Junior Prom

Breakfast

"Mommy, if you don't let me get gender reassignment surgery I'm going to kill myself."

"Tina. Brendon, please call me Tina. Not mommy," his mother corrected, not even bothering to look up from the breakfast frying pan.

"Brenda," Brendon said, seating himself in the breakfast nook. "Mommy, please call me Brenda."

"How would you like your eggs?"

"Eggs! How do you expect me to ever get into a size five eating eggs!"

"Only joking. Here's your fruit salad."

"Thanks, Mommy," he smiled, wishing he could eat whatever he wanted.

Tina played with her breakfast while her son dainty nibbled at his.

She was tired of it all. But she still loved him. After all he was her only child. No father figure, they all told her. That's why.

So her bum of a husband ditched them both. Lots of immature men did that.

But how many of their sons grow up playing with Barbies and dreaming of Kens?

Maybe if she hadn't caved in. But he'd always been such a sweet kid.

All the others in his class were busy growing into young men and women, learning about and yearning for sex.

It had to happen to her little Brendon someday.

Now all the little scamp could think about was the Junior Prom. Most of all he worried that no boy would ask him.

Not that Tina ever had that problem herself. She'd been captain of the cheerleader squad.

"What's your hurry?" Tina asked her son.

"Look here," the teen said, pointing at his upper lip. Perched there upon was the cutest little peach fuzz of a mustache.

"Want me to put some cream on that and call the cat over?"

"Very funny. But I'm afraid it's just the tip of the iceberg. You're little boy is becoming a he-man. A big giant ugly lummox—all sinewy and hairy and smelly and not very pretty at all."

"I thought you liked men."

"So do you. But that doesn't mean you want to be one."

"Touché," Tina agreed. That was another problem. Her kid was way too smart.

"Look Mommy, it's easy," Brendon started calmly enough. "I've been lucky. I'm a late bloomer. I'm just starting puberty in earnest. My body's changing even as we speak. Pretty soon my shoulders will be getting broader and my voice deeper. I'll get an Adams Apple. Coarse thick hair will sprout up everywhere—my face, my arms, my chest and even my ears and toes. I'll get unsightly muscles!" he finished all in a tizzy.

"Sounds normal to me."

"Normal. Normal? Normal! I Hate Normal. I DO NOT WANT NORMAL!"

"What do you want?"

"I want to be pretty," Brendon said, ticking off his wants one to a finger. "I want to be strong and nurturing and selfless and generous and loving. I want to be like you, Mommy."

After that they were both kind of misty eyed.

"Come here you big lug and give your Mommy a big hug."

She cradled her son in her arms just as she had since she'd first been introduced to him in the hospital or when he was sick or hurt or scared or just needed cuddling. It always seemed to help. Sometimes it was all that was needed. Only this time she knew it wasn't enough. God, how I love him. God, how I want him to be happy.