An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 4

Chapter 11. Lovely Dinner

“Just like that?” Mom asked, fingering the card.

“Just like that. From boy to girl. De chico a chica.”

“You’re sure there was no misunderstanding?” She looked worried.

“Mom, he said, ‘Mrs. Preston and mi amiga Angela’. Very different from ‘and mi amigo Andrew’.”

“And he’s not …playing a trick on you, or setting you up as a practical joke?”

“No, he’s …Okay, first of all, he’s not like that. But if it was for a joke, wouldn’t he have said, ‘Be there on Saturday at 7:15’ or something?”

“Maybe …” She seemed unconvinced. Then her face did a firming up thing that I recognized as a decision. “Honey, I want you to put on that burgundy top and the black skirt.”

“Are we …you’re not …”

“Yes, we are, and yes, I am. I can certainly afford dinner for two at La Rioja. We won’t call for reservations so there’s no chance of warning. You and I will simply be a mother and daughter dining out. At the end we can see if Santiago’s invitation is good, but this way we should get a very nice dinner and avoid any chance of a trick.”

“No, Mom, I can’t, I’m …”

She raised an eyebrow.“¿Niño o niña?” Boy or girl?

“I forgot you spoke Spanish. Niña.”

“¡Mi linda!” My pretty one!

And so we went to La Rioja, which got top ratings according to the newspaper and magazine articles framed on the wall. It was odd because it was like a Mexican restaurant but different. No sombreros, no serapes; the paintings on the wall were of a Hispanic culture very different from Mexico. And the prices were way up there, but Mom explained that Argentine beef is some of the very best in the world and that Argentines had the highest rate of beef consumption in the world. I stared at her, and she grinned and told me she’d hit Google while I got ready.

Mom had helped me get ready; I looked more grown-up in the outfit she suggested, and she brushed my hair to the side and clipped with a silver barrette and had found some rare-earth magnet earrings with silver dangles. She carefully did my makeup to match the maturity of my clothes, and I wore black pumps of hers that we’d discovered fit me. She said I looked eighteen and that would further confuse anybody that might think that Andrew was lurking about. I loved her thoughtfulness even as I worried about her plan.

We ordered a small ‘Espalda Asado’, a flat iron steak, for me, and Mom ordered ‘Mero de la Costa’, a sea bass. The menu was recognizably Spanish with a host of new words and I wished Santiago was there to describe them to me. Mom had asked if I wanted to inquire about him from the host, but I thought it best to wait. The host didn’t look like a host, actually; not only did he seem a bit under-dressed to be a host, something about his face made me think he might be related to Santiago, his father, perhaps. It was enough to make me cautious for the time being.

Everything was absolutely fantastic. The place felt classy; there seemed to be a happy bustle in the kitchen and at the waiter stations. The piped-in music ended and a single guitarist played a sort of flamenco, to applause–and the food was the best I’d ever tasted. Mom had told me that many considered this the best steak house in the city, and my little steak was incredible.

We split a Dulce de Leche cheesecake; Mom had I both had coffee, a rare thing for me, but oh what a heavenly match for the cheesecake! Before the bill came, Mom raised a meaningful eyebrow. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, opened them and nodded.

Mom called the waiter over and dazzled me with, “Perdón, ¿por casualidad está Santiago Mendoza aquí esta noche?” Pardon me, by chance is Santiago Mendoza here tonight?

She grinned at me. “Pretty good for an old lady, huh?”

“Very good, Mom, but you don’t need to roll the R so much,” I teased.

She pretended to be offended. “Oh? You’re an expert on Spanish R rolling?”

I chuckled. “No, but I’ve been listening to the waiters and the host and their sound is different from Latin American or even Castilian. More like this …”

I demonstrated and she nodded.

“I stand corrected,” she nodded, then grinned. “Or, I stand cor-r-r-ected!” she added, rolling her R like mad.

“Buenos noches,” a familiar voice said from slightly behind me. “I am Santiago Mendoza …?” There was a question in his tone.

Mom looked over my shoulder and smiled. “Ah, Buenos noches. Mi nombre es Senora Preston. I believe you go to school with my son Andrew?” She raised an eyebrow. “I would like to present my daughter Angela.”

