could. The hair was good. My skin
wasn’t perfect, but it was getting
better; the pustules had receded
into regular pimples. I looked...not
bad.
I went home, and my mom
squealed when I walked in the door.
“Ooooooh! They turned my
baby boy into a pretty little girl! I’ve
got a little girl! You’re so pretty!”
“Mom! C’mon. Stop it.”
“Is this the way you’re telling
me that you’re gay?”
“What? No. Why would you say
that?”
“You know it’s okay if you are.”