That does not even make sense. Johnny’s his own person.”

Mom took a slow sip of her drink, the rich chocolate scent a comforting aroma in the dim living room. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, but I could tell she was still thinking about our earlier conversation.

“Think about it, sweetheart. For years, the three of them were a unit. The boys. They did everything together, relied on each other. Then you came along, and while they were initially… well, themselves,” she said, carefully choosing her words, her eyes flicking to the screen and back to me.

“Johnny’s focus shifted. He became fiercely protective of you, in a way that was different. He had always been a good big brother to all of you, but with you, it was… intensified. You know, the first thing Johnny would do after coming home from school was to go check on you. And your first word was even ‘Johnny,’ apparently. He was your world for a long time.”

Johnny, his attention glued to the high-speed car chase unfolding on the screen, still managed to chime in. “They are idiots if they think that. I am always going to be their brother, and they are always going to be my pain in the asses.” A small smile played on his lips, the affection beneath his gruff tone clear even as he watched the movie. “But Mom might have a point. They are not exactly the most emotionally intelligent beings on the planet.”

I sighed, leaning back against the soft cushions of the couch, the sounds of gunfire and screeching tires filling the room. The picture Mom painted of a young Johnny, always checking on me, hit home. It showed the special bond we had. My eyelids started feeling heavy.

Mom reached out and gently squeezed my hand, her eyes still on the movie but her touch reassuring. “They are messed up, sweetheart. We all know that. But they do love you, in their own twisted way. And Johnny’s right—they are not the sharpest tools in the shed when it comes to feelings.”

She took another sip of her drink, a thoughtful look on her face between explosions on the screen. “Just try to relax and watch the movie. Tomorrow will be good for you. A nice bike ride, some fresh air. It will clear your head.” Her voice was soft, and the warmth of the room, with my brother and mother nearby, made me drowsy.

Johnny nodded absently, focused on the fight scene. The movie’s sounds, the comfy couch, and the safety I always felt with Johnny nearby started to pull me under. I tried to keep my eyes open, to follow the plot, but the long day caught up with me. My head tilted to the side, and the movie’s noise faded into a hum.

The next thing I felt was strong arms lifting me. I mumbled, my eyelids fluttering open to see Johnny’s face close to mine, his expression amused and tender—a look I’d seen since I was a baby. The movie credits were rolling. “Come on, sleepyhead,” Johnny murmured, carefully cradling me in his arms. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“M’fine… can walk…” I mumbled, my words slurred as I tried to push myself up. My limbs felt heavy, the exhaustion like a weight in my bones.

Johnny chuckled softly, adjusting his grip, his strong arms supporting me easily. “Sure, you can. Just… let me help you this time. You always were a stubborn one, even when you were tiny.” He carried me toward the stairs, his movements gentle and sure.

I gave a weak push against his chest, but the effort was too much. Exhaustion washed over me, and I sighed, letting my head rest against his familiar shoulder, the scent of his cologne comforting. Maybe walking could wait until tomorrow.

*

Morning light came through my curtains, bright and warm. I stretched slowly, a bit sore from yesterday’s activities. Excitement buzzed in my chest—today was the day to test my new mountain bike.

I padded into the bathroom, the cool tiles refreshing under my feet. After a quick trip to the toilet, I brushed my teeth, the minty taste waking me up. In the foggy mirror, I saw my reflection. The changes in my body were a bit more noticeable—my waist curved a little more, my hips slightly rounder. It felt strange but good, like I was becoming me.

I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. The hot water felt great on my skin. As I washed, I noticed my skin’s softness and the slight shift in my shape. It was a quiet realization of the changes happening. I shampooed and rinsed my hair, then stepped out, grabbing a soft towel.

Back in my room, I saw my cycling gear folded neatly. The purple and white jersey felt smooth as I pulled it on. The fitted design hugged my torso, showing my waist’s curve. I slipped on the padded cycling shorts, the cushioning odd but useful, as Abby had said. Then, I pulled on long cycling socks with a bright pattern for some flair.

The cycling shoes came next, their stiff soles and cleat attachments looking serious. I left them unclipped for now, needing the bike to secure them. I strapped on my hydration backpack, adjusting it comfortably, and added flexible knee pads for easy movement. Finally, I slid on fingerless cycling gloves, the padded palms feeling secure.

I glanced in the mirror. The sporty outfit and gear, with my body’s subtle changes, felt like the real me. I smiled. Today was going to be great.

Uncle Ian’s truck rumbled into the driveway. I wheeled my new mountain bike out of the garage, its green paint shiny in the sun. Uncle Ian hopped out, smiling. “Ready to hit the trails, superstar?”

“Definitely!” I replied, excitement surging. He helped me lift the bike onto the truck’s rack, securing it easily. Abby and Angela came out, dressed in their cycling gear. Aunt Carol followed, carrying a cooler, her sunscreen smell strong.