She did, in fact, ‘present’ me, gesturing towards me with her hand flat, fingers extended.

Santiago took two steps past me and looked down.

And stared.

And stared.

I cleared my throat daintily and said in my true voice, “Buenos noches, Diego. Su restaurante es fantástico. Fue la mejor comida de mi vida. Gracias por invitarnos.” Good evening, Diego. Your restaurant is fantastic. It was the best food of my life. Thank you for inviting us.

I tried to speak as I do as Angela; only Angela had never spoken Spanish. I hoped I didn’t sound foolish.

“Dios en el cielo …” he murmured. God in heaven.

“Truly a superb meal,” Mom said, maybe to pull focus away from me.

“Uh …gracias, gracias,” Santiago said, frowning. “You are …”

Then, to my amazement, he laughed. Laughed! I mean, like a gut-busting ‘Ha-ha!’ sort of thing. I felt myself collapsing, certain that he was making fun of me, until he spoke.

“¡Ese idiota! ¡No puede distinguir entre un niño y una niña bonita!” That idiot! He can’t tell the difference between a boy and a pretty girl!

“Really? You think …I’m pretty?” I asked, my hand automatically going to my hair.

“Asá­ que muy bonito,” Mom smiled. So very pretty.

Santiago suddenly transformed. He seemed to take a deep breath and looked more …manly somehow. Slimmer, too, somehow. He bowed slightly.

“Angela, mi amiga, you are truly beautiful. I told you I knew of …what we spoke of today, but I did not dream that you could be so …muy, muy hermosa.” …very, very beautiful.

“Gracias, Diego, mi amigo,” I smiled at him.

He looked at me a moment longer and then turned. “Papa!” he called and excused himself, returning with the host. They fired Spanish back and forth; I got most of it and blushed at some of the compliments. At least I could understand that not a word was said about a boy in class named Andrew.

His father bowed to us and said, “My son tells me you are Senora Preston and Angela. You are most welcome to La Rioja, and I can only hope that you will grace us with your presence again.”

Mom bowed her head slightly and said, “Usted tiene un restaurant encantador. No puedo recorder una comida mejor, o un entorno más amable.” You have a lovely restaurant. I cannot remember a better meal, or more gracious surroundings.

“Gracias, gracias,” he smiled and nodded.

I said, “La mejor cena de mi vida y me encanta todo sobre él aqui.” The best dinner of my life and I love everything about it here.

“Ah!” he clapped his hands once with delight. “Two lovely ladies who speak so beautifully. I must thank my son for inviting you, and inform you that for speaking so well about my humble restaurant, I cannot accept any payment; your words were payment enough.”

“Dinner is on the house, in other words,” Santiago grinned.

“Diego!” he snapped, but still smiling, and burst out something that was like ‘don’t be a chump!’

Mr. Mendoza was called away to the host station and Santiago took a chair from an empty table–one of only a few, because the restaurant was busy–and said, “My sister was hostess but haves a difficult pregnancy. The girl to replace her …” He did a thing with his fingers. Oh, she vanished. “Papa is hostess!” he grinned.

“It’s a very fine restaurant; you must be very proud of him,” Mom said.

“Si. He’s …” He looked towards the host station and his father gathering menus. “He tries too hard. I mean, he tries to be everywhere.”

I found it interesting that Santiago’s English was much better, more colloquial, than at school. I realized in a flash that he was acting a character at school, too, just as Angela was acting as Andrew.

“You mentioned your sister, does your mother work with the restaurant, too?” Mom asked.

“Si. Not here, but she is …contador. Accountant.”

“Like a bookkeeper?” Mom asked.

“No, she is …accountant …”

“Like a CPA, I guess,” I said.

Santiago laughed. “No, no! I know what you mean, the CPA …”

“Certified Public Accountant,” I supplied.

“Si, si. That is what she is, but she is not ‘CPA’.” He grinned. “In Argentina, CPA is the Cá³digo Postal Argentino, the, um …zip code.”

We all laughed at that and he studied me. He leaned into our table and said, “You even laugh like a beautiful girl.”

I stared, but Mom said, “Yes, she does.” She cleared her throat. “Santiago, you understand the situation my daughter is in? With school, I mean?”

