Chapter Text
Taylor Hughes slouched into Bloomington High that Monday morning with his oversized hoodie pulled down low, shoulder bag strategically positioned to hide his chest. Three months until graduation. Eighty-eight more days of navigating the social minefield that high school had become.
“Hey, Taylor, the library called—they want the whole nerd section back!” Malcolm Pike, starting quarterback and professional jackass, shoulder-checked Taylor as he passed. Malcolm’s entourage of letterman jackets and cheerleader uniforms erupted into laughter.
“Scintillating as always, Malcolm,” Taylor muttered, adjusting his hoodie. “Harvard’s probably begging you to join their debate team.”
But Malcolm was already gone, high-fiving some other Neanderthal. Taylor had learned long ago that his verbal comebacks were wasted on guys who couldn’t spell “verbal comeback.”
At his locker, he swapped out his history textbook for AP Physics. Being a science genius was his only salvation in this teen hellscape. While the jocks ruled the hallways, Taylor dominated the classroom, his hand perpetually raised, his test scores breaking curves. Teachers loved him. Students, not so much.
“Hughes!” Ms. Russell appeared, lab coat fluttering behind her like a superhero cape. “Got a minute?”
Taylor nodded. Ms. Russell was the one teacher who made school bearable: brilliant, sarcastic, and the only adult who treated him like the mature, eighteen-year-old young man he was.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re all set for Saturday’s National Scholastic Awards. The committee called yesterday for final confirmations.”
“Definitely going,” Taylor said, trying to sound casual about the event that could potentially change his life. “Thanks again for the nomination.”
“Please. Your quantum mechanics paper made the rest of the submissions look like finger paintings.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “MIT’s sending a scout. They specifically asked about you.”
His heart quickened. “Seriously?”
“Would I joke about your future? Even Heisenberg would be certain about where this is headed.” She smirked. “Your probability wave has definitely collapsed toward the Ivy League. Just don’t mess it up.”
“What do you mean?”
Ms. Russell counted off on her fingers: “You could show up late, spill coffee on the MIT scout, start a debate about string theory with the head judge—who, by the way, thinks it’s pseudoscience—or faint during your acceptance speech and create a TikTok-worthy moment that follows you through your entire academic career.” His face must have reflected his rising panic because she quickly added, “Relax, Hughes. I’m kidding. Mostly. Just be yourself. You’re brilliant. Everyone truly brilliant is socially awkward. That’s just how character creation goes. Wear something presentable that fits, try not to sweat through it, and maybe practice making eye contact.”
“Great,” he sighed. “Now I have four new anxiety dreams to look forward to.”
“That’s the spirit.” She patted his shoulder. “But, seriously, you earned this. Don’t overthink it—and, yes, I know that’s virtually impossible for you. But the hard part was writing that paper. The rest is just showing up and collecting your prize.” She started walking away, then turned back. “Oh, maybe avoid explaining quantum immortality to anyone. That cleared half my table at my cousin’s wedding.”
As she disappeared down the hall, Taylor rubbed his temples, trying to fight off the impending anxiety headache. Finding “something presentable that fits” was exactly the problem he’d been dreading.
The bell rang, signaling fifth period—lunch. He hated lunch. Not because the food was awful and about as nutritious as cardboard soaked in vegetable oil, but because it was the one time of day when social hierarchies were on full display with no teachers to intervene. No class material to hide behind. Just pure, unfiltered high school society with Taylor somewhere near the bottom. At least in class he could disappear into equations or raise his hand so often people focused on his brain, not his body. But lunch? Lunch was sixty minutes of strategic eating and invisibility.
Shuffling into the cafeteria, he took his usual corner table: far enough from the jocks to avoid harassment, close enough to the exit for a quick escape. He hunched forward as he ate, a posture perfected over three years to minimize the visibility of his chest. When Alicia Reed sat down across from him with her calculus textbook, he hardly looked up.
“I still don’t understand these differential equations,” she said in lieu of greeting.
This was their routine—Alicia pretending to need tutoring, Taylor pretending to believe her. In reality, she was nearly as smart as he was, but being one of the few people who didn’t treat him like a social pariah meant she got preferential tutoring. Also, she was pretty.
