Return of the Sister: Part 2

Meanwhile, on the complete opposite side of town, Bobby was carrying his prepackaged salad into the Jefferson High cafeteria with all the enthusiasm of someone entering a shark tank. Pre-”Barbie,” he had pretty much ruled the cafeteria, usually swaggering inside with his teammates and lackeys surrounding him. Following his humiliating lost bet to Kimberly, he had been relegated to the outskirts of his old circle, and once he lost his position on the basketball team he had started avoiding the cafeteria entirely.

Now that everybody thought he actually wanted to be “Barbie,” things had changed yet again. In fact, he might as well have landed on an alien planet. As he minced through the doors, high heels clattering on the tiles, it felt like every single head in the cafeteria instantly turned his way.

There were the geeks in the corner, obsessed with anime or Reddit memes or other nerdy shit. A few months ago they wouldn’t dare to even look up, for fear of getting picked on, or having French fries thrown at them all lunch hour, but now they were unabashedly ogling him. Bobby regretted the miniskirt more than ever.

There were the artsy-slash-druggy kids, with whom he normally only deigned to interact with if he wanted weed. A few of the emo-looking girls had invited him to join a LGBTQ student meeting the other day, and one now gave him a friendly wave he pretended not to see. Just because he was “Barbie” now didn’t mean he was going to hang out with a bunch of fives and sixes. Maybe sevens, without the weird makeup.

There were the overachievers, those boring clean-cut kids who tried entirely too hard at everything, but mostly academia. Most of those girls had once secretly or not-so-secretly obsessed over him, but now they were looking at him as disdainfully as possible -- he remembered the “airhead” remark in history class, which made his blood boil all over again.

Bobby realized his feet were carrying him instinctively towards his old kingdom, the center table where the jocks ruled. Once he could have dived right in, giving out fist-pounds and high-fives, laughing and joking with his basketball teammates or razzing the football players. But as he got closer, hips swaying, blonde hair bouncing, he only got an awkward head nod from DeShawn and a whole lot of furtive glances at his legs. He really hated this skirt.

All that left him with one option: the table just off the center, where the most popular girls in school staked their claim, occasionally interacting with the jock table but also focused intently on their phones and dissecting the school’s most recent gossip. These were the hotties, the cheerleaders Bobby used to have eating out of the palm of his hand back when he was Jefferson High’s star athlete. Now, as Kimberly kept reminding him, they were the girls he had to emulate if he wanted to be popular again.

“Hey, girl!” Beverly chirped. “Kimberly said you might join us. Hot skirt! We should definitely take a selfie together for Snapchat.”

Bobby grimaced. Ever since his “coming out” had gone viral, he had been inundated with new online followers, and his real-life gal pals, several of whom were trying to be Instagram models or YouTube influencers, were well aware they could get a social media boost by linking themselves to the whole thing.

The selfies were endless. Beverly was definitely going to tag him, and most likely get a little more mileage out of #Boy2Babe, #PrincessInHiding, and all those other stupid-ass hashtags. It was humiliating, but it kept the cheerleaders on his side -- he didn’t have his teammates to support him anymore, so this was the next best thing.

Usually Kimberly was around to help him navigate the hostile waters of girlhood, but since she was off on some mysterious lunch date, he was entirely on his own. He knew it was essential everyone kept believing he really wanted to be “Barbie” -- otherwise, things would get really messy, really fast -- so he did his best to fake some enthusiasm.

“Oh my God, yes, please,” Bobby chirped back. “Selfies! So fun!”

“Then come get your cute butt in here!” Beverly ordered.

Bobby set his salad down and was immediately maneuvered into frame, putting his made-up face beside Beverly’s on the screen of her iPhone. She was an expert in the art, already cocking her head to one side, tossing her hair, and effortlessly switching between poses. Bobby, by comparison, just pouted his puffy pink lips together and hoped for the best.

“I’m hashtagging it “besties,” okay?” Beverly said, preparing the photo. “Oh my God, you look adorable. Your cheekbones are to die for, bitch.”