We piled into the truck, the leather seats warm, Aunt Carol’s sunscreen sharp in the air. “Love the new ride, Carla!” Abby exclaimed, leaning forward from the back seat. “That green is so you.”

Angela nodded. “And that kit looks great! The purple and white really suits you.”

“Thanks!” I said, a bit shy but pleased. Aunt Carol chimed in, “You look all set for an adventure, dear!”

As Uncle Ian drove, he gave us the trail rundown. “Okay, so the first section we are hitting is about a three-mile loop. It is rated as a challenging beginner trail. Lots of uphill, some loose rocks, and a few tricky sections. It will be a good workout.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at me. “Don’t push yourself too hard at first, Carla. Get a feel for the new bike.”

“And Nathan will meet us at the trailhead for the second part, right?” Angela asked.

Uncle Ian nodded. “That is the plan. He should be there in about an hour, once we are through the initial climb. The second part of the trail is much flatter and easier, mostly a scenic route along the creek. It is more his speed.” He turned back to the road, a hint of concern in his voice. “He’s nowhere near as experienced as you three. I am a little worried about him in this first section, to be honest. Lots of opportunities to take a tumble if you are not used to technical riding.”

We reached the busy trailhead. After stretching and checking our gear, we were ready. Uncle Ian led the way, followed by Abby, then Angela and me side by side, with Aunt Carol at the rear, going slower.

The trail climbed right away, winding through trees. The air was cool, filled with birdsong and the crunch of tires on dirt. Despite Uncle Ian’s warning, the climb felt good. My new bike handled well, and I found a steady pace. Abby and Angela laughed, navigating rocks and roots with ease.

Partway up, Angela got playful. “Race you to that big oak tree!” she called out, pointing to a tree up the trail.

Abby grinned. “You’re on!”

I joined in, a competitive spark hitting me. We pedaled hard, the rivalry adding energy. Angela, strong on climbs, pulled ahead, her red jersey bright against the trees. Abby and I were close, but Angela reached the oak first, whooping in victory. We laughed, catching our breath, the climb feeling fun. The first part of the trail, though tough, was a blast.

The loop leveled out, the steep climbs easing into a winding path through a sunny forest. We reached a small clearing where a few cars were parked on a service road crossing the trail.

“Alright, everyone,” Uncle Ian called, unclipping his helmet. “Time for a breather. Grab some water.” He leaned his bike against a tree and reached for his water bottle. Abby and Angela did the same, their faces flushed but smiling. Aunt Carol arrived soon after, a bit winded but happy.

As we rested, a black SUV pulled into the clearing. The driver’s door opened, and I blinked in surprise.

It was Nathan’s father, dressed in a knee-length beige floral dress. Grayish-tan pantyhose covered his legs, looking too warm for the weather, and he wore scuffed brown low heels. His face had perfect makeup—foundation, blush, lined lips—and his nails were manicured in a neutral shade. He held a small purse delicately, his walk practiced but feminine, like he’d learned it. He looked tired.

Nathan got out, wearing bright pink mountain biking gear: jersey, shorts, helmet, gloves. He looked sullen, avoiding eye contact as he pulled his bike from the SUV.

Seeing Nathan’s pink gear and his father’s dress, pantyhose, heels, makeup, nails, and purse, I felt a wave of sympathy. The bully from yesterday seemed stuck in a tough situation.

The group’s mood shifted. Abby and Angela’s banter stopped, and an awkward silence settled, the air heavy with questions. Uncle Ian’s anger was clear, a contrast to Nathan’s quiet embarrassment, standing out in his pink gear like a sore thumb.

“Pink?” Uncle Ian asked, his eyebrow arching high, a question hanging in the air. He shook his head, a low rumble in his chest, his gaze fixed on Nathan’s outfit. “What in the Sam Hill is going on here?” he muttered, clearly mad, his protectiveness for me kicking in, mixed with pity and outrage at the strange scene.

Nathan’s father sighed, a weary sound showing a life under someone else’s control. Nathan kept his head down, shoulders slumped, his face red against the pink jersey. “I know, Ian. My hands are tied here, you know that. I am just trying to let him… have some semblance of a normal life, some connection with kids his own age, it was either this or he couldn’t come,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, his gaze darting around, rubbing his forehead with a trembling hand, despite its neat manicure.

Uncle Ian’s jaw tightened, but he took a deep breath, calming himself. “Whatever,” he said, his tone sharp but with a hint of resignation. “I agreed to help you and help Nathan. And I meant it.” He looked at Nathan, his expression firm but kind. “Also, I understand what is happening with Nathan, or at least I am starting to, but I have been clear, and I will always be clear. I do not like it when someone messes with my daughters.” His eyes flicked to Nathan, who flinched, his discomfort obvious.

Nathan’s father’s gaze softened with sadness, a mix of pity and guilt in his tired eyes. “Nathan, what did I say about annoying Angela?” he scolded softly, his voice high-pitched and gentle, despite the tension. “She is one of the few friends you have, someone who treats you like a person, not some… doll to be dressed up and paraded around. She is not one of those… girls your mother makes you spend time with, trying to mold you into some ridiculous, outdated image of femininity.”

