So this took FOREVER hopefully it was worth the wait. I'd like thank my friends Ben (augur-cursed) who helped me slip into the mind of a six year old, and as always Liz (gamin14) and Michelle (Daydreamer731) This chapter however is dedicated to my newest friend Subia Jasmine, for helping me agonize over every freaking word of this. Angel and April aren't mine. Everything else is

Chapter Two: Life is a Drag

Throughout our childhoods Lillian and I were inseparable. She was my pride and joy, as cliché as it sounds. From the time she was small, she was something else! She was talking by nine months old. I was about to leave my aunt's place when she spoke for the first time. She began to cry and, reaching for me, babbled "Byyeee, Ang!" I held her hands as she took her first tottering steps across her family's rug into her father's arms. From the very beginning we had each other's backs. I was her hero, she was my friend, and considering I didn't have many others, I lapped it up.

We lived across the street from one another in an upper class neighborhood in Westport. It was the stereotyped town where rich folk lived. Everyone had three cars, you were considered poor if your maid was not a live in, and under no circumstances raised your own children. Prejudice was a way of life. When my father Raphael Schunard came here at twenty two, a half German half Cuban immigrant from Havana, he'd moved into a regular W.A.S.P colony. He became known as "That colored boy who delivers the flowers." That was how he met my mother, Marie Dumott, the only other Latina in the neighborhood, adopted by a French-American lawyer. She would come into the shop where he worked and ask for a yellow rose for her desk. After this routine went on for a month, she walked in to find two dozen yellow roses, held by Raphael. This sparked a three year courtship between the two. To everyone else, my father had taken advantage of impressionable young Marie and married her for her father's wealth, but to me my father was Superman, like every little boy believes. He was a doctor, an athlete and a damn good mechanic. (We never had to bring our car for detailing.) He protected and provided for us. I inherited my sharp tongue and love of music from him. And that'll be all I ever thank him for if he's lucky.

My mother, on the other hand, was and still is the picture of perfection. Like my father and I, she bore flawless caramel colored skin, black curls and deep brown eyes. She had a giving grounded nature and stood behind her family with a graceful strength that all my days I tried to emulate. I worshiped her, she was perfect.

And so, both my dearest cousin Lillian and I grew up with everything anyone could ever want. But me? I was always, well...different. The first time I ever realized I wasn't ordinary was the same year Lily was born. I was in kindergarten. In our classroom we had what our teacher called 'centers.' There was the house center, where baby girls were subliminally brainwashed into being housewives like their mothers, or the art center where I usually played. Then there was the dress up center, which was always mobbed by girls.

As a little kid my best friend was a plucky gray eyed girl named April. She operated like a hummingbird on a sugar high, always jumping and climbing and swinging. She never backed down from a bully or a dare and talked nonstop. I was shyer and more of a follower. And she possessed a mean streak that I never found in myself. I was sugar she was spice and we rubbed off on each other.

One day during free time April grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the dress up center.

"C'mon, Ang! Let's play!"

"But I've never played dress up before," I protested.

"Ooh it's so fun! I'll teach you."

She knelt down in front of a large pink chest full of costumes. My eyes got huge at the sight of all the color. It did look like a lot of fun.

"Now what do we do?" I asked.

"We put on the costumes and pretend. Like this." She took a lose baseball jersey and slipped it on. It went down past her knees. She did a pantomime of swinging a bat

"Four!" she cried.

"I think you say four in football," I said.

"Whatever. Okay, now you try."

I rummaged around trying to decide what to choose when practically everything called me. The idea of dressing up and being just who I wanted to be thrilled me. It was an itch I'd have to scratch all my life. Finally my eyes happened on something sparkly. Pulling at it I discovered a beautiful white dress covered in sequins.

"Ooh! Try that on!" April urged.

I slid it over my head slowly. I was so tiny the gorgeous thing dragged on the floor.

"How do I look?" I turned to her. She squealed and grinned.

"You look like Cinderella!"

"Really? Awesome! Ten minutes ago I met you..." I broke into a song from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Mama loved. April bowed and I curtsied and the two of us danced clumsily together.

"Yanno Angel, one day you and me are gonna be famous singers and be best friends forever."

"Oh yea! We hafta stick together."

"Yep."

"Yep."

Just then a boy came up and stepped between us.

"Hey!" April cried. "We're dancin' here!"

He pointed at me and sneered:

"You're wearin' a dress!"

I stuck my hands on my hips.

