Fortunately, the world didn't end that afternoon.

We each recovered from our individual losses, and life trundled slowly along its rocky slope once more. Mom took an administrative position at the local council, earning enough money to pay off the house. Kate grew up to marry a well-established barrister, settling down in one of the more affluent suburbs of London. Rachel graduated high school and managed to get into RADA, majoring in Voice and Movement with a bit of modeling on the side. Evelyn Deane cast me in a couple of Christmas pantomimes, evidently to prove that even a block of wood has its uses. There was some talk of scholarships and academic auditions, though nothing much came of it. I was a good student, but I wasn't a great dancer. As Evelyn eventually told me — not without some regret - my true skills lay elsewhere.

In the meantime, I coped with the usual complexities of adolescence. I rowed with my Mom, squabbled with my teachers and learnt how to deal with schoolyard bullies. Like any boy hitting puberty, I developed crushes on girls who never noticed my existence and willfully ignored the ones who did. Of course, my situation was perhaps slightly more complicated than most. While I was exclusively attracted to girls my age, I also constantly fantasized about being one.

Inevitably, this led to many sleepless nights, pondering the paradox of my identity. I'd come to understand the meanings of words such as transvestite, trangender and transsexual, but they had a sterile, clinical sound. They couldn't describe the overwhelming delight I felt whenever I dressed up, the sense that I'd somehow morphed into my true self. Even now, I suspect there are no terms which express the deep, insatiable longing people like myself experience. Such notions are - by definition - inexpressible.

All I knew was that I was different. It was obvious to me, obvious to everyone around me, especially my classmates. They weren't openly cruel or belligerent, but they made it clear that I would never fit in. It wasn't simply my feminine personality. It was everything: my appearance, my posture, my manner of speaking. Much as I tried to conceal it beneath a veneer of faux masculinity, it was always present.

Entering my early teens, I learnt to accept the good with the bad. I was small and delicately built, with the lithe figure conferred by years of choreography. This occasionally made me the target of playground taunts, but it also allowed me to pass as my preferred gender. Looking considerably younger than my years, I was constantly mistaken for a girl of twelve, particularly when I went shopping with my Mother (at first, she used to correct people on this matter, but decided to let it slide when she noticed it didn't bother me).

It was around my fifteenth year that I started volunteering at the Red Shield store down in Waverly Avenue. Initially, it was part of my school's work experience programme, but I soon discovered I was perfectly suited to the position. Having spent half my life filching my sisters' hand-me-downs, I had an affinity for second-hand clothing. Mom was extremely proud of my charitable commitment - Friday afternoons and most Saturday mornings - but she never realized that my actions weren't totally altruistic.

You see, the store's manager, (Grace Oakland, by name) allowed me first choice of anything that came in. She'd sussed me out during my first week on the job, and we quickly sealed a mutually beneficial agreement. Apparently, I wasn't the first cross-dresser to walk in through the front door, but I was the only one who'd been willing to work behind the counter. Grace kept my secrets and rewarded me well for my services. By the end of three months I had collected a huge stash of bras, skirts, knickers and frocks, many items in pristine condition. Barely a week went by when some flimsy, girlish thing turned up in my size; Grace would hand it to me with a wink and a nod, brokering the latest deal.

I got on well with all the staff, most of them silver-haired Grannies with wide, open hearts and families in the midlands. If they knew anything about my extra-curricular activities, they never mentioned it. I don't think they would have cared anyway - I was quiet, polite and hard-working, and that was all that mattered to them.

All the same, it wasn't a perfect life by any means. Far from it; there were months of utter despair, when anguish and confusion overrode every other emotion. I wasn't just different - I was a freak, an abnormality, some loathsome thing without a name or purpose. There was always a feeling of loss and rejection at the back of my mind. I'd never forgiven Dad for ditching us so callously, and since Rachel had gone to RADA, I'd felt more isolated than ever before.

However, the worst thing of all was the doubt. In many ways, it was worse than the shame, worse than the self-loathing. What was wrong with me, why was I so bent, twisted and sick? Maybe the school yard rumours were right, maybe I deserved to be alone, pushed aside and cast out like a worthless pile of refuse. I had no idea who I was, what I truly wanted.
But then again, what teenager ever does?

Then, quite suddenly, I was sixteen.

It was the summer break, the final respite before my senior year. Mom was planning to visit Grandma up on the coast, Kate had long since moved to Edinburgh, and Rachel was touring Europe with her boyfriend. The house would be empty; I'd elected to stay behind to play homemaker. Mom wasn't too happy about leaving me alone, but I convinced her that I had to prepare for my upcoming matriculation. The pantry was stocked, the neighbours could keep an eye on me, and I was smart enough not to open the door to undesirables.

Mom capitulated after a half-hearted attempt to dissuade me; worry though she might, she knew deep down I'd be OK. This minor triumph raised my spirits considerably: this was recognition of my maturity, my need for privacy. Being alone didn't seem so bad at all. I'd have the place all to myself, an entire weekend to read, relax and just be myself.

Most importantly, I finally knew what I wanted.