.

It should have been an exciting afternoon, to say the least. And I knew it well.

Sitting on the bench, fingers knotted over my running shoe, I waited for Grand’ma. Any of my classmates would have traded places with me in a heartbeat. A whole day of endless shopping, backed by a platinum Mastercard was any of my girl friends’ dream. Not mine.

As a matter of fact, this forced fed ballet of pricy tops, skirts and dresses was pure torture.

I loved Grand’ma, don’t get me wrong. I knew she meant well, and had the best intentions. And the money she ”spoiled” me with, though she couldn’t understand everything she was buying me against my will, was hurting my young soul.

”Where is she?” – I thought, watching over the (way too big, if you ask me) Zara bag by my side.

And she appeared again in the pedestrian crowd.

I think we got everything to replace what you destroyed last weekend, Samantha! – She was all smiles. – But don’t ask me to call you Sam again. We both know that’s just a phase…

I shivered.

I could already picture cutting everything she had insisted on buying earlier on, to make me fit their mold. Was it so bad that I was different? Was it so bad that I didn’t feel comfortable in my body? And was it so hard for my loved ones to accept that I was going to be one of those they called ”transgenders”?

I hoped not. Sitting on that bench, in the middle of this crowd.

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Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge