I thought nothing of getting home from school, changing out of my uniform and donning my training bra before some casual clothes. Even going to sleep and waking up in the unnecessary garment felt normal. I can barely remember how it felt stepping into boy’s undies, let alone wearing them. My knickers are either big and baggy or tight and stretchy yet always pretty, with lace or ruffles, frills and a bow. As well as my girlie knee socks I’ve also got tights now and there’s all sorts of different types; woolly ones, thin ones, skin coloured ones, patterned ones, a lacy pair, a pelerine pair and several different deniers. I prefer them to socks, especially now the temperature’s dropped and even wear a nice warm pair under my boy’s clothes sometimes. I carry a spare pair in my handbag, along with my nappies, rubbers and reading book, just in case the pair I’m wearing get snagged, laddered or damp.
As my forty-eighth week approached, my probation officer came to the Sunday School to observe my progress. I did everything right, from playing nicely with the others and trying my best when we did the country dancing, to being confident and positive in the discussion groups. He gave me a glowing report to give to the authorities, then dropped one final thing in my lap. “Are you ready to reveal the names of the others Perry?” he asked. “It’s not too late to prosecute them, and if what you say is true, and I believe it is, they did most of the vandalising.” he said. I asked what would happen if I did reveal their names. “They’d go before the magistrate, just like you did, and they’ll probably end up here, attending Sunday School.” he explained.
“And if I don’t?”
“Well you were told that you’d attend for no less than forty-eight weeks…” he reminded me. “…and no more than forty-eight months.” he said. “Failing to reveal their names will mean that you’ll continue to attend beyond the minimum term of forty-eight weeks.”
I didn’t have to give him and answer there and then. He told me think long and hard about it and we’d revisit the issue on my forty-eighth Sunday School session. I did think long and hard but ultimately, I chose not to reveal their names… even if that does mean having to attend Sunday school until I’m fifteen years old, it’s better than the repercussions of me grassing on them. Not to mention them finding out exactly what I go through each and every Sunday, from donning my nappy and being buttoned into a dress, to skipping and dancing and playing clapping games and in part, actually enjoying it. No thanks… even if it does mean each of them going through the exact same routine. I’ll keep this to myself and prey that no one else from my school gets caught doing something bad enough to get sent here as well.