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Ponyboy Curtis always felt a little… different. Objectively, he was different. Most boys didn’t want to stay inside and read instead of playing football outside. Most boys didn’t get so focused on one thing that they forgot to eat. Most boys weren’t like Ponyboy Curtis. And that was fine. Everyone has their quirks. So what if Pony’s was that his mind went a mile a minute?
But also, most boys didn’t dread the thought of growing facial hair, or getting super muscular, or their voice deepening. Most boys didn’t dread the thought of… becoming a man. God, what the hell was wrong with him? “Didn’t wanna be a man—” what kinda bullshit is that?!
Pony thought about this as he fiddled with his earlobe, fingers running over the stud piercing his skin. Dally had pierced his ears for him, and they were going to do more— but Darry nipped that in the bud long before they could do anything else. Pony liked wearing earrings. It wasn’t uncommon for a greaser to have his ears pierced, but, alongside the long hair, it was still another thing that set Pony apart from the other boys in his class.
Anyways, he really had to get out of his head and sort through all this stuff. Well, it wasn’t just stuff. It was his parents' things, things that really needed to be sorted through. It still felt too soon, but at least he didn’t cry whenever he simply entered the room. Pony sighed and decided to start with the dresser.
It was a nice piece of furniture, mahogany and ornate with brass handles on the drawers. Hung above it was a mirror that stretched the same length as the dresser, almost like they belonged together. The top of the dresser held his mom’s makeup, jewelry, his father’s comb, and a couple framed pictures— one in particular stood out to Ponyboy: It was a black-and-white photo, taken two or three years ago after one of Darry’s football games. Pony remembers that game well— Darry’s team won, four to one— but he also vividly remembers looking at the cheerleaders and wanting to be a part of it, wanting to be in those cute skirts and high ponytails and—
Stop. What was he thinking? Wanting to be a cheerleader? Ludicrous! It reminded him of the time when he was nine years old and his mom took him to a dance recital and all he could think about afterwards was how much he wanted to be with those girls, dancing in pretty dresses. That’s what he wanted. Not to be buff and bulky, but to be lean and nimble. Well, at least there was track and field.
Pony opened the top left drawer, inside were his mother’s skirts, all nice and neatly folded. They would just donate these— it’s not like he had any sisters. Maybe Bren would like them? Although they would probably be too big on her eleven-year-old body.
Maybe you could wear them, a small voice in his head told him. What?! No! That’s mad— a boy in a skirt?!
But would it really be a boy in a skirt? No, it had to be. Ponyboy Curtis had to be a boy. Right? Well, it wasn’t like he was a girl. Once he heard his classmates snickering about boys who said they were girls, and Pony wasn’t like that. Calling himself a girl…
It felt the same as calling himself a boy: Odd, not quite wrong, but not quite right.
He looked at the skirts still stacked in the drawer. Fuck it, he thought as he gave into his temptations.
He looked at the door to the hallway, it was closed. Good. Pony couldn’t let anyone see what he was doing. He grabbed at the skirts at random, and pulled out one that was long (although it probably only reached halfway down the shins on his mother), and a light green that Pony found quite pleasing. He turned to face the floor-length mirror to his right, and held the waist band up to his hips. The fabric stopped just above his ankles, and it gave his lower half a triangle shape. It fell in a way that made it look like it had pleats, without any additional sewing being done— a circle skirt he thought it was called.
He smiled. He… liked it. He half-twisted himself at the waist, letting the skirt sway with his movements. It was time to stop stalling, though. He wanted to actually put it on.
So he let the skirt fall to the ground and he unbuttoned his jeans and quickly pulled the zipper down, using the same speed to get the pants off his legs. With haste, he picked the skirt off the floor and stepped into it, pulling it up to his waist. When he let go, the band sagged a little down his thin hips, but it stayed on.
When Pony finally looked at himself in the mirror, all he could do was grin. He felt so pretty. His shoulders rose up to his ears, and his hands balled around the collar of his sleeveless, blue shirt. He felt so giddy as he swished the fabric around. And every time he spun himself around while softly giggling, it lifted slightly off of him, creating a cone around his legs. He loved what he saw in the mirror. He— for the first time that he can remember— loved himself. Yes, he could feel the guilt settling in his stomach.
But for now, all Pony wanted to do was to feel pretty in a skirt and not care about anything that it implied.