“Um, thanks, bitch,” Bobby said hesitantly.

The cafeteria was supposedly pest-free, but Bobby could have sworn there was a cricket infestation in the silence that followed. The cheerleaders all looked at each other. Beverly’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow was raised.

“What?” Bobby demanded, turning red.

“Oh, wow,” Ally said. “Barbie, it just sounds, like, different when you say it.”

Bobby grimaced. “Let’s, uh, take another selfie?” he suggested. “Anyone? Selfie?”

#

Kimberly made it back to school in time for her cosmetology class, an elective she now shared with Bobby. Jefferson High’s administration was still trying to figure out exactly how to handle their first openly trans student -- God, if they only knew the truth -- so they had pulled him from his all-male gym class but were still debating whether or not to let him join the girls’ class. In the meantime, they had stuck him in cosmetology.

“Where were you all lunch hour?” her ex demanded as they walked inside. “I was sweating bullets! Ally asked me who my celebrity crush was and I couldn’t think of a single actor’s name except Christopher freaking Walken, and now they all think I have a thing for older men with crazy eyes.”

“Next time say you meant Channing Tatum,” Kimberly said blithely. “I was busy.”

“Are you banging some dude from another school?” Bobby asked, frowning. “You can tell me, Kimmy. I don’t care. I’m the one who dumped you, remember?”

Kimberly gritted her teeth. “Oh, I remember,” she said. “And it’s not your business.”

“It’s somebody gross, isn’t it,” Bobby said. “Oh, shit. It’s a sugar daddy, right? Some old guy.”

“That’s your thing, remember?” Kimberly said sweetly, taking her seat.

“Very funny.” Bobby made to slump down beside her, but remembered his miniskirt just in time. He paused, smoothed it against his butt, and wiggled into his seat with the caution of someone who had probably unintentionally flashed his panties earlier today. “So, what are we learning today?” he asked glumly. “Perm theory? Graduated layers? How to commit suicide with a hair-dryer?”

“Look who read the workbook,” Kimberly remarked, genuinely surprised.

“My mom saw it in my bag,” Bobby sighed. “She said it’s important for me to know the basics, even if there are hair and makeup people on set to do all that stuff. So, you know, I studied up a little.”

Kimberly blinked. She had never, not once in her life, heard her ex admit to studying. But if anyone could make him do it, it was his mom, whose newfound affection for “Barbie” had seemingly made her second born the center of her universe for the time being -- a spot usually occupied by his world-class fashion model older sister, Serena. Ever since Bobby’s “coming out,” Kimberly knew his parents had been trying to steer him down the same path.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t love the idea of her formerly-macho ex swishing down a runway or shivering through some sexy lingerie shoot in a fancy hotel room, but the more pressure Bobby was under -- and a burgeoning modeling career was definitely pressure -- the more likely he was to snap and confess that the whole “Barbie” thing had never even been his idea, nevermind his secret lifelong dream. She would have to keep an eye on that.

“So, your mom booked a date for your first photoshoot?” she asked casually, as the teacher started talking about scalp analysis.

Bobby blushed. “Yeah,” he said in a small voice, adjusting his wig. “Don’t remind me.”

“Hey, maybe it’ll be fun,” Kimberly said. “When is it?”

“This Sunday,” Bobby said. “Like, all day. I wanted to kick back and watch some basketball, but no, I’m going to be prancing around in some dumb freaking outfit while some weirdo takes photos of me. Unless I find some way to get out of it.”

Kimberly nodded slowly, lips pursed. “Well,” she said. “You could always tell her you don’t want to do it.”

“I already told her I really, really want to do it,” Bobby sighed. “She was excited about it. About me.”

“What if you wanted to do it, but you got sick?” Kimberly asked. “Like, with a sick note? From a doctor?”

Bobby folded his arms. “You know I don’t like doctors, Kimmy.”

“There’s this private physician my mom goes to sometimes,” Kimberly said. “I bet he would write you a sick note forbidding you from doing any kind of physical activity, no questions asked. He’s kind of, uh, anti-establishment.”

