Friends Who Were Girls

By Jessica Lake

Before I had friends who were boys, I had friends who were girls. Hindsight whispers to me that gender dysphoria chose me and not the other way round.

It was an early morning in Spring of 1957, sunny, and warm at Debbie’s house on Eastwood Rd. Debbie and Kim had decided it was time for a big wedding. I didn’t have a say in the matter. Not that I didn’t love big weddings. I loved them as much as any other boy.

Obviously, we couldn’t have a wedding without a proper church. We needed an aisle to walk down, pews for the families and friends, and an altar to make our sacred vows.

We’d build the chapel on the open space in the stand of trees next to Debbie’s house. For the aisle, we lined up fist-sized stones in parallel lines. The altar was a circle of smooth stones flecked with the glint of mica. We three agreed there were no two ways about it: a wedding must have flowers.

For wildflowers, the meadow was a short walk from the church. We’d arrived when we glimpsed a sweep of long grasses swaying in the breeze. Before us was a watercolor masterwork—a canvas of greens brushed with light strokes of blue, yellow, and white. Everyone knows, the bigger the wedding, the more the flowers. We’d finish sooner if we went our separate ways, each on their own pilgrimage.

Debbie harvested Black-Eyed Susans—sassy, golden-tressed, and brown-eyed—and the snow of Heath Aster. Kim chose the bluish violet of Blue Vervain and the pinkish blossoms of Honeysuckle. When I finished, my arms were laden with mounds of Queen Anne’s Lace and Yellow Foxtail. The lace’s bitty white flowers were as perfect as a newborn’s fingers and toes. The filigree of its weave rivaled my grandmother’s best handcrafted doilies. My last choice wasn’t a flower at all. I picked long stalks of Yellow Foxtail grass—green, not yellow. At the blade’s peak was a fox’s bushy tail. Just imagine a garden like that, with bushes that bloom butterflies and dragonflies.

On our return, we sat among our harvest and got busy. We labored over bouquets, wove green wreaths to hang from branches, and braided many-hued crowns for our heads. The rest we placed reverently around the church.

Again, the girls voted that I be the groom. Any boy can remonstrate and petition only so long before hope gives out. The whole affair seemed cosmically unfair. Would I always be destined to be the groom and not the bride?

After we’d donned our finery, we stood at the far end of the aisle facing the altar. Debbie was the beautiful bride to my left, and I the lackluster groom. Kim was the happy camper, playing Maid of Honor, Best Man, Ring Bearer, and minister. The music swelled as we all sang. Then right foot—step, touch; step, touch—all the way to the altar, where we paused. The stern minister made us promise to love one another, to always be generous and kind, and to be faithful. We said our “I do’s,” cried a smidge, and then parted and went home for lunch.

“Gary, where were you?” Mom asked when I came into the postage-stamp kitchen.

I scooted to my chair at the kitchen table, took a seat, and eyed my well-deserved lunch. On my plate was a tuna fish sandwich and a handful of potato chips. Right next to it stood a frosty tumbler of milk.

Only after I crunched a few chips did I answer, “Out.”

“Out what?”

“Out playing.”

“Did anything happen while you were out playing?”

“Did anything happen? Debbie and I got hitched.”