Free Backcast by Ann McMan

card and asked me to choose between Western Barbie (who kinda looked like Jennifer Aniston, but came with a really cool, prancing Palomino), or the remote controlled Special Ops Spy Car with Rockets and a Rear-Firing Cannon.
    I stood there staring down into the depths of that bright red shopping cart for so long that Aunt Tootie, who really had the patience of Job, finally started cracking her wad of Dentyne to let me know she was thinking about getting annoyed.
    In the end, I went with the Barbie—but only because I liked the fringe on her shiny white outfit and, like I said, the plastic yellow horse was pretty awesome. It looked a lot like Mr. Ed. My aunt never found out that, later, when I got Barbie alone in my room, I cut off most of her hair and re-named her Wilbur.
    Even then, my tastes were pretty eclectic. At least, that’s how my mother described them to her guests when I showed up at one of her Tupperware parties wearing a pair of mukluks, and a camouflage jacket over a pink tutu. I’ve never been afraid to take a fashion risk.
    Growing up, it didn’t much bother me that I had apenis. (In fact, it’s really just a super-sized nub, but I’ll talk more about that later.) I mean, I knew I was a girl. Mostly. I didn’t even know there was anything unusual about me until I was ten, and I saw Melissa Boatwright in the shower at the Y. I learned some other useful things about myself that day, too—like it suddenly became clear to me why I wasn’t really interested in boys the same way most of my friends were starting to be. You see, Melissa was three years older than me, and she looked pretty great stark naked and dripping wet. And unlike my Western Barbie, I had no desire to cut off any of her hair to make her look like a guy. I thought she was just fine the way she was.
    That’s when I went home and asked my mom to explain just what was up with my body—and why didn’t I look like other girls “down there.”
    She gave me one of “those” looks—the ones that always meant we were in for a long conversation—and said we’d talk about it later, when my dad got home.
    Okay. That meant it was a bigger deal than I thought. For the very first time in my life, I felt afraid. Why was I different? Why hadn’t anyone ever said anything to me about it? What was this going to mean? And why did my nub get bigger whenever I thought about Melissa in the shower?
    That night, after we ate our pot roast and creamed spinach, my parents pushed their plates back and faced me with identical pairs of folded hands.
    â€œPumpkin,” my father began, “there are some things that mom and I never told you about the day you were born.”
    I glanced over at my mother. Her face had that pinched-up look it got whenever Sally Struthers was on TV talking about sick babies in Africa.
    I looked back at my father. “What is it? And why does Mom look so scared?”
    He shot a nervous glance at my mother and cleared his throat.
    I knew it was bad now. I was sure he was going to tell me that I was adopted. That had to be it. My whole life was a sham. How would I ever hold my head up in school? And how would I ever break the news to Wilbur and Mr. Ed?
    We were orphans now.
    My eyes started to fill up with tears. “I’m adopted, aren’t I?”
    My father looked surprised. “No, honey, that’s not it.”
    â€œIt isn’t?” I wasn’t sure I was ready to believe him. I mean, he’d waited all this time to tell me whatever it was.
    â€œNo.” He looked over at my mom again.
    She took up the explanation. “Sweetie, when you were born, the doctors weren’t sure about whether you were a little girl, or a little boy.”
    Okay. That one stopped my surge of panic.
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    My mother leaned across the table and reached out to push my bangs away from my eyes. “Well, honey. You know how little