Bobby still looked skeptical, but his frown softened. “Okay, okay. What’s his name?”

And at that moment, Kimberly’s devious, brilliant, Machiavellian mind went totally, completely blank. “It’s, um, Doctor… Skee…” She cursed internally. “Toe?”

“Doctor Skito?” Bobby echoed. “Like, what, he’s a mosquito?”

“It’s Japanese,” Kimberly said lamely. “I’ll ask my mom if she has his card.”

“Whatever,” Bobby said. “Pipe down. I’m trying to learn about follicle density.”

#

Bobby Vickerson had always lived for the sound of the final bell, since it used to mean either heading off to basketball practice or to hang out somewhere with his buddies, but that Friday, after a solid week of being “Barbie” -- managing his makeup and clothes, avoiding female faux pas, being stared at like a circus act or a piece of meat, and suffering the attentions of his new clique -- that bell was a heavenly freaking choir.

He escaped the cheerleaders as quickly as he could, giving out the customary air kisses that were now expected from him, and actually managed not to bash his nose into anybody this time. Once all the close-up views of their cleavage would have been incredibly arousing, but now it barely got a twitch out of him -- maybe because he was growing boobs of his own? It was still agonizing, spending all day surrounded by hot girls who now had zero interest in him as anything other than a dress-up doll or selfie companion.

But now he was free. He took the school bus home, slipping his AirPods and turning up his music to ward off any would-be conversation starters, and when it reached his street he wiggled his way up the sidewalk to his house as quickly as he could. His mom’s car was gone, and she had messaged him to say she wouldn’t be back until seven or so. That meant he had at least three hours, three precious, precious hours, of not being “Barbie.”

Bobby swished his way up the steps, still clutching the railing for balance, and unlocked the door. As soon as he was inside, he pulled the blinds, kicked off his high heels, and bolted up the stairs to his room. He wriggled out of his skirt, unbuttoned his top and tugged it up over his head, and, with dexterity he had to admit had much improved over the past weeks, undid the clasps of his bra. He let out a soft groan of contentment, rubbing the red indents left on his shoulders, then held up the frilly feminine contraption and glared at it.

Once upon a time, having a piece of sexy lingerie in his room would have meant another successful conquest of one of the girls at school, but now the lacy black bra was a reminder of just how far he’d sunk. And he had about a dozen more of the things, too -- his mom had taken him underwear shopping. He flung it onto his bed, then, finally, shucked off his matching panties and freed himself from the “tuck job” that kept his balls crammed up inside him all day.

“Oh, hell, yeah,” Bobby sighed out loud, back to his regular voice. “That’s better. You dudes okay? Keep hanging in there. Ha, hanging, get it?”

It was time for the best part of his ritual. With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he went to his closet and found his secret stash, hidden in the very back where his mom wouldn’t see them: a pair of raggedy old boxer shorts, his Jefferson High Tomcats-branded sweatpants, and his favorite Lakers jersey. Underneath them, an assortment of SLAM and Sports Illustrated issues. He got changed, picked out a magazine for later, and left the closet.

Humming to himself, he sat down at his vanity -- another new addition to his room, ordered from Ikea in “dusty rose” pink -- and started removing his false eyelashes. Next he attacked his makeup job with wipes, getting all the gunk off his face at last. He had been dutifully practicing his makeup skills under his mom’s tutelage, but she was still helping him with it every morning before school, to make sure “Barbie” looked “her” best.

Even without the makeup, he was disturbed by how feminine his face was. His skin seemed smoother and softer than it used to be -- probably all the moisturizing masks his mom had gotten him -- and even without the false eyelashes his blue eyes seemed bigger. Maybe it was the plucked brows, or maybe it was just hard to look masculine with a blonde wig on.

It was a much more expensive one than the wig his blackmailer had sent him to wear, and he’d gotten it applied at the salon, which meant an adhesive good for up to four weeks. As much as he would have loved to take it off, it just wasn’t worth the hassle. Instead, he gathered it back into a pony-tail -- he’d learned at least that much -- and secured it with a purple scrunchy.