He nodded. “Although I have never seen her at school. I used to see my friend Andrew Preston–you know him, maybe?” he teased, and then adopted a sad-sack face. “But my friend Andrew deserted me.”

“I did–he did not,” I hissed, keeping my voice low. “Now you know, right?”

He held up a hand. “Please, I am only joking.” He turned to Mom. “Mrs. Preston, the coach …Andrew told you about?” She nodded and he did, too. “There is something wrong with that coach. But no matter; we are done with him and no more running.” His hand did a brushing-away dismissive movement and he smiled happily.

Mom glanced at me and then back to him. “Santiago, if I may ask you a personal question–well, two, really. First, do you truly accept my daughter Angela?”

“Si,” he nodded. “I already told …Andrew. And now I tell it to Angela.” He turned to me. “I will protect your secret until …” He looked at Mom now. “Until Andrew is no more.”

I felt a buzz at hearing that and wondered how he could have accepted this monumental change so easily?

“Thank you, Diego,” I said warmly.

Mom said, “Yes, thank you, and my second personal question …well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t wish to, but …How could you handle the terrible things that coach said to you?”

Santiago’s eyes flicked to me and he looked serious. In a soft voice, he said, “If my friend Andrew was gay, it did not matter to me. I know that I am not gay. So they were meaningless words–”

“Like a dog barking, he said,” I threw in, smiling at him.

He did the shrug thing and nodded. “As if he were screaming at us because we were not purple, or because there were more letters in our names than his. Nonsense.”

“You are very mature, and I thank you for your friendship with my daughter.” Mom sat back. “But I’m still sorry that you had to listen to that …that dog barking …” Then her mouth quirked, thinking about it.

I reached over and put my hand over Santiago’s. “Diego? Thank you, truly. From the bottom of my heart.”

“You are most welcome. And …” He frowned. “It will be difficult to see Andrew in school.”

“Finals,” I reminded him. We had no other classes besides PE.

“Finals, si,” he nodded. “Still …when school is over, Andrew is …”

“Gone,” I said.

He nodded. “A nice person.” He left it at that and stood. “I must help my father; late guests.”

Sure enough, the voices in the front of the restaurant seemed to multiply. I guess it was a restaurant family’s genetic trait or something, being able to sense the crowd.

He bowed to Mom. “Senora, Angela,” he said, keeping his eyes on me longer. Then he left.

“Interesting,” Mom said.

“What is? There’s so many interesting things …”

She took a sip of coffee. “Interesting how mature and manly he is; not at all the …I believe you once called him a ‘fat-boy’ and said something about a bobble-head?”

I closed my eyes. “Oh, God! Don’t remind me! I had just met him and heard what guys said about him and I was young and foolish and–no! Andrew was young and foolish!” I thought again of my resolution that Angela be a better person than Andrew had been.

She chuckled at my admission. “And how easily he accepted you …remarkable.” She took another sip. “Great coffee. And it was interesting watching you. How you moved, how you spoke to him–there wasn’t any Andrew present. And when you put your hand over his …”

“Mom, I didn’t plan that or anything, it just …seemed the thing to do …”

“Your instinct was correct, sweetheart. And it was a feminine instinct.” She sighed deeply. “A wonderful, wonderful night.”

Yes, it was, I thought, but I felt a little twinge of worry–why did everything with being Angela seem so easy and so right–and so quickly?

Chapter 12. A Phone and a Pond

Two other things happened on Friday but they were just ‘wait and see’ kinds of things and not as odd or amazing as the coach and the restaurant. Mom was waiting for me at home–she’d taken a later lunch–and brought me to the hospital for a quick blood-and-urine test; we were back on the sidewalk ten minutes after they’d called my name.

Then we’d had that incredible, fantastic dinner at La Rioja, and I felt so wonderful afterwards, full of good food and the warmth and acceptance by Santiago and his father, that impulsively, I emailed Carrie, the girl that I’d met at the movies. I’d been thinking of a girlish account name like hers but I’d read enough about the dangers of that; so I created a jumbled random one on Gmail and it felt right to do it that way. And so I emailed my hope-to-soon-be girlfriend! I apologized for taking so long; crazy last week at school before Finals, some doctors’ appointments, blah-blah-blah. I said it was neat meeting her, and changed it to ‘cool’, and left it open-ended. She might answer or might not. My finger hovered over the Enter key but I sent it and felt better.

