A few days later, Mum said that she’d noticed I’d had a look at the Prom photos on her laptop. Julia and I are fully aware that she could check on our surfing history, so this didn’t surprise me. Then she asked me what I thought about them. “They look horrible!” I replied. “Like little girl’s dresses.”

“They are a bit ‘young’.” she replied. “But I think a party dress is more appropriate for a boy than a ball gown.” she added. I suggested that neither are appropriate for a boy. “Oh you know that’s not true… you don’t mind wearing your uniform these days.” she reminded me.

“I do, I just don’t complain about it any more.” I replied.

“Well… I guess you’ve got about six or seven weeks to have a think about it.” mum replied. “In that time maybe you should have another look through the Prom photos and think about the sort of dress you would like to wear.”

“I don’t want to wear any of them.” I muttered. She knows that. Why is she even asking?

“Think about it this way… if you had a choice between a pink dress or a blue one, which would you rather not wear?”

“The pink one.”

“Which mean you’d rather wear the blue one?”

“I guess.” I gulped. Mum asked which I’d rather wear if the choices were blue or green. “Blue… maybe… it depends on the shade.”

“A nice pale blue or a deep forest green?”

“Green.” I replied.

“Are you sure?” Mum asked. I nodded. Mum smiled before suggesting a dark ‘midnight’ blue or the deep forest green.

“I dunno.” I shrugged as I tried to imagine both.

“So you’d prefer a dark colour as opposed to a pale one?”

“I guess.”

“See… now we’re getting somewhere.” Mum grinned.

A few days later, Mum asked if I’d had another look at last year’s prom photos. I hadn’t, but Mum had and she’d taken a copy of the photographs showing the dresses that a; she likes and b; she though I might like. I sat beside my mother as she browsed the photos and it wasn’t comfortable viewing. She pointed out the colours; a deep green, a dark blue, maroon and claret (both of which were dark red to my untrained eyes), deep purple, dark raspberry (another shade of dark red). “so what do you think?” she asked.

“Er.. the colours are OK but I don’t like the dresses themselves.” I replied. “They all look the same.”

“Well they are all party dresses… so by definition they are quite similar.” my mother explained. She drew my attention to minor details such as the shape and style of the neck, the relative height of the waist, matching or contrasting sashes and the various styles of pin-tucked sleeves, puffed sleeves or no sleeves. I wasn’t in the mood to even think about it, let alone give Mum the answers she was looking for. “It’s important to get an idea of what you’d prefer before we go shopping for one.” Mum told me.

The following day at school, I cautiously asked one of my friends if he’d attended last year’s Prom and if he’d be attending this year’s too. He said yes to both and I asked what he’d be wearing. “Whatever my Mum decides.” he replied. I asked him what he wore last year and he described a ghastly yellow party dress with white spots and a white satin sash. “What do you wanna know for anyway?” he asked.

“My Mum wants me to choose my own but I don’t know anything about dresses.” I explained. I told him that before I started at Endsleigh Comp, I’d never worn any girl’s clothing before and the prospect of shopping for a prom dress is somewhat daunting.

“Yeah.” Paul sighed. “It’s not fun.” he claimed. “If your Mum’s anything like my Mum, she’ll just buy you whatever she wants anyway.” he told me, before asking if I have to wear girl’s clothes outside of school.

I shook my head but said that I have to keep my uniform on until I’ve completed my homework, although I didn’t tell him that I have to wear knickers all of the time. Paul said I was lucky. “Do you?” I asked. He’s not what I’d consider one of the ‘girlie’ boys as like me, he has short boyish hair.

Paul nodded. “Not all the time.” he stressed.

The next time my mother raised the conversation about my Prom dress, I glumly suggested that I’d leave it up to her, since I don’t know anything about girl’s clothes. “Just don’t get me pink.” I added.

“You’re really not looking forward to it are you.” Mum said. I shook my head and she asked why. The reasons should be obvious, but I listed them anyway. “I think it’s a simple case of fear of the unknown.” Mum suggested. “How about we have a root through Julia’s wardrobe?”

“What for!?” I asked.

“Well…” Mum began. “…she’s got plenty of nice clothes she hardly wears any more and the more time you spend getting used to wearing ‘nice’ clothes, the less you’ll worry about it.”

“I wear girl’s clothes everyday at school.” I muttered.

“I know but they’re not that ‘nice’ are they?” my mother said.

Although I agreed, I said nothing. Later that evening I overheard my sister and my mother talking in Julia’s bedroom. “I thought you liked that dress?” Mum’s voice said.

“Nah… I only wore it because Granny bought it for me.”

“Well I think it’s nice enough.” Mum replied. “Now are you sure you don’t want any of these?”