“It’s just about recognizing the pattern.” He flipped Alicia’s book around and sketched a quick diagram. “See, when you—”
“Yo, Titty Taylor!” shouted Mateo Hernandez, Malcolm’s second-in-command, “Your tits are bigger than my girlfriend’s now. She’s fucking jealous. Did you hear the cheerleaders are doing their car wash fundraiser this weekend? You should join, dude. They’d make a killing!”
The cafeteria erupted in laughter. Taylor’s pencil stopped mid-stroke, his shoulders tensing as heat rushed to his face. From three tables over, Mateo lounged back in his chair, smirking, Malcolm’s crew snorting and laughing around him. Taylor only stared down at the page, jaw clenched. Experience had taught him the brutal math of high school harassment: any reaction—anger, tears, even a simple glance back—multiplied their satisfaction exponentially. Even so, his hoodie felt too thin, too revealing.
Under the table, Alicia’s hand found his, giving it a firm squeeze. “They’re just jealous because you’re getting out of this town and they’ll be pumping gas for the next forty years.”
He forced a smile. “Speaking of getting out…” He continued his explanation of differential equations, pretending his insides weren’t twisting into knots.
This was his daily existence: moments of academic triumph punctuated by humiliating reminders of his physical abnormality. Gynecomastia. The medical term sounded so clinical, so manageable. But there was nothing manageable about navigating high school with grotesquely large breasts on an otherwise male body.
As the bell rang on his last class, he gathered his things with practiced efficiency. Three more months. Then college, where people supposedly cared about intellect over appearance. Where his chest might still be an issue, but his brain would finally be the main attraction. He’d been counting down the days since junior year. Each morning, he updated the number in his phone, a digital talisman against despair. But first, he had to get through Saturday’s award ceremony. And that meant finding something to wear that didn’t make him look like a biological anomaly. A case study waiting to be published.
A freak.
Saturday arrived sunny and warm. Taylor stood in his bedroom, struggling to button the dress shirt he hadn’t worn in two years. He should’ve been rehearsing his walk up to the stage, his handshake with the judges. Instead, he was fighting a losing battle with cotton and polyester.
“Damn it,” he muttered, chest straining against the buttons. “You’re supposed to be shrinking, not growing!”
Sure, the doctors called his condition “gynecomastia,” but that was only to make him—and other guys in his position—feel better. But, as always, Taylor had done his homework. His breasts were anatomically identical to those of a girl his age. The only difference? His were significantly larger than average.
“Mom!” he yelled through his bedroom door. “Can you bring me a bigger shirt?”
“Sorry, hun, that’s the biggest you have,” his mother called back.
“Great,” he moaned. “Okay, it’ll stretch…” Once again, he tugged his button-down shirt together, but it seemed his boobs had chosen that day to grow just a bit more.
The breast growth began at puberty and had just never stopped. At age fifteen, he’d been an A cup. At sixteen, a B. By seventeen, a solid C. Now? He hadn’t had the heart to measure. The cruelest twist of all? Although he’d been walloped by the Titty Fairy, puberty hadn’t made up for it with big muscles, a beard, or anything to make him look manly. Taylor was just a skinny, short guy with an embarrassing amount of cleavage.
“Wouldn’t you rather be smart than strong?” Mom often asked him.
“I’d rather be both.”
Of course, she’d taken him to the doctor when the gynecomastia began. But that was no help. All the “medical professionals” said his boobs were a natural side-effect of puberty, albeit extreme in his case. They even said this kind of development wasn’t uncommon and usually passed after adolescence. Clearly, the doctors were idiots. Adolescence was over. Taylor was practically a man now!
He sucked in his chest and tried to pull the button-down closed again. This time, by some physics-defying miracle, the fibers stretched just enough to close the gap. He quickly fastened the buttons and put on the vest that had belonged to his father before he died. Fortunately, dad had been a big man, and the vest, unlike the shirt, fit snugly over his chest.
The National Scholastic Awards meant everything—a $100,000 scholarship based on academic achievements. With Mom working two jobs just to keep food on the table, this was his shot at college without crushing debt.
“Taylor?” his mother asked as she knocked on the door. “Are you ready?”
“Almost. Just a second.” He straightened the vest one final time. “What do you think?” he asked, opening the door. “Pretty sharp, right?”
His mother was a stunning woman. At least, that’s what the jerks at school always said (in less polite terms). She’d been a sorority girl and still looked like one at age forty, despite a few gray hairs. Taylor had inherited her wavy dark hair and brown eyes—as well as, it seemed, her cup size.
