Carole Cobos

Carole Cobos (she/her) is a member of the Fiction team. She is an English and Sociology major with a minor in Gender and Sexuality Studies. She’s been published by Venture and is really proud to be part of the magazine now!

Pinnochio observed himself in front of the full-length mirror. It was a handsome mirror, carefully and lovingly crafted— just like him. The mirror was the same smooth, warm brown as Pinnochio himself, and at times, Pinnochio fancies that he and the mirror share a mother. 

He smoothed his hands down his vest, the way he’s seen Geppetto do on occasion, and then turned and twisted to see if his back looked as neat and smooth as the front. It was; everything was in place. Everything was good. Pinnochio, after all, was a real boy now. A real boy who was going to real boy elementary school. Fourth grade. That was a big deal, wasn’t it? 

Pinnochio rubbed some hair gel onto his real-boy palms and beamed at the mirror as he artfully pushed his curls back into place. Perfect. He looked exactly how he wanted. The boy in the mirror looked happy, real, and full of life. 

That boy was Pinnochio. 

It took a few weeks to realize that just because Pinnochio looked like a real boy doesn’t mean he knew how to behave like one. That’s where observing Geppetto failed him. He needed help from an expert. 

Luckily for Pinnochio, he knew just where to find one. 

{} {} {} {} {} 

Pinnochio was watching his second-favorite classmate as he dribbled the ball for about seven minutes before the other eleven-year-old cracked, pivoted, and glared right at him. “Why are you looking at me?” Jake demanded, arms crossed self-importantly, the soccer ball forgotten by his scuffed shoes. “I want to practice alone.” 

“I want to be a real boy,” Pinocchio said, crossing his own arms. “You are really good at it. Show me how.”

Jake raised his brown bushy eyebrows. “Whatcha mean I’m good at it?” 

“You’re a boy,” Pinnochio explained patiently. “And people love you. Ergo, you’re good at being a boy.” 

Jake nodded along. He was the kind of boy who would make the jokes that the girls laughed hardest at. He was the kind of boy who could tell his friends that he had to practice alone and they wouldn’t give him a hard time. He was the kind of boy that didn’t have to be good-looking to be beloved. Jake was possibly the best boy in his fourth-grade class; and Pinnochio only wanted to learn from the best. 

Jake smiled brightly, boyishly, proving his title as the best boy and Pinnochio’s second favorite friend. “That makes sense. I guess.” 

“So, show me how.” 

Jake’s smile faltered, head falling to a tilt like the dogs by the deli when they want a bite of Pinnochio’s sandwich. And for a split second, Pinnochio imagin\ed he was back at the workshop, and Jake was a doll too, a puppet, and one of his strings had been snipped, dropping his head to that angle. Just as quickly as that vision came, it passed, and Pinnochio was focused on more important things, like how Jake didn’t know the answer to his question. 

“You don’t know how,” Pinnochio accused, upset to have been wrong about his second favorite friend. “You can’t help me.” 

Jake bristled. “It’s not like I try to be a boy. I just am!” 

“I want to be a boy too!” 

“You can!” Jake insisted. “It’s easy!”

“I don’t know how!” Pinocchio whined, tears popping into his eyes. “I just became one recently.” Hiccups started to rack Pinocchio’s frame, and his snot and tears wet his face in unpleasant, new ways he wasn’t accustomed to yet. “I want to be a real boy.” 

And, just like that, Pinocchio was sniffling and crying in front of Jake, who was looking at him with unconcealed irritation. 

“Well, you can’t be a boy if you cry like a girl!” Jake scolded. 

That shocked the sadness right out of Pinnochio’s system. “What?” 

Jake sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the way Jake’s father did when he was on important-looking phone calls. 

“Boys don’t cry,” Jake explained. “So you can’t do that anymore.” 

“But…” Pinnochio’s lower lip wobbled, frustrated by his lack of clarity. “But I have eyes that cry; I can’t help it.” 

Jake observed him closely. He was silent for a long time before saying, “If you want to be a boy, you can’t cry.” 

Pinnochio wanted to argue this point further but sensed that Jake would grow frustrated and return his focus to his soccer ball if he did. 

“Okay, fine.” Pinnochio rubbed at his eyes and inhaled deeply because breathing was something he could do as a real boy. “Boys don’t cry. What else do they not do?” Jake seemed to know the answers to this question since, after barely a breath of air, he said: “Boys don’t cry. Boys don’t, uh, they don’t wear dresses or pink.” Jake’s gaze flickered down, looking him over quickly. “So, you should stop wearing pink.” 

Pinnochio looked down at his shirt, relieved not to be wearing pink that day. “Okay. What else?”

“Oh, and you shouldn’t wear bows either. Not every day, anyway. Maybe at like church or something necessary. Boys don’t want to dress up.” 

Geppetto had been the one to lovingly tie the bow to his collar. Pinnochio had not minded, but he had already cried and worn pink. He was desperate to find a way to prove his boyhood. 

“I don’t like dressing up,” Pinnochio insisted. He thought of Jake’s scuffed shoes. “I like getting dirty.” 

Jake nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s right. Boys like playing outside and running around and stuff. Boys like getting dirty and hate getting clean.” 

Since becoming a real boy, Pinnochio had always enjoyed his luxurious bubble baths. He’d liked keeping a tidy room. He hadn’t known he wasn’t supposed to. “Okay,” Pinnochio said. “What else?” 

