Aunt Rose Change Me Into Girl (Again) - Part 1 Season Two

College Saga

ALL STORY LIST | OTHER PARTS

The morning air in Wicker Park was crisp, a big change from the humid warmth I felt months ago. Autumn was coming to the city, painting the leaves with fire and gold. Inside the loft, the smell of sandalwood and coffee was a familiar, calming smell.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my room, a stranger staring back at me.

The person in the reflection wore a stiff, pale blue shirt. The collar felt tight against a throat that was suddenly slender and exposed. The dark jeans were brand new, the denim rough and hard, so different from the soft, flowing clothes that had become my second skin. On my feet were plain white sneakers.

My hair, which now fell in soft waves past my shoulders, was pulled back into a low, tight ponytail. A black baseball cap, pulled low, hid most of my face and the ends of my hair. My nails, once painted a matte mocha, were bare and filed short.

This was Rome. Mr. Rome Lopez. The name on the admission letter, the name on the class list, the name everyone would expect to see walk through the classroom door.

But the eyes that looked back from the mirror weren't his. They were wide, anxious, and vulnerable. They were Reene's eyes.

Aunt Rose appeared in the doorway, looking calm in her cashmere wrap. She didn't say anything for a long moment, just watched me with a deep, perceptive gaze that missed nothing.

“You look very… academic,” she said finally, her tone neutral but her eyes full of understanding.

I let out a weak, shaky laugh. “I look like I'm wearing a costume.” I tugged at the stiff collar. “It itches.”

“It’s armor,” she corrected gently, coming forward to adjust the collar. Her fingers brushed against my neck, and her touch was instantly soothing. “Just for today. Just until you find your footing.” She smoothed the shoulders of the shirt. “Remember who you are underneath it all. She’s still there. She’s just waiting for the right moment.”

I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her rosewater hand cream. “What if someone knows? What if they can just… tell?”

“Tell what?” she asked, tilting her head. “That you have excellent skin? That you walk with more grace than most of the boys in that classroom?” She smiled. “Let them wonder. Their confusion is their problem, not your truth.”

She handed me a sleek leather backpack. “Your lunch is in there. And your schedule. Just breathe, Reene. You’ve survived things way more intimidating than Orientation Week.”

I nodded, holding the backpack strap. “Okay.”

“And text me,” she added, her voice softening. “Any time.”

The commute to the downtown campus was a blur of nervous energy. I kept my head down, my eyes fixed on the floor of the metro. Every laugh from a group of students felt like it was directed at me. Every glance felt like a judgment. I was too aware of my body, of the way the stiff jeans felt against my smooth skin, and of the way the baseball cap pressed against my skull, a constant reminder of my disguise.

The campus was a whirlwind of old buildings and busy students. I followed the signs for the School of Hospitality Management, my heart beating fast. The first class was Introduction to Sustainable Food Systems. It was the subject of my admissions essay, the thing I was actually passionate about. It was the one thing that felt like mine in this sea of forced conformity.

I found the lecture hall, a large room with stadium seating that was already half-full. A low hum of conversation filled the air. I hesitated at the doorway, my breath catching. This was it.

I chose a seat near the back, close to the aisle, planning a quick escape if needed. I sat in the hard plastic chair, keeping my backpack on my lap like a shield. I could feel the presence of others around me but refused to make eye contact. I just focused on pulling out a notebook and a pen with trembling hands.

A group of guys came into the row in front of me. They were loud and smelled of cheap cologne and energy drinks. They shoved each other playfully, talking about a party from the weekend. One of them, with a buzz cut, turned around and looked at our row. His eyes passed over me once, then flicked back. He squinted.

“Hey,” he said, his voice cutting through my anxious thoughts. I froze, my pen just above the paper. I didn’t look up, praying he was talking to someone else.

“Hey, you,” he said again, louder, tapping the back of my chair. “You in the cap. You’re in the wrong room, sweetheart. Sorority rush is next week.”

My face turned red. A few snickers came from his friends. I kept my head down, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might break a rib.

“Dude, leave her alone,” one of his friends said, not unkindly, but the damage was done.

Sweetheart.

The word hung in the air, a mix of teasing and accidental truth. He thought I was a girl who had wandered into the wrong class. The irony was so sharp it felt like a physical pain. My disguise, meant to make me invisible, was instead making me a target for all the wrong reasons.

The professor walked in then, a tall, elegant woman with glasses. The chatter stopped. She set her things on the podium and pulled up the digital class list on the screen.

“Welcome, everyone. Let’s take attendance quickly. Please raise your hand and say ‘here’ when you hear your name.”

This was the moment I had been dreading. The public declaration of a name that no longer fit.

“James Abbott.”

“Here.”

“Chloe Bennett.”

“Here.”

“Mark Dyson.”

“Right here.”

The names went on. I sank lower in my seat, my palms sweaty. Each name that wasn't mine was a temporary break.

“Rome Lopez.”

Silence. My throat had closed up. I couldn’t move. All I could see was the buzz-cut guy in front of me, who had half-turned in his seat again, with a curious smirk on his face.

The professor looked up from her screen, peering over her glasses. “Rome Lopez? Is Mr. Lopez present?”

I forced my hand into the air. “Here,” I croaked. My voice, unused to projecting, came out flat and quiet.

The buzz-cut guy’s smirk widened into a full grin. He elbowed his friend. “No way,” he whispered, loud enough for our entire section to hear. “That’s Rome? I thought it was a girl.”

A fresh wave of quiet laughter rippled through the students around him. My face burned with such intense humiliation that I wanted to vanish into the floor. I stared at my notebook, the lines on the page blurring.

