Free Backcast by Ann McMan Page A

boys have penises, and little girls have vaginas?”
    I had a pretty good idea where this was headed now. I nodded.
    â€œIt seemed that you were born with both,” she said.
    â€œAnd,” my father chimed in, “the doctors wanted us to make a choice about which sex we wanted you to be.”
    â€œBut,” it was my mom’s turn to talk again. I felt like I was watching a tennis match on TV. “We didn’t think that was our decision to make—so we decided to wait.”
    Wait? Wait for what? Wait for my nub to drop off, or for me to have to start shaving?
    â€œYou gave me a girl’s name,” I said. “And you bought me dolls .” I said it like I was Matlock, cross-examining a witness.
    â€œWe also bought you trucks and guns,” my father corrected. It seemed like he’d had time to prepare for this conversation.
    â€œAnd your name is a family name, that could work for either a girl or a boy,” my mother added.
    That was true. At least they hadn’t named me after Aunt Tootie. Then I might have had a reason to use one of my toy guns.
    I looked down at my lap. “Is this why I have a big nub?” I asked.
    My father chewed his bottom lip. Nobody said anything for a moment. I could hear our dog, Rex, getting a drink of water in the kitchen.
    â€œYes, honey,” my mom finally replied.
    I sighed. It was true that my big nub was—unusual. I knew that now. But it was a part of me, and I was used to it. Plus, it was feeling pretty good these days. I didn’t think I wanted to have it go away. My panic started to creep back. Is that what this conversation was about? Were they going to make me lose my nub?
    I knew that right then, I probably looked a lot like Rex, whenever Mom got the vacuum cleaner out.
    â€œCan I keep it?” I asked.
    â€œOh, honey,” my mom was starting to cry. “Of course you can keep it.”
    Dad was now staring at something fascinating in his own lap. Maybe all this talk about losing nubs was making him think about his own?
    Gross.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œIs there anything else you’d like to ask us about?” My mom was still leaning toward me.
    I shrugged. It occurred to me to ask if they ever thought that Joey Heinz, who lived in the apartment upstairs, looked just like the Unabomber—but I knew this probably wasn’t the kind of question she meant.
    â€œNot right now,” I said, instead.
    My father had apparently finished contemplating the crease in his trouser leg.
    â€œJust know you can always talk with us about this,” he said, “or anything else that worries you.”
    My mother nodded in agreement. “Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you’re odd or strange. You are a perfectly wonderful and normal person.”
    Right then, I realized how lucky I was that she didn’t know about Western Barbie’s new hairstyle. I’d grown tired of the buzz cut, and colored her head with a black Marks-a-Lot. She had a beard and sideburns now, too.
    â€œCan I go outside and play until dark?”
    â€œDid you finish your math homework?” she asked.
    We were doing long division at school—and I hated that stuff worse than creamed spinach. I looked down at my plate. I’d done a pretty good job hiding most of it beneath what was left of my Parker House roll. I knew it didn’t really fool my mother, but she usually let me get away with it.
    â€œI did most of it,” I said. “I need help with some of the harder ones.”
    Mom started to protest, but Dad interrupted her. “You can go out and play—but when you come back inside, we’ll sit down and solve the rest of your problems.”
    I pushed back my chair, and raced for the front door, not wanting to waste any more of the soft, warm night.
    It was only later, as I fell asleep wrapped in the snug awareness that my parents would always do exactly what they promised,