RANSVESTIA

with it. Not that it wasn't enjoyable in a way. I mean, everyone else had had to do it, and we had won the contest, which was something to the good, I suppose. (Also something to the bad, as I discovered - even though all the boys wore dresses, only one distinguished himself. Let's face it, winners are always unpopular, and I had won the dubious distinction of being less of a boy than my classmates). Still, except for a few snide remarks thrown at me in the halls, and in gym class, things calmed down reasonably well at school. From time to time, I would meet my "big sister" in the halls, and she always said something, although I didn't mind it so much from her. She had a kind of right to call me "little sister." But I expected it would all die down, after a little bit, because there were more important things on every- body's minds - fall parties, football games, and so on.

My biggest problems came at home. My mother, bless her thrifty heart, decided that I should continue wearing the clothes she had bought me at home. It wasn't because she wanted a daughter (at least I don't think so or at least, I didn't think so then). Instead, she hated to see money wasted: "You must get the wear out of those things!" she insisted. "You cannot simply throw away good money like that."

"Well, I certainly can't wear dresses!" I replied.

"Why not? Around the house - who's to know? So wear them, like I say. Also, it will save your good clothes for school."

The argument went on for quite a while, but she won in the end. And as far as it all goes, she had a point - as long as I stayed in the house, who was to know? That was the only thing I had against the clothes, as such. I didn't want people laughing at me, and, to be honest, I didn't really mind the clothes themselves. They were com- fortable, for sitting around in, and so on. And I didn't have to wear them everyday because I only had the one outfit the skirt and blouse I had worn during the day. The formal my "big sister" had had me wear was still hanging in the closet, and my mother would not be- lieve that she didn't want it back, until I told her about the dress shop her mother owned. But mother was still impressed by the waste of money (nearly as alarming when it was someone else's), and she in- sisted that it be kept.

But I began to suspect a plot. Mother insisted I wear the skirt and