Looking him up and down, she frowned. “You sure you want to wear that vest, honey? It’s…um…pretty tight.”
“What are you talking about?” He tugged at the vest. “It’s fine! And it belonged to dad, so…”
She bit her lower lip. “Well, you just look so…bulky.”
“What?” He turned to the mirror and stared at his reflection. “No, I… I look…”
“Honey,” Mom said carefully. “I think we need to accept that your old clothes just don’t fit anymore.”
He lowered his gaze. “It’s on, isn’t it? It’s just a little tight around—you know—my chest.”
“Taylor. When that button-up pops open it’s going to put someone’s eye out.”
Taylor saw her brace for the explosion. Once, he might’ve cussed and slammed the door, but those outbursts didn’t seem to happen anymore. Instead, he clutched his chest, tears welling in his eyes. “I hate these things,” he said. “I’m already eighteen, when will they go away?”
“Remember, the doctor said another year,” she said, patting his arm. “Maybe longer.”
“What am I going to do? I usually just wear my hoodie, but the National Scholastic Awards rules say we have to dress up! And if I don’t go, my life is ruined.”
“My poor Taylor,” she said, pulling him in for a hug. “You know what? I have an idea…”
Taylor shook his head, eyes wide with fear. “No way.”
“Just try it on,” Mom said. “What’s the harm?”
“That’s Wendy’s! I’m not wearing my sister’s clothes.”
“Taylor Michael Hughes, nothing else in your closet fits, and we need to leave in an hour. I can make the best of a bad situation, but you need to trust me. Put on the dress.”
He made a disgusted sound and grabbed the hem. “This is nuts.”
“Don’t forget these,” she said, holding up a pair of pantyhose. “They go on first.”
His head swam as he gazed at the nylons. “Seriously?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Yes. Unless you want to shave your legs.”
Taylor grunted, grabbed the hose and stormed into his room, making sure to slam the door. He then sat on his bed and held the dress against his body. God, it barely even had sleeves!
“I’m not wearing this!” he yelled through the door.
“Honey, come on… It’s too late to find anything else.”
“But…but…it’s…a dress!” Taylor protested. “It’s my sister’s dress!”
“Wendy’s not even here. It’s just us. Just wear it for today and then get on with your life.”
He sighed deeply. Maybe he could just put it on long enough for mom to see that he looked ridiculous. Then she’d realize how insane this was, and they’d run out and buy something that actually fit. That would be the adult thing to do, right? Well, better get it over with. Mom was right that they didn't have much time.
He stared down at his legs and chewed the inside of his cheek. They weren’t all that hairy, but he supposed the pantyhose would help. Before he could change his mind, he slipped both legs in and carefully shimmied them up. The feel of the nylon on his skin made him feel…weird. Finally, he picked up the dress, inhaled deeply, and pulled it over his head. Please don’t fit…
The dress slipped on easily and fell to his thighs. It was a little snug around the waist, but not too bad. He turned to the mirror—
—and gasped at the strange young lady who looked back at him.
The dress looked perfect. Better even than it would’ve looked on Wendy. Taylor had the body for it. A strange, twisting horror swirled in his stomach. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Tears began streaming down his cheeks, and he let out a plaintive, sobbing sound.
“Taylor?” There was a quick knock, and then Mom entered. “Oh,” she exclaimed, somewhat stunned.
He looked up at her. “I look like a girl.”
Regaining her composure, she clapped. “Good! We might pull this off. After all, Taylor can be a girl’s name.”
“Do you think anybody will recognize me?”
“Honey, with a chest like that nobody’s going to be looking at your face. All the college recruiters will see is a coed with an impressive GPA.”
“And a great rack,” Taylor added, then cry-laughed and took a calming breath. “Okay. It’s just one day, I can do this. It’s like…role-playing.”
“Exactly,” Mom said. “After, we’ll go out and get you new clothes that fit, and you’ll be back to your old self.”
Taylor gave his mother a half-hearted smile. “That sounds good.”
“In the meantime…” Mom turned his shoulders to face the mirror. “A little mascara, lipstick, and you’re good to go!”
“What? I don’t want to wear makeup!”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “You have to look presentable—and convincing—and any girl your age wears makeup, especially to a formal event. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy. But I absolutely need to do something about those hedgerows you call eyebrows.”
His heart pounded in his chest. “Okay, just—just don’t go overboard.”
