When You Were Young

Wendell threw himself at Pryde, clawing at the man's eyes. Pryde tossed him back against the wall like a rag doll. "If you touch her, I'll-"

"You'll do nothing. A puny thing like you shouldn't go around making threats." Pryde squeezed Wendell's cheek until he winced. With the knife, Pryde sliced open Wendell's shirt and peeled it away. "I brought you something I think you'll be more comfortable in."

He reached into his coat and produced a frilly pink dress. Wendell stared at the dress a moment, recognizing it as the same one Rebecca, then Molly, and then Samantha had worn in the future. "I'm not putting this on," he said.

Pryde hit Wendell in the face, breaking his nose. "It's not as if you have a choice," Pryde said. He tore a piece from Wendell's shirt to dab at the blood on Wendell's face. "You can do it the easy way or the fun way. Makes no difference to me."

With tears in his eyes and blood still flowing from his nose, Wendell slipped into the dress. The dress fit him comfortably, as if made with him in mind. The feel of the skirt around his legs is so familiar.

"Wendelle, it's time for bed," Mother calls.

Wendelle puts down her brush and then leans close to the mirror. A fresh batch of thin orange hairs has sprung up along her jaw. They had begun to appear two months ago, a week after her twelfth birthday. Mother screamed when she leaned down to kiss Wendelle's cheek before breakfast one morning and saw them. She locked Wendelle in her bedroom and then sent Isabelle into town for the barber, an old man with no hair except in his ears.

"This is most peculiar," he said when he examined her.

"Why?" Wendelle asked.

"Because-"

"Just do your job and be on your way," Mother said. The barber shaved Wendelle's face without another word. Mother gave him a pound note, which Wendelle thought a little much. The hairs came back, growing even thicker over the next three weeks.

"I've never seen anything like this on a woman," the barber said the next time.

"What's wrong with me?" Wendelle asked in a panic.

"Nothing's wrong with you, dearie," Mother said. She paid the barber and hurried him out the door. Wendelle supposes Mother will have to call for the barber again.

On her forehead and cheeks, new pimples have blossomed and the skin there taken on a greasy sheen. The sores on her forehead she can cover with her bangs, but the others are more troublesome. Mother promised she could go to the St. Valentine's ball with all the other boys and girls of Glensford, but she can't go looking like this.