Saturday morning, it was laundry time, only we didn’t have to do the bedding. I gathered our hampers and decided to do pillow cases anyway; Mom smiled at that but said, in general, be careful about washing bedding items at different rates because the colors could vary. So much to learn! I said something along those lines, but Mom chuckled.

“It’s not really that difficult, sweetie, because some of the things you learn don’t change. It’s not like …Oh, God, having to learn a new cell phone all over again when you get a different model!” Her face went funny, and then she said, “Anyway, that laundry tip applies elsewhere, too. Men’s suits should only be dry-cleaned once in a while, supposedly, but they stress that jacket and pants get the same treatment at the same time. You’ll do it with your suits, too, and–what?”

She’d seen me flinch. My throat was tight and I felt like tears were just around the corner. “You think I’m going to be in suits?”

She stared and then tossed her head with a laugh. “Oh, God, sweetheart, no! And yes! Oh, my,” she chuckled and took a deep breath. “You know that dark blue skirt and jacket I wear when I have union meetings?”

“Yes. It’s so pretty, the blouses, I mean, and looks powerful–oh!” My eyes widened.

Mom nodded. “That’s a suit, too, honey–just like you will have a ‘power suit’, something in navy or gray, with a sensible skirt. And a pretty blouse!” she teased.

My relief was huge, and she hugged me. “Oh, Angela, did you think that I had any doubts about you?”

“Not …really,” I said, sniffing back the threatening tears. “But you said ‘men’s suits’ and then ‘your suits’ and I guess I freaked.”

She sighed. “I think you will freak, from time to time, but know this: I completely and fully recognize and accept that you are my daughter. I look at it …” She trailed off and I could feel her frown. “This probably isn’t psychologically correct to say to you right now, but I’m already this far …”

Mom turned and held me with both arms straight, her hands on my shoulders.

“Angela, my view is that you were born my daughter, you are my daughter, and always will be my daughter. However, there was a …birth defect, of sorts, the way I look at it. It caused you to not have the girlhood that was your birthright!” she said with some vehemence, and calmed. “And only now we’re in the process of medically correcting it. Like if you’d been blind since birth, and just got a bump on the head or something and gradually, sight is becoming possible. Make sense to you?” I nodded, and she smiled sadly. “That’s the way it is in my mind, anyway. And I think …I know for me it’s the healthiest way. That way I don’t get hung up by thinking ‘that’s my son in his pretty bra’, or …’that boy thinks my son is pretty and wants to ask him out’. I could only get tied up in knots that way. So I know that it’s healthiest for me to consider you as always my daughter.”

I nodded. “That’s why you kind of jumped in so fast; I mean, with going to Target and things.”

“Yes. I wasn’t buying for my son to be my daughter; I was buying for my daughter who, through no fault of her own, had no girls’ clothing. So that works for me. Now, I think it’ll be healthier to you, too, to think that way. Although I’m not telling you ‘this is how you should think’. I leave that to the psychologists to tell you. But you might want to consider it the same way I do–that you were always a girl but a birth defect caused a misdiagnosis and is only now being corrected.”

Her face did that thing again, which I knew meant she had a thought that troubled her and she filed away for later.

“Mom, that’s twice now you’ve done that …thing with your face. You thought of something else but don’t want to say it.”

“You know my secret face thing?” she cried theatrically. “Now I must keel you!” We chuckled and she sighed. “Not something I don’t want to say, but something I want to say later, just to not lose my train of thought. Well, the darned train’s derailed, anyway, so I’ll tell you. The thing just now …”

“You said ‘corrected’ and did the thing.”

“Thank you, missy-too-sharp-for-her-own-good!” she laughed, and then grew immediately serious, frowning. “Correction. As opposed to …reassignment.”

Her eyes bored into mine and I stifled an involuntary gasp. “Oh,” I said in a small voice.

Her voice was gentle. “Sweetheart, we haven’t discussed this, and we have to at some point. If you care to now, fine; if you want to wait, fine. But …well, the doctors are going to bring it up, maybe even by Monday, and we need–you need–to be clear on your feelings.”