His phone buzzed and he grabbed for it, hoping his mom hadn’t changed her plans. But it was a message from Kimberly, containing a link to the website of that private physician she’d mentioned. He scrolled through, frowning. As far as doctors go, he didn’t look so bad. Apparently he worked mostly with athletes -- there was a photo of him with Marquis Maxwell, one of Bobby's favorite NBA players, which he had to admit was pretty fucking cool -- and now he specialized in “hands off” medical examinations and same-day services.

Bobby’s mom had always doted on Serena like crazy if she had so much as a sniffle. If he could get his sick note before Sunday, then act really regretful and upset about missing the photoshoot, he might get to spend the whole day getting the same treatment. He was “Barbie,” now, after all. He couldn’t help but get a dreamy smile on his face thinking about how miffed his big sister would be to know Mom was spoiling him rotten.

He checked out the online appointment form, and sure enough, there was an opening on Saturday afternoon. Kimmy would probably be willing to help him pull off his deception -- it had been her idea, after all. He figured he would start acting a little sick tonight, head over to his ex’s house tomorrow, and get a ride over his appointment from there. Easy.

Satisfied with his plan, Bobby made the appointment, then crossed the room to head downstairs. As he did, he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror and had to grimace. The sweatpants were much tighter on his butt than they had any right to be, the jersey was practically sliding off his slender shoulders, and there were undeniably feminine mounds where his breasts were tenting the fabric.

Even as de-girlified as possible, he looked like a cute cheerleader who had playfully dressed up in her boyfriend’s clothes for a lazy afternoon together. In fact, he could remember Beverly stealing his hoodies for just that purpose back when they dated. Trying to put the image out of his mind, Bobby padded downstairs, resolving to find some food that wasn’t a freaking salad.

After that, it was time to hit the couch, turn on Sports Center, and manspread for all he was worth.

#

Even after two weeks of Bobby being “out of the closet,” it was still a little surreal for Kimberly to look over at the passenger’s seat and see her once-macho ex applying mascara with a compact mirror, glossy pink lips set in a pout of concentration. She had drilled it into his head, over and over, that the only surefire way to make people forget about “Bobby” and accept him as “Barbie” was to be the girliest girl possible: full makeup and perfect hair every day, skirts and heels instead of jeans and flats, and absolutely no hint of masculine behavior.

It looked like Bobby had taken it to heart. Even though they were on their way to an appointment with a made-up doctor, he was wearing a bright white A-line skirt, a cute pastel-purple crop top, and strappy peep-toe sandals with a chunky three-inch heel. His hair was a perfect cascade of blonde waves -- she suspected his mom was responsible -- and his makeup wasn’t too shabby either.

“You’re getting pretty good with that mascara wand,” she said innocently. “I remember when you used to think they were dangerous.”

“It would be easier if you would drive better,” he grumbled. “Seriously, you don’t get points for hitting potholes.”

“It was a speedbump,” Kimberly shot back, pulling into the parking lot. “And I told you it was coming. You wanted to get here on time, and look, here we are. On time.”

The past week had been a very, very busy one for Kimberly and Josh. They’d pulled several all-nighters creating the website for “Dr. Skito,” tailored specifically to make him sound like Bobby’s ideal physician, and searched high and low until they found a day office they could rent by the hour. Last night had been spent rehearsing Skeeter’s lines with him over video chat. She could only hope he was somehow better under pressure. She had busted her ass to pull all this together, and if it didn’t work...

“Kind of a shitty-looking building,” Bobby remarked, staring out the window.

“You’re kind of a shitty-looking building,” Kimberly snapped.

Bobby raised one carefully-sculpted eyebrow -- God, was he copying that look from Beverly already? “Ooh-kay,” he said. “Are you feeling alright? Maybe you should see the doctor, not me.”

Kimberly swallowed. “Just kidding,” she said. “Ha! Let’s, uh, head on in.”

