Karen's Café: part three

 New to this story?

You'll probably want to read parts one and two first.

~o0o~

The first thing I thought of when I woke was the weather. I checked the forecast before bed which stated that Wednesday was going to be 18ºC, but checking the forecast again, it's saying it's gonna be 19º now. “What if it reaches twenty?” I thought, knowing that the forecasts aren't always entirely accurate. Mum noticed that something was on my mind over breakfast, but I assured her I was OK. “Having second thoughts about joining in with the protest?” she asked.

“Kind of.” I said. “But it's stupid that we can't wear shorts when the girls can choose.”

“Boys can choose too.” Mum said.

“Yeah but...”

“And they all wear shorts under their skirts so it's not like you'd just be wearing a skirt.”

“Yeah I know.” I frowned. I tried to imagine what it would be like as I walked to school. I envisaged everyone giving me a second glance, and giggling at my legs, and wondered (worried) how I’d justify the fact that there's no hair on my legs. I considered mentioning the summer shorts protests to my friends, but thought better of it. They'd only think I was weird, or worse, so I kept it to myself all day.

The girl approached me after school and showed me a weather app on her phone. “You're sailing close to the wind, Simon.” she smugly told me.

“The forecast said 18 last night.” I glumly replied. “I know.” she said. “It's supposed to be nineteen tomorrow.”

“And what if it turns out to be twenty?” I grimly asked.

“Well it wouldn't be fair if the forecast is wrong would it now.” she smugly replied. “I'll play by the rules if you will.” she said, telling me that whatever temp the weather forecast states the day before determines whether or not I wear a skirt the next day.

“But... what if it says twenty and it turns out only be eighteen?” I gulped.

“Then I hope you'll be wearing a skirt.” she told me. “It wouldn't be fair if the forecast is wrong.” she reiterated.

“But... what if we're looking at different forecasts?” I asked. “The weather on the BBC isn't always the same as ITV.”

“Tell you what... give me your number so I can text you the forecast from my weather app.”

“I'm not giving you my number!” I retorted.

“Just so you know I'm not cheating.” she replied.

“Huh... cheating?!” I sneered. “You're blackmailing me!” I snarled.

“It's hardly blackmail... there's no money involved.” she replied.

“What is it then?” I growled.

“Encouragement.” she answered. “We love it when the boys wear skirts and I think there should be more of it.” she told me.

The Pageboy

“Mum?” I asked. “How old should a pageboy be?”

“Any age.” Mum said.

“But how old are they usually?”

“About six or seven I guess.” Mum replied. “Why?”

“Because when I tell people that I'm going to be the pageboy at Natasha's wedding, they keep saying I'm too old.” I told her, slumping my chin into my fist and sighing. “...and if they're usually six or seven... then I'm way too old.”

“You're only eleven.” Mum replied.

“But I'll be twelve when Natasha gets married.”

“You'll still be a boy and that's the only qualification you need.” Mum smiled. “You're going to look ever so smart.” she smiled.

“I don't even know what I'm wearing yet.” I replied.

“Neither does Natasha but she's still keen on a short suit of some sort.”

I puffed out my cheeks and sighed. “So long as she doesn't make me wear white knee socks.” I grumbled, recalling a potential outfit my sister showed me a while back; a royal blue velvet waistcoat over a white shirt, with narrow velvet knee length shorts. The waist coat and shorts looked pretty bad but the boy modelling it also wore girls white knee socks and shiny black shoes. I disapproved of the velvet outfit but detested the girlie knee socks.

“It's Natasha's big day so you'll wear what she chooses.” Mum reminded me. “Think yourself lucky that she's not asking you to be a bridesmaid.”

The Guardian

A very short story inspired by a picture by Vancy.
It's a bit grim! :(

~o0o~

A mother and her son are moving across the country, From Catterick to Cornwall. Their estate car is packed to the brim with boxes and cases, the roof rack too. As the mother is strapping the last few things to the roof rack, the new tenants of their home arrive and they chat. Mum introduces herself as Maggie and amongst the small talk, tells them that she lost the boy's father in Helmand six months ago, hence the move.

The boy appears at the open front door, holding a vacuum cleaner. “Maggie!” he hollers. “I've finished the hoovering, does this need to go in the car?” he asked.

“No that belongs to the house Peter.” his mother replied.

“He uses your first name... how modern.” the woman says.

“I'm his step-mother.” Maggie replied. “Peter's mother left when he was five and I met his father when he was six.”

“Oh I see.” the woman says. “And how old is he now?”

“Eleven.”

“So for all intents and purposes, you are his mother.”

“I like to think so.” Maggie smiled. “He doesn't remember his real mum and I'm all he has now.”

“Oh bless him... it can be easy losing his father at his age.”

“No but he's tough. Like his Dad, a real trouper.” Maggie smiled.

“Here he comes.” the woman said as Peter exited the house.

Karen's Café: part two

You might want to read part one if you haven't done so already

~o0o~

I'd agreed to work in my sister's café for a few weeks to provide cover over the Easter holidays. This comes as a great relief to my sister as she's been struggling to find cover, and my mother's happy that I've found myself a part time job, even though it is only temporary. It means Mum won't have to give me any pocket money for a while and I’ll get seven pounds an hour which will add up to around one-hundred pounds a week... that's a whole lot more than the ten pounds pocket money I currently get. I've no idea what I'm going to spend it on; video games, movies, music, apps or maybe save up and buy a PS4 or a swanky e-bike, or a maybe a huge TV for my bedroom. I'm getting giddy just thinking about the money... but the prospect of working in my sister's café is beginning to fill me with dread.

I was feeling reluctantly confident when my sister talked me into it, but that was yesterday and today, all I feel is reluctant. My confidence ebbed away over night and in the cold light of day, the idea of working as a waitress when I’m a fifteen year old boy doesn't seem like such a good idea after all. I express my concerns over breakfast and Mum tells me I've nothing to worry about; no one will bat an eyelid. My sister reminds me of not only how great I looked when I tried the uniform on, but also the fact that I admittedly liked wearing it. I wash my face and brush my teeth and despite having removed all my make-up before bed, I can still see a trace of the eye-liner and foundation I wore. Not only that... my sister tidied my eyebrows a little and I'm worried that they now look a little too feminine. At least my long floppy fringe covers them most of the time, but I'm still worried about them.

Marty's New Look

Within minutes, the likes and comments began. I didn't want to update my profile picture and I certainly wasn't a cross-dresser... but my sister blackmailed me into doing it. The alternative would have been worse and there's no way I'm going to say what that was. Initially the reactions were 'likes' and 'loves' but it didn't take long for the laughing smilies, the wows and angry faces to start appearing, along with some derogatory and downright abusive comments. "Please let me change it back Laura!" I pleaded. "I've got people saying they're going to give it me up the ass and asking for blow jobs."

"No... the deal was a month." my sister stubbornly reminded me. "You can report the abusive comments to FaceBank and they'll be removed... but your profile picture stays." she replied. I hung my head. "Don't worry... your secret's safe with me... providing you pay the price."

"It's only been twenty minutes... a whole month of these sorts of comments is going to be a nightmare!"

"Most of them are nice... and you must admit you do look cute." she grinned. "Anyway it'll die down after a few days, you know how fickle FaceBank is."

"But everyone's going to see it... mum, dad, gran, uncles, aunties, cousins." I listed.

"Friends, neighbours... everyone." my sister proudly added. "What are you going to tell them?" she wondered aloud. "I very much doubt you'll tell the truth... and if you tell anyone that it's got anything to do with me, the deal's off, remember!"