I nodded. “Because you’re clear on your feelings?” Her face was neutral, and I said, “Correction?”

“Ah. Yes. And I’m not going to say anything else about it until you want to talk about it.”

“Wait; the first thing you did the face thing, you were …” I frowned, thinking. “Oh, yeah; you were talking about having to learn a different kind of phone.”

“I’ll say ‘ah, yes’ again. That was just that I was saying something about learning a new system all over again, as opposed to learning about laundry or cooking that pretty much don’t change. Once you’ve learned the rules, you’ve learned ‘em and you don’t have to re-learn them or update them, really. But it made me realize two–no, three things. First, you don’t have a cell phone. You …Andrew had no friends, no activities, and was always at home. Second, you should have a cell phone, because already Angela has made a friend–assuming something works out with that girl you met at the movies–and watching Santiago last night, I believe you’re going to be much more social than Andrew ever was.”

“Mother! Santiago’s a friend. It’s not like …that.” It freaked me out.

“Sweetie, he is your friend, but I saw his eyes re-assigning you from …short gay boy to pretty girl. I’m not saying that he’s going to have romantic feelings for you–I suspect you’ll be friends still, but different–but that gleam in the eye …I recognized it and know that lots of boys will look at you that way. And you’re so much happier as Angela and people respond to that, too. And that leads me to the third thing about a cell phone–safety. You’re a pretty girl relatively naíve about the way of the world, in terms of boys and girls and …just life. So, that thing I did with my face was thinking all of this and deciding that you and I will go to the mall and get you a cell phone today.”

“Cool!” I said happily.

I changed from the doing-the-laundry shorts/tank/flip-flops to a yellow sundress and white flats. I felt light and pretty and happy …and all the time my brain was whirling with the other thing.

The gleam thing …

Once again, Mom took us to a faraway mall–since the stores were all the same and I wouldn’t run into anybody I knew–and she surprised me. She stopped walking in front of Claire’s.

“In for a penny …” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What? All the girls shop there, yeah …” I shrugged. Then I realized what she was thinking. “Mom, you …pierced ears?”

She just blinked at me, expressionless.

“Mom, I’m still in school, still …Andrew during the day …”

“Well, that’s true, but it’s Finals Week. Didn’t you tell me something about how great it was, only half the school would be there, it’s in and out, head down, go home?”

“Well, yes, but …”

“Do you want to wear pretty earrings? Hoops, dangles?”

“Oh, yes!” I answered without thinking, and then slumped theatrically. “Ya got me.” She chuckled and I had to, too. “I’m just trying to play it safe, you know.”

“I know, sweetie, and keeping you safe is my primary responsibility. So if you want to wait another couple of weeks …” She let it hang, and then added, “Of course, it might score you some points with the shrinks …”

“Didn’t you tell me not to call ‘em shrinks?” I teased.

“Ya got me,” she grinned. “Sorry; I’m pressuring you. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel thing, and you’re right, there’s a lot of–”

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

I nodded firmly. “Yes, let’s do it.” I turned to face her. “Mom, I really want pierced ears, but I’ve been afraid. I’m already mistaken for a girl at school, even fully dressed as Andrew. And, yeah, it’s in and out, half the school there, and …and I want them. Yes!”

And in less time than it took for us to have our discussion, I had two pierced ears! Gold studs, of course, and Mom and I had fun picking up earring cards and holding them up to me to see what to get with our two pairs as part of the starter package. The girl had been a little surprised that I was as old as I was without them being pierced, but Mom just dove in with a stunning lie about finally being ‘out from under’ a tyrant of a husband. I think she used the actor’s thing of ‘sense memory’ to be convincing that she was glad the guy was out of her life. The girl made the connection and smiled and even recommended a special flesh-toned flat stud that could be put in place of the gold balls; from a distance it looked like there was no earrings. She said it was ‘in case I still had to see the creep.’