Jake scanned the courtyard, hands on his hips like a King about to give a verdict. His gaze landed on where a cluster of girls sat; amongst them was Pinnochio’s first favorite classmate, Anna. Her pulled-toffee hair was curling in a pleasing way he had praised just that morning. She and her friends were giggling, and braiding flower stems together to form a ring of sorts. 

“Boys don’t wear jewelry or make it, or, or gossip like.” Jake turned back to face Pinnochio, and his brows furrowed in concentration. “And boys don’t play with dolls or dance to girly, romantic songs– unless you have a girlfriend– but even then, boys don’t want to. Only do it because girls want to.” 

Pinnochio flexed his real boy hands. “So… boys can’t dance, but girls can?”

“Yeah, wait, no. We can. We can do anything we want. Boys just don’t want to. Unless it’s something cool.” 

“And… boys can’t wear pink or bows or like to be clean?” 

“But girls do,” Jake confirmed. “They also cry and cook and stuff.” 

Pinnochio crossed his arms, feeling oddly jilted. “It sounds like boys don’t get to do anything.” 

Jake frowned. “That’s not true! Boys can play sports and wear clothes like this,” Jake said, spreading his arms to show off his boxy shirt and shorts. 

Pinnochio wisely didn’t comment that he didn’t want to wear clothes like that. Instead, he said, “But I have eyes and legs and hands like a girl. I can cry and dance and make pretty things, too.” 

With unprecedented gentleness, Jake told him, “You can, but if you want to be a boy like me– and you asked me!– then you have to follow these rules.” 

“I thought if I was a real boy, I could do whatever I wanted.” 

“You can,” Jake assured. “If you follow these rules.” 

Pinnochio was silent with his dissatisfaction. 

“Look, Pinnochio, you were a doll before you became a real boy. Nobody expects you to fit in, so if you don’t want to, you can probably get away with it.” Jake shrugged. “You don’t have to be a real, real boy.” 

Pinnochio set his shoulders and ripped his bow off his chest with only a bit of a struggle. “But I want to be.”

Jake grinned, kicking the soccer ball right at him. It bounced off the top of his clean shoe, leaving a smudge and settling snugly in front of him. Pinnochio didn’t go to wipe it clean like he would have before and instead badly kicked the ball back in Jake’s vicinity. 

Jake, who had taught him how to be a real boy, then proceeded to teach him how to play soccer. 

And when Anna tried to show him how to make a friendship bracelet, Pinnochio ignored her in favor of chasing after his first favorite classmate, Jake. 

(And if he made Anna cry with his careless, boyish cruelty, then that’s just what boys do.) And when Geppetto asked what happened to his bright bow, blue to match his eyes, and nice shoes, Pinnochio will instead complain about his hunger and pester until he is served dinner early. 

(And if Geppetto’s bright smile faded once he caught on, then, well, he ought to know better. And if Geppetto really was crying that night, lamenting some sort of innocence lost, then he ought to understand that real boys don’t cry.) 

And when Pinnochio made the occasional slip, perhaps liking the wrong genre of books or favoring the wrong kind of foods, then Jake and his friends were there to gently, and not so gently because boys weren’t gentle, course-correct him. 

(And if he stood in front of his mirror and didn’t understand why he looked a bit less real, even after all those years of following along, well that was no one’s business but his own. And his reflections, maybe.) 

Though, he’d never admit it, Pinnochio started to look forward to Sundays, since that was when he was allowed to wear his nice shirts and bows. And that was when he could comb his curls back in front of the handsome mirror and adjust his bow tie. Sundays meant he could linger

in the tub. Sundays meant he could spritz on some of Geppetto’s cologne. Sundays meant he could pose in front of the mirror and look the way he wanted. 

And if he took his sweet time changing out of his fancy clothes, well, it’s not like Geppetto would tell. 

{} {} {} {} {} 

Anna, now sixteen, like him, fell in love with a boy called Charlie. He wore nice sweaters and a nicer cologne to high school. He liked movies and was teased good-naturedly for being a bit sensitive. When Pinnochio found out, he had felt a quick rush of jealousy. Though, in all honesty, he wasn’t sure if he was jealous that Anna was in love, or if he was jealous of the boy’s sweater and confidence. 

On cue, Pinnochio’s friends started wearing cologne and nicer, more stylish clothes. It’s almost infuriating. Did they change the requirement again? Why didn’t Jake tell him? He asked Jake, and all Jake had to say for himself is. “I dunno, Pinnochio. Maybe we’re not boys anymore. Maybe, now, we’re becoming men.” 

Jake had his attention on his locker, his head bowed like in prayer. His hair was cropped neat and looked darker than when it was long. He looked serious when he wasn’t handing out easy smiles. 

Pinnochio had been crushed. He had asked, “There’s a difference?” 

Jake, who had tried to shoot him a smile, stilled. His smile had gone twisted. “I think so. Honestly, I don’t get it all the way either. Do whatever you want, I guess. We’re not hurting nobody.” 

“What about the rules?” Pinnochio had asked desperately.

Jake had snapped, “Listen, dude, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really knew.” Jake’s mouth had wobbled a bit, eyes glistening with furious tears. “Stop asking me because I don’t know. I don’t think anyone even fucking knows. It’s stupid, okay? It’s all fucking stupid. It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“So everything I did was for nothing?” Pinnochio had demanded. “Is that what you’re saying?” 

“Not for nothing,” Jake had said, voice halting. “I mean, we did this together, didn’t we?” Pinnochio had deflated. “Yeah. I guess we did.” 

{} {} {} {} {} 

The next morning, Pinnochio stood in front of his handsome mirror and tried his best to be real again.