Bobby got out of the car far more gracefully than most teenaged boys ever would, managing both his short skirt and high heels like a pro, then promptly managed to snag the strap of his purse in the door. She let him struggle with it while she sent a final message to Skeeter, letting him know they had arrived.

They made it to the office without incident, other than a passing white-collar type doing an almost comical double-take to check out Bobby’s swishing butt, and Kimberly let her ex do the knocking. She realized she was sweating, which only happened when she was very, very nervous. While they waited, Bobby inspected the label on the door, which read “Dr. Skito” in a font she and Josh had argued over for hours.

“You know, he doesn’t look Japanese at all,” he remarked. “I looked at some photos on his website.” He started picking at the label with one long nail. “Jeez, I thought doctors were supposed to have, like, plaques. Or at least something fancier than a sticker.”

The door swung open and Bobby jumped backward with a small yelp of surprise. Skeeter, wearing a large fake moustache, oversized glasses, and a white coat, stared at them without speaking. Bobby stared back, perturbed. Kimberly’s mouth went dry. Skeeter had seriously forgotten his first freaking line?

She cleared her throat. “Hi,” she said. “Are you Dr. Skito?”

Skeeter shook himself, then suddenly snapped into character. “That’s right!” he beamed, speaking in a Southern drawl she’d begged him not to do. “I’m Dr. Skito. My apologies for the temporary office -- my clinic is getting fumigated this weekend. Come on in, come on in. Now, which one of you young ladies is Miss Barbie Vickerson?”

Bobby’s eyes were narrowed suspiciously as they walked inside, but he raised his hand. “Um, that’s me,” he said, using his girl voice. “I was hoping to get a sick note.”

“That’s one of my specialties,” Skeeter said. “Have a seat, Barbie. And you too, Kim… Oh... Sabe. Kemosabe. Like in The Lone Ranger. I’m a big Western fan. As you can tell from my accent. I...”

Kimberly made a curt chopping gesture with her hand while Bobby, focusing on keeping his skirt under his butt as he sat down, couldn’t see it.

“Sick note,” Skeeter said. “Right. What are your symptoms?”

Fortunately, Bobby was nervous, too. His pathological dislike of doctors was probably part of it, while trying to pass as a girl to a stranger was another. He squirmed in his seat and blinked. “Um, stomachache?” he suggested. “And headache?”

“The old double whammy ache,” Skeeter remarked, taking a seat behind his desk. “That’s the medical term. Well, the one we use down in Texas. So, the way I see it, you’re trying to get out of a prior engagement. Work? School? It’ll help me make the note more applicable.”

Bobby shot an incredulous look over at Kimberly, who did her best to shrug nonchalantly. “You weren’t kidding,” he muttered. “This guy rules.” Then, sitting up straight and addressing “Dr. Skito,” added, “Work, I guess?”

“What sort of work?” Skeeter asked, tapping away at his laptop.

Bobby blushed slightly. “I’m trying to get out of doing a photoshoot,” he admitted.

“Fashion model, huh?” Skeeter remarked, taking a closer look at his patient. “Should’ve guessed. You know, you look a little familiar. You’re not famous or anything, are you? Are you on billboards? In magazines? I swear I’ve seen you in a magazine.”

Bobby grimaced. “Um, nope. First photoshoot.”

“Really?” Skeeter demanded. “Oh, I know who I’m thinking of. There’s this famous model, Serena something. You look a little bit like her. Blonder. Prettier, too, in my humble opinion. What was her name? Let me Google it really quickly, I bet you’ll see the resemblance…”

“Sick note!” Bobby yelped. “Let’s do the sick note thing instead!”

“Yeah,” Kimberly jumped in, reasoning it was the right time. “We’re kind of in a hurry, Dr. Skito.”

“It’ll just take a second,” Skeeter reassured them, tapping away. “Serena… Vickerson!” He stared at Bobby over his laptop, then adjusted his glasses. “Oh, my word,” he said, his Southern drawl getting even more over-the-top. “I saw a news story about you, Miss Barbie! You’re the ‘princess in hiding’ girl, aren’t you? From Jefferson High? Basketball star to prom queen, that sort of thing?”