After a brief silence, Julia’s voice said “Yeah I think so… I’d love to keep [this, that and this] but they hardly fit me any more.”

I continued to my bedroom and shut the door. A pile of clean laundry lay on my bed. It’s mostly whites, so socks, underwear and my school shirts, plus my light coloured T shirts, jogging pants and stonewashed jeans. I began to put them away when I heard a knock on my door. I turned and my mother entered with a bundle of clothes slung over her forearm. I gulped as I noticed some less than desirable prints. Mum smiled and told me that she and Julia had had a bit of a sort out. “Have you got any spare hangers in your wardrobe?” she asked.

“A couple.” I reluctantly replied as she laid the items on my bed. “Oh not flowers!” I whined.

Mum just smiled at me as she sorted the selection in to what I assume is drawer stuff and wardrobe stuff. “There’s some of her old training bras too.” my mother stated as she placed a colourful ‘strappy’ bundle with my pile of clean laundry.

“I’m not allowed to wear those.” I told her. The school rules are quite clear that only white underwear is permitted.

“Not at school you’re not.” Mum replied. “She’s given you a few pairs of leggings too.” my mother added, “…which will be nice with these.”

“Shorts!” I moaned. Apart from half length cargo pants, I’ve always hated wearing shorts… and there are short!

“Yep.” Mum smiled. “It’s not all skirts and dresses.” she told me, holding open a powder-purple long sleeved T shirt with a pink peace symbol printed on it. And just to give it a girlier edge… the symbol is made up from hundreds of tiny love hearts.

“That’d be OK if it wasn’t for the hearts.” I said.

“I had a feeling you’d like it.” Mum grinned.

“That’s not what I said!” I insisted. My mother smiled as she folded the T shirt and suggested that instead of just ‘standing there’ I could start putting my things away. She picked up the pile of Julia’s old training bras and plonked them in my hands. “Does this mean I have to dress as a girl all the time now?” I reluctantly asked.

“Not all the time.” Mum replied. “But don’t you find it a bit boring wearing boy’s clothes all the time?” she asked as she hung a floral dress on a hanger. “Wouldn’t you rather to wear something like this on a nice summer’s day instead of pants and a T shirt?”

“Boy’s clothes aren’t boring.” I replied. “And I don’t wear boy’s clothes all the time… and I wear girl’s clothes at school everyday remember.”

“Which means a few more choices won’t be a huge leap for you.” Mum replied.

My wardrobe is now home to three dresses and two skirts which hang alongside my school stuff and my ‘normal’ clothes. In my drawers is a number of girlie T shirts and tops, some shorts, a pair of pedal pushers, a pair of jeans, a few pairs of leggings and two more skirts… plus about ten colourful bras. I managed to resist my new items of clothing for as long as possible, which was three whole days. Come weekend, my mother ‘suggested’ I try something new on. I say suggested… when I declined the proposal, she insisted. It could have been worse I guess since my mother didn’t make me wear one of ‘my’ skirts or dresses. Instead she chose a pair of leggings, the pair of shorts and a T shirt… oh, and a colourful training bra of course. My sister grinned, giggled and told me I looked ‘nice’ when she saw me wearing her old clothes. I looked down at myself. The lilac T shirt is adorned with a sparkly butterfly design and embellished with a ruffled hem around the capped sleeves and waist. My shorts are denim with flowers embroidered on the back pockets and my leggings are purple with white polka dots. On my feet is a pair of my own trainers, so I’m not dressed entirely as a girl. “Julia I was thinking…” Mum said, “…could you lend him a fleecy top?”

“What for?” I asked.

My sister asked the same thing at the same time and Mum said, “Well it might be a bit chilly on the tops.”

If I’d known that Mum was not only planning on making me wear girl’s clothes for the day, but also plans on taking us far a walk in The Peaks, I’d have tried a little harder to avoid dressing as a girl today… but like I say, it could have been worse I guess. Mum drove us up to Dovedale and parked the car in a small town which marks the start and end point of the circular walk she had planned. I swapped my trainers for my walking boots, which made my legs seem thinner than normal. My sister had loaned me an olive green fleece top which although clearly a girl’s top, is far less girlie than the T shirt it covered. But as we climbed the steep slopes up to Thorpe Cloud, I had no option but to remove it and tie it around my waist. The view from the top of this pyramid shaped hill was amazing, and our mother insisted on taking a number of photographs of Julia and I stood on the summit with the view of Dovedale in the background. After we’d had our fill of the panoramic views, we descended it’s northern flank down to the stepping stones and another photo opportunity. This popular tourist spot is quite busy so I donned my top to hide my girlie T shirt, but that didn’t stop one little girl from yelling “Mummy Mummy… that boy’s wearing girl’s clothes.”