Mom and I were still giggling about the improvisation as she marched us into the phone store. She’d brought her latest phone bill and I was directed to look around and ‘see if anything spoke’ to me, much as she said I should choose a purse, while Mom and the phone girl had their heads together, going over the bill. Then the girl came out and showed me several phones on the wall that fit in with the plan Mom chose, and told me the pros and cons of each one. She couldn’t seem to believe that a high school junior girl wasn’t already texting her little head off. Finally, we settled on a new entry-level model of Blackberry, and I figured I’d spend the evening learning about and loading the thing up with addresses–which made me realize, sadly, that it would probably take all of two minutes.

The girl helped set it up to check my email account and then she grinned and handed it to me.

My eyes and smile widened. “Mom! I got an email from Carrie!”

I read it quickly and happily; she asked if I was able to hit the Burlington Mall tomorrow, maybe around one; she had to get something for her little sister and ‘we could hang’. Yes, yes, yes! Mom smiled and said she’d drive me over and I had the phone girl show me how to text on the phone, and since she’d heard me read Carrie’s email to Mom, her advice was to suggest Claire’s at one. That way if anybody was late there were things to do–meaning shopping!–and a single girl waiting wouldn’t be bothered by boys in the all-girl environment of Claire’s. I also added my new phone number and that if Carrie’s phone used the same carrier, texting and talking would be free.

I left the store feeling fantastically happy; Mom was smug because her points of getting me a cell phone–new friends and activities–had come true so quickly.

And there it was …

In a blinding flash of clarity, of recognition, I knew what Mom had been talking about–’a correction’–and my feelings.

“Mom, I want to talk. Um …smoothies and go someplace?”

We hit Jamba Juice and Mom’s face was unreadable, standing there as teens swirled around us. She still wasn’t talking as we got back to the car and she drove to a nearby park.

“I remembered this from years ago; nice to see they’ve maintained it,” she smiled with the sad smile of memory. “I think there’s a pond …”

She led me on the trail and sure enough, there it was, and then she pointed out a bench a little off the path. We walked there, carrying our smoothies, and it was perfect; tucked away in thick brambles so nobody could be behind it, and with a sweeping view of the pond and the path in both directions. We could talk and nobody could hear us; if they walked past us, we’d see them coming and be able to change the subject.

“This is nice,” she sighed, looking across the pond. “Nice …”

It was odd how she’d trailed off and I thought she was trying to not say too much because she knew that I wanted to speak.

And, of course, I locked up for a moment. I looked at the pond, some joggers went by, ducks came in and took off. I sighed.

“I want the correction, Mother,” I said. “I want it. I know you’re talking about SRS–the Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Or GRS, gender reassignment. I’ve been reading up on the internet. I haven’t talked with you about this before, and I know that it seems all sudden and like we’re only going into the second week of Angela, in a way.”

“I promise not to interrupt too much, but I think you need to explain your phrase, ‘in a way’.”

“Well, obviously, dressing as Angela but …” I nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been Angela for years–practically forever–and even though I didn’t know her name, I was still her. You know?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do, sweetheart.” She paused. “Wanted to make sure you knew it.”

I nodded, watched a duck on the pond and waited for a mother to pass us, pushing her stroller. We three smiled at each other and Mom and I watched her go.

“I want that,” I said without thinking. “And I can’t have it.”

“Please, Angela, help me with this. Be more specific. You want what?”

“That young mother, with her baby …” Strangely, I felt my throat tighten and eyes sting. “Mom, I’ve never thought about motherhood before, but …” I sniffed back the tears. “And I can’t have it …”

“Yes, you can,” she said gently. “You can adopt. Sweetheart, you don’t know if she bore that child.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. “I never thought of that …and …” I waved a hand. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

I checked both sides of the path; there was nobody near. I turned to face Mom.

“Mother, I want to live the rest of my life as a female. I’m absolutely certain. I know it seems rushed, but it’s so incredibly right. I have no doubts whatsoever. None. I will undergo whatever tests or procedures the doctors throw at me, take any pain they dish out, if I can be Angela. I want hormones because I want to develop my own breasts, and I want that surgery–I know I have to wait until I’m eighteen–but I want that surgery because I want my vagina and I want there to be no doubt in anybody’s mind that I’m a girl.” I paused and frowned. “And I want to fall in love with a wonderful man and marry him and we’ll adopt and I’ll maybe be able to breastfeed my baby …to …b-b-breastfeed …”

I broke down in tears, something I told myself I would not do. Mom comforted me and had produced a tissue and hugged me and gave me comfort and made small shushing sounds. She gently patted my back.