Bobby’s face went bright red. “Look, I’m just going to go,” he muttered, rising from his chair. “I really don’t want to…”

“Miss Barbie, I just wanted to say that you are an absolute inspiration,” Skeeter said.

Bobby stopped in his tracks. “Um, what?”

“You’re a beacon of hope to young trans women everywhere,” Skeeter said. “I would be honored to write you a sick note.” He rummaged through the stack of papers on his desk. “What would you like? Influenza? Strep throat?”

Bobby looked over at Kimberly, who was doing her best to look just as bewildered as he was. “Strep throat sounds good,” he said in a small voice.

“Strep throat it is,” Skeeter said. “Now, judging from your figure, I assume you’re already seeing a doctor in regards to your, ahem, transition?”

“What do you mean?” Bobby asked, frowning.

“Well, your breast development would indicate that you’re either taking female hormones, or…” Skeeter paused, and Kimberly knew he was racking his brain for the correct pronunciation. “Suffering from a case of gynecomastia.”

To Kimberly’s surprise, Bobby’s expression was one of delight. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I mean, I was 90% percent sure. I looked it up on Web MD.”

“Ah, yes, Web MD,” Skeeter said, nodding wisely. “I use it myself, you know. Well, I think most trans girls would consider themselves quite lucky to end up with such an advanced case. Normally, I’d prescribe male hormone pills to counteract it, but since you want to have breasts…”

Bobby flushed. “Look, Doctor Skito…” He bit his lip, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “We have doctor patient confidentiality, right? My parents can not know about this.”

“Don’t worry, Barbie, I help a lot of troubled kids on the down low,” Skeeter said, leaning forward himself. “I’m seeing you right now without a parental guardian, aren’t I?”

Kimberly put on a concerned face. “Barbie, are you sure you want to…”

“I think maybe this whole transition thing was a mistake,” Bobby blurted. “I mean, I only got the idea…” He glanced over at Kimberly. “Because of this gynecomastia thing! Yeah! I thought, hey, if life gives you lemons, or, like boobs, why not make the most of it? But now I think it was a big, big mistake. So, if there’s a way to undo it…”

Skeeter stroked solemnly at his moustache. “Really? You want male hormone pills? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Bobby said. “Absolutely sure.” He turned to Kimberly. “Look, I can’t keep this act up forever, okay? If my body goes back to normal, I can tell people that, I don’t know, that “Barbie” just wasn’t meant to be. I can go back to being me.”

“I get it,” Kimberly said. “Doctor Skito, do you have any pills in that desk drawer of yours that would do that?”

Skeeter blanked for a moment, then opened the drawer again, this time retrieving a very familiar-looking bottle of pink pills -- the very same ones Bobby had been unwittingly taking, crushed up into his protein powder or mango smoothies, for almost two months.

“Right, so these are male hormone pills that should counteract your gynecomastia,” Skeeter explained haltingly. “Now, these work a lot slower, and you might even see the gynecomastia get worse for a little while, as your hormone balance, uh, stabilizes. But if you take these daily, your condition should reverse itself.”

Bobby broke into a grin. “Hell, yeah,” he said. “I’ll take everything you’ve got.”

“Terrific,” Skeeter said, clearly relieved. “I mean, I can only give you thirty at a time, but just come back when you run out.”

Kimberly gritted her teeth. There was no way she was renting this office out every month. “It would be really convenient if there was a way to mail away for these pills,” she said slowly. “So we don’t have to come back here and go through this all over again. Don’t you think?”

“That’s what I meant to say,” Skeeter said quickly. “Just contact the office, and we’ll mail the pills right to your door. How about that?”

“Great,” Bobby said. “You know, for a doctor, you’re not bad.” He paused. “Uh, can I still get the sick note?”

“No problemo,” Skeeter said. He scribbled a signature on the form Josh had printed off the internet and handed it over. “That’s Japanese for ‘no problem.’ I forgot to mention I’m Japanese on my father’s side.”

Kimberly took a deep breath and tried to fake a smile. “How about that.”