"So what?"

"Boys don't wear dresses, stupid!" he mocked me. I was cut to the quick by his words and April rushed to defend me.

"You can't talk to him like that! And why cant boys wear dresses? Girls can wear pants. It should be the same."

"Well it ain't! Only boys that wear dresses are fags."

There was a pause. April and I looked at each other curiously.

"What's fags?" she asked.

"Dunno," I replied.

The bully snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Fags go to Hell. They're bad monsters."

My eyes became as large as saucers and my chin quivered. My family was devoutly religious; Hell was a very real threat to me. Probably the only threat at the time.

"I am not bad!" I shouted, stomping my foot. "I am not a monster!"

"Don't listen, Angel." April put her arm around me. "I'll bet he's makin' it all up."

"Nah-uh! My dad said!" he challenged her. "And anyway you stay outta this, September!" The kids were always teasing April about her name.

"April! April! April!" she shrieked. "My name is April!"

"That ain't a name. Neither is yours Angel." He put a drawling emphasis on it.

"It's a Latin name and lotsa people have it so there!" I stuck my tongue out.

"Yea, lotsa girls! It's a girl name. You really are a fag. I better not talk to you; you might try to make me one too!"

"Am not, am not AM NOT!" I burst into tears. April scowled.

"Why I oughta-"

"What is going on over here?" the teacher cried coming over.

"She was gonna hit me!" the boy said pointing at April.

"No I wasn't! Miss Wolfe, he told Angel he was gonna go to Hell because he's wearing a dress!"

The teacher glared sharply and told our attacker to go stand in the corner, and then knelt down and dried my eyes with one of the tissues that she always seemed to have on hand.

"Oh, Angel, it's okay," she cooed.

"Am I really goin' to Hell?" I sniffed.

"No, of course not. Don't cry, sweetheart. But take the dress off please."

"But we aren't done playing Cinderella yet," April protested.

"I think you two had better play another game. Angel, didn't you say you'd teach April to hula hoop?"

"Oh yea!"

"So she'll go get set up over there but I need to talk to you for a minute. Go on, April."

"Okay," she chirped and skipped away. Miss Wolfe led me aside. I looked up at her expectantly.

"Angel, what that boy did hurt you very much didn't it?"

I nodded gravely.

"Yes ma'am."

She nodded too, and sighed.

"Now, dear, that was very wrong of him, even still I don't think you should wear dresses in the classroom anymore."

"But Miss Wolfe, I liked it a real lot."

"I know you did, but boys don't normally wear dresses. The kids wouldn't understand."

"But maybe it's good," I argued. "Aren't you always telling us to try new stuff?"

She smiled.

"You're a very clever kid, you know that?"

I grinned. I loved compliments from adults.

"Mama says I'm old for my age," I said, and she laughed.

"That you are. And it's very good to try new things, but not when it could get you in trouble."

"How could wearing girl clothes get me in trouble?"

"Like I said, the other kids wouldn't know what to make of it. And when people don't understand something they usually get scared of it. I wouldn't want you getting picked on."

I nodded. I didn't want it either.

"Okay, I won't play dress up anymore," I told her.

She lifted my face to her and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Angel, always remember to be you. If you want to express how you feel through using your imagination that is wonderful. I'm only trying to keep you safe."

"I know. Thanks, Miss Wolfe."

"You're welcome," she chuckled. "Now go play. April is waiting."

"'Kay!"

I started to walk away but then a light bulb went off in my head. I turned back to her and asked:

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"What about at home? Could I play dress up at home?"

She gave me another smile.

"What you do at home is no one's business but your own. Ask your mommy and daddy and see what they say."

"'Kay."

As I joined April I saw my teacher write something at her desk and pin it to my coat.

The bright yellow school bus pulled up in front of my house and beeped. My mother was waiting on the front steps in her favorite periwinkle housedress. The sun was making her black hair glow so it looked almost blue. My God she was so beautiful.

"Mama!" I called, hopping down the steps and into her arms. Her hug was warm and strong and smelled like lavender.

"Hi, Mom!"

"Hi, baby. I missed you, how was your day?"

"I taught April to hula hoop. She can do it three times before it falls, I can do six!"

"Really? Well let's go inside and have a snack and you can tell me about it."

I took her hand and followed her into the house, dropping my coat and lunch bag on the living room floor. We went into the kitchen and ate oranges and I chattered happily. After we were through I pushed out my chair.

