My hands tremble, causing the plastic of the bag to rustle. I swoop my other arm across the bed, flinging all the clothes and towels and crap to the floor. I’m not brave enough to pull out the contents yet, but the bag gets a special place now, all alone on the bed.

My door is closed, but my bedroom door has no locks, so I check out the window – one last time. My window has a clear view of the driveway. No cars.

I kick off my shoes, which land somewhere under the bed. I will have forgotten by morning, when I’m scrambling to find them in order to get to school on time.

My shorts and t-shirt are next, then my socks, until I’m in only my boxers. I have the urge to hide my body with my arms, even though no one else is here.

Two years ago, I had no body image problems. God, even just thinking that makes me sound like a fucking girl, so maybe that’s what I am. But now, all I see are changes wrought by puberty and I wish I could make them stop. Every time my voice cracks, I want to cry. And the fucking body hair.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the first guy to admire his own dick, but mine used to look so cute – a nice little surprise between my slim hips and smooth skin. Now it’s surrounded by a nest of hair that really does look like a nest. I even found a hair on my balls the other day, and snuck into my parents’ bathroom to borrow Mom’s tweezers to pluck that shit right out.

I smooth my hands down my boxers to wipe away the sweat before opening up the bag. I don’t want to ruin the things inside. Two items fall from the upturned sack, and I toss it aside once it’s empty. Taking care not to snag the soft fabric with my play-roughened hands, I spread out the dress and lay the choker in its proper place near the thin spaghetti straps. The dress shines under my bedroom light, glossy black satin, trimmed with lace along its deep vee.

I’d admired it every time we’d gone to the store, and I’ve been saving my lunch money, snacking out of the vending machines instead, in order to afford it. Today is the day both my parents work until six, so I took the bus to the store straight from school. I told the store clerk that it was for my girlfriend, and she helped me pick the right size. She’s the one who recommended the necklace, a silver heart connected to a satin ribbon, to go with it.

I gather up the dress, gently with just my fingertips, and slide it over my head. The fabric slips easily down my chest, but gets caught on my boxers. I stick my thumbs under the waistband on each side, and let the dress continue to fall as I shove my underwear to the floor. It barely feels like anything. I twist my shoulders left and right to feel the whisper of the fabric across my skin. I shimmy my hips and there’s a visible bump in the front that shakes with my motions.

The hard part is done, so I clutch the necklace in my hand and head to the mirror to put it on, but my hands let it fall to the floor once I see my reflection.

My short hair spikes in every direction. That’s not new. But the bare expanse from my neck to my chest and shoulders, broken only by those thin black straps, makes me gasp. The dress hangs loose, but the material is clingy enough to accentuate the slight dips of my abs and the jutting bones at my hips. The bump where my soft dick hangs between my legs highlights the differences between my body and the dress even more. And I love it.

My leg hair peeks out from the hem, and I wish I’d had the foresight to shave first. I don’t like the contrast of my leg hair compared to the smooth silkiness of the dress, but so far, that’s the only negative.

I tuck my dick between my legs to smooth the front of the dress. It hangs flawlessly now, but I don’t like the way it looks anymore. Or I do, but not as much. I open my legs to let my dick flop back into place. Better. I had wondered if I would get hard trying the dress on. The soft fabric rubbing my bare dick seemed like obvious boner-time. But I’m not turned on right now. This doesn’t feel erotic. It feels right.

Turning to look at myself from the side, this view really emphasizes the places where I don’t have curves and the places I do. Determined to explore as much as I can while I have this brief moment of privacy, I go to my dresser and pull out two clean socks and turn them into sock balls. I stuff the front of my dress with them and return to the mirror, shifting back and forth from a side to a front view.

I have to admit, I really thought I was going to love it, but I don’t. It looks like shit. Even more, it feels like shit, and my brows wrinkle in frustration. I take the socks back out and toss them haphazardly behind me. Oh yeah. This is perfect.

Please, God, let me stay like this forever, or if you’re feeling really generous, undo what you’ve done so far and let me stay like my twelve-year-old self forever. Although I wouldn’t mind growing a little taller. But no more body hair. I’ll do whatever you want in return. Just give me this one little thing. Amen.

“Malcolm, have you seen my–”

My dad’s voice stops suddenly as my door is thrown the rest of the way open. It hits the doorstop so hard I can hear the spring reverberating. Not difficult, since it’s the only noise in the room. I’ve stopped breathing, and my dad must have too because he’s turning purple.

“What in God’s name is the meaning of this?”

I can’t speak as he storms across the room and grabs the dress in his fists. The hair on his knuckles sticks out like his whole body has been electrified. His hands jerk and the beautiful black satin rips apart in his hands.

“You will never do this again. No son of mine is a sissy faggot, you hear me?”

Hear him, feel him, and smell him, as his spit sprays across my face with each screamed word. His breath stinks of onions and coffee, but I’m too scared to recoil. If I just pretend I’m somewhere else, someone else, I can get through this. I try to shut my mind off, but he shakes me.

As my brain reengages, I realize it wasn’t my dad shaking me, but my mom shaking him as she tries to get him off me. His hands must have been the only thing holding me up, because as soon as she succeeds at prying my body from him, I slump to the ground.

I barely notice the sound of my door closing or their yelling down the hall. I don’t know if my eyes are closed or open, but it doesn’t matter because everything is grey. The whole world has gone grey.

I’m not sure how much time has passed before I feel the warmth of my flannel quilt around me, and the scent of something spicy and savory hits my nostrils.

“Mom?” I ask once I find my voice. It cracks, of course, although I don’t think it is because of puberty this time.

“Shh, just take your time. I brought some soup.”

She props me against the bed and sets the soup in my lap once I’m steady. I stare into the bowl, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

Mom grips my chin and forces my head up, but gently. “You look at me, Malcolm Copol.” She waits until our eyes meet, and the softness and love I see there almost do me in. “You are beautiful, inside and out.”

I lower my head again until she gives my shoulders a shake. Not the earth-rending one of my father, but the get-your-head-out-of-your-ass one of my mother.

“You look down for no one. Not me, not your father. Got that?”

I nod. I can’t help but do what she says when she gets all bossy. It’s some weird Mom voodoo.

“Now, however you want to look, whatever you want to wear, whoever you want to be, you do it. And you own that shit. Because that’s what makes you special and unique and you.” She looks like she’s thinking about it for a second and adds, “Although give me a little warning, just in case I’m going to need to have my ass-kicking shoes on.”

I settle into the blanket and the feel of her arm around my back. The spicy broth opens up my sinuses and my chest as it goes down. I can’t hear Dad in the house anymore.

“Are you and Dad going to be okay?”

Mom hums, and tightens her hold around my shoulders.

“No. But that’s not down to you. We weren’t, anyway. It’s why we both came home early to talk to you. We’re getting divorced.”