Do I have to be a cheerleader? -9/?
Finally able to leave school for real, for today, Patrick makes his way back at home, with a confusion of emotions in his head and heart. On one hand there is the “fuck yeah, I’m on top of the world” feeling after the positive reaction during the memorable music lesson, plus the lovely sensation of being finally acknowledged by his schoolmates, including having a new best friend (he should gather the courage to talk to Joe again, speaking of beffies) and a handful of acquaintances. Not to mention the fact that he’s in the cheerleading team, for fuck’s sake, whether he likes it or not; he can’t deny, though, that a part of him wanted to succeed. On the other hand there’s the distress for waking up as a girl and the consequent worry of being discovered and how to explain it at least to his family, because they have to know it soon or later.
This last part is getting sooner and sooner the closer Patrick gets to his house, walking cautiously block after block. Once on his door step, he looks around to be sure no one is around and gets inside, closing the door behind him; nobody is at home yet, but he runs upstairs to lock himself in his room anyway, where he can finally slump on the bed with a heavy sigh and think how to explain what the fuck happened without causing the Third World War.
***
Every time the main door slams shut, signalizing the arrival of the members of his family, Patrick dies a bit, because only a handful of hours divides him from the doom, and when the door closes for the third, ultimate time that day when his father is back from work, Patrick wants to puke in the aquarium of his poor goldfish Bowie.
In an attempt to loosen a bit and prepare a speech to give his family, he starts pacing back and forth in his messy room, stepping over vinyl covers, t-shirts, music sheets, risking to dig a moat in the carpeted floor.
A thump on the door startles him: it’s Kevin who’s calling him for dinner.
“Shitshitshit”, he hisses, walking more furiously and kind of pulling at his hair, his speech forgotten and panic rushing in him again. Pushing the heels of his hands in his eye sockets, Patrick forces himself to calm down and breathe before opening the door on the hallway, from where he can smell lasagna and hear his family talk in the kitchen.
One step at a time, Patrick arrives downstairs, stopping right outside the kitchen. He swallows the lump in his throat and at the second attempt manages to open his mouth and talk, trying to lower the octaves of his voice, now feminine.
“Ehm…I-I think I have a problem…actually I do have a problem…” he says, leaning against the wall and blushing, not wanting to enter the room where his family is dining yet.
“Patrick?” his mother asks surprised, “What are you doing there? Come on in, dinner’s ready.”
“Actually…” the boy fidgets, picking at his wristband, “…Listen, what are you going to do if I showed you something?” he asks wincing.
Silence from the kitchen. Mr and Mrs Stumph exchange a look, and finally Patrick’s mother tries again to let her son inside, saying, “Well, show us.”
Patrick sighs and tentatively turns towards the door, standing in the doorframe in all the glory of the new girly body he woke in earlier that morning.
The fork in Kevin’s hand falls on the floor, Mrs Stumph has to actually sit down; the three of them share an expression of total incredulity at the impossible case in front of their eyes.
Patrick is blushing, looking at the tips of his -now slightly large- shoes, feeling too ashamed, distraught and worried for his family’s reaction. He thinks he might cry and run away, at least.
“P-Patrick…what happened?” his father chokes out, his eyes literally popping out.
“I don’t know,” the boy replies, forcing the words to come out of his throat.
“Okay, let’s…let’s try not to freak out too much…” his mother says, who was looking on the verge of passing out for the shock, “There has to be a realistic explication for why it happened.”
Nobody talks, nobody wants to express theories that would sound nuts anyway.
She sighs. “Okay, nevermind. I guess you’re staying this way? Or is it temporary?” No one makes her notice her voice is more high pitched and a little hysterical.
“I have no idea,” Patrick states, allowing himself to cry a little. They apparently took it better than what he expected; sure, as soon as he returns in his room the parents will be able to freak out and discuss his situation, but he’s glad the things are going rather well for now.
“Sit down, Patrick, the lasagna is cooling off. We’ll talk about it later,” his mother invites him with a small but sincere smile. Patrick smiles back, sobbing in relief.
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This last part is getting sooner and sooner the closer Patrick gets to his house, walking cautiously block after block. Once on his door step, he looks around to be sure no one is around and gets inside, closing the door behind him; nobody is at home yet, but he runs upstairs to lock himself in his room anyway, where he can finally slump on the bed with a heavy sigh and think how to explain what the fuck happened without causing the Third World War.
***
Every time the main door slams shut, signalizing the arrival of the members of his family, Patrick dies a bit, because only a handful of hours divides him from the doom, and when the door closes for the third, ultimate time that day when his father is back from work, Patrick wants to puke in the aquarium of his poor goldfish Bowie.
In an attempt to loosen a bit and prepare a speech to give his family, he starts pacing back and forth in his messy room, stepping over vinyl covers, t-shirts, music sheets, risking to dig a moat in the carpeted floor.
A thump on the door startles him: it’s Kevin who’s calling him for dinner.
“Shitshitshit”, he hisses, walking more furiously and kind of pulling at his hair, his speech forgotten and panic rushing in him again. Pushing the heels of his hands in his eye sockets, Patrick forces himself to calm down and breathe before opening the door on the hallway, from where he can smell lasagna and hear his family talk in the kitchen.
One step at a time, Patrick arrives downstairs, stopping right outside the kitchen. He swallows the lump in his throat and at the second attempt manages to open his mouth and talk, trying to lower the octaves of his voice, now feminine.
“Ehm…I-I think I have a problem…actually I do have a problem…” he says, leaning against the wall and blushing, not wanting to enter the room where his family is dining yet.
“Patrick?” his mother asks surprised, “What are you doing there? Come on in, dinner’s ready.”
“Actually…” the boy fidgets, picking at his wristband, “…Listen, what are you going to do if I showed you something?” he asks wincing.
Silence from the kitchen. Mr and Mrs Stumph exchange a look, and finally Patrick’s mother tries again to let her son inside, saying, “Well, show us.”
Patrick sighs and tentatively turns towards the door, standing in the doorframe in all the glory of the new girly body he woke in earlier that morning.
The fork in Kevin’s hand falls on the floor, Mrs Stumph has to actually sit down; the three of them share an expression of total incredulity at the impossible case in front of their eyes.
Patrick is blushing, looking at the tips of his -now slightly large- shoes, feeling too ashamed, distraught and worried for his family’s reaction. He thinks he might cry and run away, at least.
“P-Patrick…what happened?” his father chokes out, his eyes literally popping out.
“I don’t know,” the boy replies, forcing the words to come out of his throat.
“Okay, let’s…let’s try not to freak out too much…” his mother says, who was looking on the verge of passing out for the shock, “There has to be a realistic explication for why it happened.”
Nobody talks, nobody wants to express theories that would sound nuts anyway.
She sighs. “Okay, nevermind. I guess you’re staying this way? Or is it temporary?” No one makes her notice her voice is more high pitched and a little hysterical.
“I have no idea,” Patrick states, allowing himself to cry a little. They apparently took it better than what he expected; sure, as soon as he returns in his room the parents will be able to freak out and discuss his situation, but he’s glad the things are going rather well for now.
“Sit down, Patrick, the lasagna is cooling off. We’ll talk about it later,” his mother invites him with a small but sincere smile. Patrick smiles back, sobbing in relief.
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