“No, not Angela,” Uncle Ian clarified, his tone softer, a hint of understanding replacing his anger, waving me closer. “This is Carla, my goddaughter, also Harry’s only daughter. Harry does not need to know about what happened… if it does not happen again, alright?” Uncle Ian’s voice was firm, expecting compliance.

Nathan’s father’s eyes widened in shock, looking at Nathan expectantly, urging him to respond. “Nathan, you better answer correctly.”

“Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again,” Nathan mumbled, his apology sounding genuine, a hint of remorse in his voice. He met my eyes briefly, a flicker of shame and vulnerability showing.

“It’s okay, sir,” I replied, trying to ease the awkwardness. “I am sure it was just a misunderstanding. Teenagers say stupid things sometimes when they are… surprised.” I didn’t want to dwell on it, seeing Nathan’s tough home life.

“Alright,” Nathan’s father said, a tremor in his voice, relieved at the calmer mood. “I will wait for you all at the end of the trail. Just let me know when you are finished.” He seemed eager to escape Uncle Ian’s disapproval.

“Actually,” I said, an idea forming, a spark of empathy for Nathan’s situation. “Why don’t you let Nathan stay with us? We always stop for breakfast and hot drinks at that little cafe near the end of the trail after we are done. You do not have to wait around in the car.”

Nathan’s father hesitated, his brow furrowing, his gaze shifting between Nathan and Uncle Ian, unsure about leaving his son. “And we take a very short cut on the way back,” Uncle Ian added, nodding reassuringly. “It’ll only take us about twenty minutes to get back to the trailhead from the cafe, maybe even less if we really push it.”

Nathan’s father wrung his hands nervously, worry in his eyes. “Oh dear. Rebecca… Rebecca would be very upset if we were late. Terribly upset. She has… specific plans for our afternoon, and punctuality is… paramount.”

“Well,” I said, a small smile on my lips, a mischievous glint in my eyes. “If you tell her that Carla Lillian’s daughter agreed to date Nathan, I have a feeling she might not be so upset about a little delay. In fact, she might be quite thrilled. It might even earn you some… brownie points.”

Nathan’s father’s eyes widened, a spark of hope replacing his worry. He looked at Nathan, then me, a hesitant smile forming. “Oh… oh, that’s… that is a thought. A rather… intriguing and potentially… advantageous thought.”

“Go on, Dad,” Nathan mumbled, avoiding eye contact but with a hint of hope in his tone.

With a nervous nod, Nathan’s father agreed, a fragile optimism easing his anxiety. “Alright. Alright, that sounds… acceptable. Just… please be careful with him.” He looked at Uncle Ian, a silent plea for his son’s safety.

Uncle Ian nodded curtly, his expression reassuring. “We will.”

With a final, worried glance at Nathan, his father got back into the SUV and drove off slowly, looking back at his son. “Alright, Nathan,” Uncle Ian said, his tone softer. “Ready to actually ride?”

Nathan mumbled a quiet “Yeah,” and we set off onto the second part of the trail. It was flatter, winding along a creek flowing over mossy stones. Trees shaded the path, and birds chirped in the leaves.

We rode in a calm, slightly subdued silence, the whir of bike chains and crunch of tires on dirt the main sounds. Abby and Angela pointed out plants or a bird flashing through the bushes, their usual chatter quieter after Nathan’s arrival. Nathan trailed behind, his pink gear bright against the forest’s greens and browns. After a scenic bend, he pedaled up beside me, his movements hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he belonged.

“Carla,” he said hesitantly, his gaze fixed on the trail, his voice low, as if afraid of being overheard. “Why are you… going this far for me? I was a complete jerk to you yesterday. I do not… I do not really deserve this… any of this.”

I glanced at him, thoughtful, surprised by his sincerity. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Nathan. And honestly? What your mom did last night … having you apologize like that, like you were some kind of… wind-up toy? It did not sit right with me. It felt… humiliating, for you.”

A faint blush crept up Nathan’s neck, spreading to his cheeks and ears, bright against his pale skin. He didn’t meet my eyes, his gaze darting between the trail and his handlebars. He seemed surprised, even touched, by my empathy.

After a few moments of silence, with the creek’s rush and a woodpecker’s call in the distance, I decided to ask about the odd dynamic between Nathan and his father. “Nathan, why is your dad so… scared of your mom?” I asked, keeping my tone light and curious, avoiding judgment. “I mean, she wouldn’t actually spank him… would she?” I said it as a joke, hoping to lighten the mood, but the look on Nathan’s face—a flash of fear—wiped away my smile.

He met my gaze, his expression serious, a shadow of apprehension in his eyes. “Actually… she would.” He paused, a beat of silence between us, then added quickly, a mix of fear and fragile hope in his voice, “But… she’d probably be so happy and excited… ecstatic, even… about us… dating… that she might… might just let it slide this time. Maybe.”