“Don’t worry. Your hair is a little short, but lots of girls have cute pixie cuts these days. Now, come to my bedroom, sit down, and let me work.”
Suddenly, Taylor found himself seated in mom’s makeup chair, peering into the mirror with frightened fascination as she went to work. She applied foundation, eyeshadow, blush, lipstick, and a slew of other products that left him feeling a little dazed and a whole lot weird. After a while, she took a step back and circled him, inspecting her work. In the mirror, a lovely, if slightly androgynous young woman gazed back at him. Well, androgynous except for the two very feminine attributes on display.
“All right,” Mom said. “You’re all set. You’re beautiful, honey.”
He groaned. “God, that’s the last thing I want to hear.”
“Well, it’s true. Don’t tell Wendy, but I think you’re just as pretty as she is.”
“Great…” Taylor deadpanned.
“Oh! Almost forgot. Let me go get your shoes.” She hurried away, leaving Taylor alone with his thoughts and the mirror.
Why is she so enthusiastic about this? I guess she just misses having Wendy around. They used to go shopping all the time, paint each other’s nails, and do all that other girly stuff.
Mom returned from his sister’s bedroom with a pair of turquoise pumps. “Here,” she said. “These go perfectly with the dress.”
His stomach sank. “Mom, no.”
“You can’t wear sneakers. It’s only a two-inch heel. They’re cute, too.” Mom smiled. “I promise you’ll get the hang of them in no time.”
He looked at them with disgust before slipping them on. “I always said Wendy had big feet for a girl,” he joked, trying to hide the sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Now, practice makes perfect,” Mom said. “We don’t want you to fall on your face when you’re getting your award.”
It was awkward, but with Mom’s instructions, Taylor quickly mastered the rhythm of “the walk,” as she called it, and soon was strutting down the hall, heels clacking against the tile with easy grace.
Mom applauded. “You’re a natural!”
“No,” he stressed. “Just getting into character.”
She smiled. “Sure. But we’d better get moving if we don’t want to be late. Here, let me get a picture with my phone.”
“Mom!” he shouted. “I don’t want a picture of me dressed like…this…floating around.”
“Pretty please? You know how much I love makeovers, and I think this is my best work yet. Just one?”
He clenched his teeth. “Only if you promise not to show it to anyone.”
“Pinky swear.”
“Ugh, fine.” He quickly posed with his chin held high, hand on his hip, and what he hoped was a goofy smile on his face.
“Thank you, honey. Now we’d really better go.”
It was a warm spring evening, and the air had the crisp scent of new life. Taylor struggled to keep his balance on the uneven pavement as they walked to their old sedan parked in the driveway.
His stomach dropped as he heard a familiar voice. “Hello there, Kristin! Headed out?”
Mr. Gower, their next-door neighbor. An older man who was friendly enough.
Mom nodded. “Yep.”
Mr. Gower looked Taylor up and down, eyes lingering on his chest. “Wendy? You back for a visit from sunny Florida? Oh, and you cut your hair! You look like a—”
Mortified by Mr. Gower’s lustful gaze, Taylor turned beet red and scrambled into the minivan, slamming the door.
“Sorry, we’re running late!” Mom said, and climbed in after him.
“Have a great time, ladies, wherever you’re going,” Mr. Gower called after them as they pulled out of the driveway.
Taylor shuddered as they pulled away. “He was staring at me, Mom. Like he wanted to…”
“He’s a creep,” Mom said. “Always watching me when I garden. Wendy had it even worse.”
“Wow. I always thought Mr. Gower was nice. No one should have to put up with that.”
His mother patted his hand. “You know, I think this little day of role-playing will be very…educational. I know you’d never harass a girl, but it’ll be good for you to have… An appreciation for what women go through on a daily basis.”
“Sure…” he replied, not at all sure he agreed.
“Next stop, National Scholastic Awards. And after that… Well, who’s at the top of your list today? Harvard?”
He smiled despite the strange situation. “Nah. Harvard is so yesterday. I’m thinking MIT.”
Mom grinned as she accelerated toward the highway. “I never imagined a child of mine would be smart enough to be accepted anywhere like MIT. Where’d you get all these smarts from? But, listen, no matter what happens today I’m really proud of you. And I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Taylor tried to adjust to his new appearance, but every glimpse of himself in the side mirror made him queasy.
It’s just for tonight, he thought desperately. If I can get through high school with boobs, I can get through one night in a dress.