"I'm going upstairs to play with Katie," I said heading upstairs. And sure enough our old Dalmatian Katie was sprawled on my bed. I whistled and she looked around. Upon seeing me, she leapt off and jumped on me. She always knocked me over; she was so big I could ride her at the time. We played for a long time until I figured maybe it'd be better in the yard. I led her down the stairs but halfway down I heard my parents talking in hushed tones. I hid and watched.

"I can't fucking believe this!" My father paced across the living room. Mama answered him, her voice firm.

"Raphael, what is so wrong with it? It was only one time. Amanda spoke to him about it."

"Yes and she'll speak to others too. How will it look for us when the neighbors find out our son is a fucking transvestite?"

He spat out the word with contempt like I'd never heard in him. They were talking about me, but what was a trans...trans-whatever?

"He's not a transvestite!" Mama's voice got louder. "He's six years old! He was just exploring! And besides, Amanda Wolfe won't say anything. She doesn't care and neither does anyone else."

I was confused, why was Papa mad at me?

"Mama?" I called softly. She turned.

"Angel, come down please, mi hijo."

I obeyed and came to stand before my father.

"You wore a dress in class today?"

I nodded.

"April and me were playing Cinderella."

He sighed impatiently and threw up his hands in frustration.

"I don't believe this!"

"Raphael!" Mama hissed. He ignored her.

"You can't do things like that!" he yelled and I flinched.

"What? The dress?"

Mama came forward and put her hands on my shoulders.

"Honey what you did today just-"

"Was completely unacceptable! Did anyone see you?"

I looked at the carpet dismally.

"Yea," I muttered. "Some boy made fun of me. He called me a fag."

Mama looked horrified but Papa's face went red.

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted. "I can't believe you did that! What would posses you?"

"I dunno," I squeaked. "It just looked like fun."

He suddenly picked a glass paperweight up off the coffee table and hurled it across the room. I jumped back as it hit the wall. It didn't shatter; rather fell with a very loud bang to the floor. The sound shocked me and I began 2 cry.

"Stop that!" my father ordered. "Look, boys do not wear dresses and no son of mine will be caught dead prancing around like some girl. That boy had every right to say something. You brought it on yourself."

"But why?" I asked. "I wasn't doin' anything to him. He shoulda just minded his own P's and Q's."

"How could you think someone wasn't going to tease you?" he raged on. "It's not natural to see a boy in a dress."

"Why not? Girls wear pants." Normally I didn't like to argue, but I just couldn't understand. Wearing that dress had felt beautiful and good to me. If I couldn't experience that, then I wanted a good straightforward reason why.

"When a man wears a dress it is a sign of disrespect for God," he said.

My first thought in response was whether or not God really cared what I wore. But then I thought of what the kid from school had said. That I would go to Hell. Like all others who disrespected Him. Maybe they were both right. And at the thought of the wrath of the Lord on my head I was subdued. I hung my head and whispered:

"Okay, Papa. I'll never wear girl clothes again. Promise." I crossed myself for added effect and really hoped Jesus saw it. He relaxed a little and sighed.

"Good boy. Now go upstairs and play until dinner."

"Yes, sir," I answered, trudging up the stairs. Once I was out of sight they started talking again.

"I think you were too hard on him, Raph," Mama said. "You scared him half to death. You know how sensitive he is."

"Exactly. He's too sensitive. If he doesn't toughen up he'll always be taken advantage of. He has to learn the ways of the world."

"Go talk to him, play with him. Let him know you aren't angry."

"All right."

I scampered into my room so I wouldn't be caught spying.

"Angel?" he called.

I looked up.

"Yes Papa?"

"Can I come in son?"

"Sure."

He sat next to me on the bed and put his arm around me. I moved into his embrace gratefully.

"I'm sorry," I told him.

"Me too, mi hijo. I didn't mean to be so rough on you. I just worry about you is all."

"I know."

"Good. Because if you were mad at me I wouldn't be able to do my favorite thing."

"What's that?"

"Play tickle torture!" he cried and dive bombed me. I screamed and laughed and tried in vain to fight him. But soon he overpowered me.

"I give! I give!"

We lay panting for a moment until he sat up and ruffled my hair.

"Well, I'm going downstairs, kid."

"Okay."

As he left, a strange feeling washed over me. Papa wasn't mad at me anymore and everything was fine, so why was I still sad?

And then I remembered that I could never feel a dress against my body ever again.

And I cried.