The professor, either not noticing or choosing to ignore it, moved on to the next name. But the damage was done. For the rest of the hour, I felt their eyes on me. The whispers were like insects buzzing in my ears. I couldn’t focus on a word the professor said about local food sourcing. All I could hear was the echo of “sweetheart” and “I thought it was a girl.”

When the class ended, I was the first one out of my seat, running for the door like a scared animal. I didn’t look back, weaving through the crowded hallway until I found a single-stall gender-neutral bathroom. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to steady my ragged breathing.

Tears threatened, but I refused to let them fall. Crying in this stiff shirt and baseball cap felt like the ultimate betrayal of Reene. I looked at myself in the small mirror above the sink. The person staring back looked scared and small, a boy trying desperately to hide a beautiful secret.

I took out my phone. My thumb hovered over Aunt Rose’s contact. But before I could tap it, a new message popped up.

Leo: First class down? How’s it going, Mr. Lopez?

A fresh wave of pain hit me. He meant it as a joke, a supportive nod to the absurd situation. But right now, the name felt like a slap. I typed back, my fingers clumsy.

Me: A disaster. They all think I’m a girl. Or they’re laughing because I’m not one.

The three dancing dots appeared immediately.

Leo: Who’s “they”? Idiots. Their opinion is worth less than a used tissue.

Me: It was horrible, Leo.

Leo: Do you want me to come downtown? I can skip my next seminar. We can get lunch.

The offer was so kind, so perfectly Leo, that it almost did make me cry. But I couldn’t let him derail his day for my panic.

Me: No. It’s okay. I have another class soon. Just… needed to hear a friendly voice.

Leo: I’m here. Always. Remember what you’re doing this for. It’s just a name on a piece of paper. It’s not you.

I took another deep breath. He was right. It was just a name. It was just a costume. Underneath it all, I was still me. I splashed cold water on my face, careful not to wet the stupid, stiff collar. I adjusted the baseball cap, tucking a stray strand of hair back with a sigh.

The next class was smaller, a seminar on culinary history. The room had a circle of tables, forcing interaction. I chose a seat in the circle, my shoulders hunched. The professor, a jolly man with a beard, took attendance verbally, going around the room.

“And you are?” he asked when he got to me.

I swallowed. “Rome,” I said, forcing my voice a little lower, a little more solid.

“Welcome, Rome,” he said with a smile, and moved on. No laughter. No whispers. Just acceptance. The tight knot in my chest loosened, just a little.

The girl sitting next to me, with kind eyes and a nose ring, leaned over as the professor began his lecture. “I love your hair,” she whispered. “It’s so long and shiny. What do you use on it?”

I blinked, completely surprised. It was the last thing I expected anyone to say. “Uh… just… some herbal oils,” I stammered, my voice slipping back into its natural, softer sound.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said sincerely, before turning her attention back to the professor.

The simple, genuine compliment was a lifeline. It wasn’t about my gender, my clothes, or the name I’d been forced to use. It was about something I cared for, something Reene had nurtured. For the first time all day, I felt a flicker of something other than dread. I felt seen, for a tiny, beautiful moment, for the right reason.

The rest of the day passed in a less painful blur. I kept to myself, ate my quinoa salad alone on a bench in a quiet courtyard, and attended my final class. The teasing from the morning still stung, a raw wound, but the kindness of the girl in the seminar and Leo’s steady messages had built a small, fragile shield around me.

On the metro ride home, I didn’t hide. I stared out the window at the city rushing by, the setting sun painting the skyscrapers in shades of orange and pink. I thought about the buzz-cut guy’s confusion. “I thought it was a girl.” The words still hurt, but now, mixed with the hurt was a tiny, defiant spark.

You were right, I thought, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. You just didn’t know how right you were.

I walked back into the loft. Aunt Rose was in the kitchen, juicing cucumbers.

She turned, took one look at my face—the tired eyes, the relieved slump of my shoulders—and simply opened her arms. I walked into her hug, burying my face in her soft cashmere wrap, inhaling the familiar scent of sage and lemongrass.

“Tell me everything,” she murmured into my hair.

And I did. I told her about the humiliation, the laughter, the feeling of being a ghost in my own life. And then I told her about the girl who liked my hair.

When I finished, she held me at arm’s length, her hands on my shoulders. “So. You survived.”

“Barely,” I said with a weak laugh.

“But you did,” she stated. “And you learned something important.”

“What? That people are awful?”

“No,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “That you are strong enough to endure a day of people being awful for the sake of your future. And that even in a costume, your light is bright enough for some people to see.” She gently took the baseball cap off my head and undid the tight ponytail, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders. “Now, go take off that awful shirt. I’ve laid something out for you on your bed. We have yoga in ten minutes.”

I walked into my room. There, on the neatly made bed, was not the linen shirt and pants from my first days here. It was the soft, peach-colored tunic I had refused to wear months ago.

I changed quickly, the soft, familiar fabric feeling like a homecoming against my skin. I looked in the mirror. The boy from the morning was gone. In his place was Reene, a little bruised, but resilient.

I joined Aunt Rose in the living room, unrolling my mat beside hers. As we moved into the first sun salutation, my body flowing through the familiar poses, I felt the last of the day’s tension melt away. The confusion of the classroom, the echoing laughter—it was all outside. In here, in this calm space, I was exactly who I was meant to be.

It was just a name on a list. It was just a costume for a little while longer. My truth was here, in the graceful arc of my body, in the softness of my tunic, in the quiet strength I was still learning to claim. The world outside could call me Rome for now. But I, and the people who mattered, knew the beautiful, patient truth of Reene.