“You see why I used the word ‘correction’? It’s not changing a boy into a girl. It’s allowing a girl to discover her true nature, to live the life that was meant for her.”

I nodded, still blubbering.

But she was right, and I knew I would consider the surgery as a correction. And she knew that I wanted it.

Chapter 13. Bridges

I did three things at home that night. First, I made the chicken-and-rice thing for dinner–risotto, really–and while it paled in comparison to the fantastic dinner of the previous night, it received raves from Mom.

The second thing was that I got my phone set up the way I thought I might like it. Midway through I got a text from Carrie confirming Claire’s at one. I thought, ‘I’m meeting burlgrrl at Burl Mall’, but that’s because I was almost giddy with happiness. A new friend, who only knew me as Angela!

The third thing was that we curled up on the couch and watched a ‘chick flick’. Well, first, I was curled up with my legs under me, working on my phone.

Then Mom cried out, “Oh, I love this one!”

It was While You Were Sleeping, with Sandra Bullock. Mom and I watched a lot of movies together, but often Andrew had sat there in misery, afraid to show how much he liked them if they were romantic, because that’s not something for boys to do, right? But now I could gush right along with Mom. And gush we did; it was such a delightful movie, and at the conclusion there was this great up-swelling of happiness and, yes, tears.

And somehow it led to a discussion of, well …’What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up’. It came from us talking about how sweetly Sandra clutched the ring that Bill Pullman dropped in her toll booth coin slot. It was so poignant that I got choked up thinking about it. Mom went to make tea and came back with the mugs and a question.

“What was Lucy hoping for? In life, I mean?” Mom asked as she sat.

“To go to Florence …no, to fall in love,” I sighed with happiness, thinking of the movie. But that wasn’t quite right. “No, she was hoping for …change.”

Mom nodded.

I said, “She’d had a wonderful relationship with her father, and then he died, and we don’t really know how she wound up in the toll booth, but it was a dead end and she …” I stopped, open-mouthed.

Mom calmly blew on her tea. “So, I’m not sure I remember. What were Andrew’s plans in life?”

“Andrew? There wasn’t anybody named Andrew. It was Jack, Jack and Peter and–omigod!” I blurted, my hands to my mouth. “I …forgot …”

Mom nodded, grinning. “You forgot all about Andrew, didn’t you? Gonna make it even harder to finish out school, but at least you don’t have any more classes. Ready for Finals?”

“Yes, I am, and stop trying to distract me. You messed me up, so this is your fault,” I teased, pouting.

I shook my head. I had completely not considered ‘Andrew’ as me. Of course, in the context of talking about the movie, it made sense, but still …

Mom said, “I suspect that the doctors are going to be putting you through some heavy psychological evaluation.”

“Already did.”

“Even more so, coming up. And they’ll do things like that to you, changing subjects abruptly to get your reactions, so be on your toes. But, sweetie, I really didn’t plan to do that to you; it wasn’t a trick. I was really just changing subjects. So, my question was, what were Andrew’s plans in life?”

“I noticed you used past tense,” I nodded. “And that’s right, too. At the risk of sounding too flippant, none. He had zero plans in life. See, every single day was just …get through this day without being hassled too much.”

“By the coach, you mean.”

“By the coach and most of the guys,” I shrugged. “Some of the girls, too. I just wanted to–”

She held up a hand. “Wait a moment, please. Do you mean to say that you were hassled by more than the coach?”

I nodded and shrugged. “Just a fact of life.”

“Please, sweetheart; put on your Andrew hat for a moment and tell me …” She sighed and shook her head. “You never said anything about being hassled until you mentioned the coach. And it seemed so over the top that I acted immediately …but you’re saying there were other times?”

I looked my mother in the eyes. “It’s an exaggeration to say ‘every single day’ but it’s absolute truth to say ‘every single week’. I just tried to get through every single day without–”

“What did they say? What did they do?” She was so angry she was nearly shaking; she had to put down her mug of tea.

“Mom, it’s not important, and it’s–”

“Please, please; it is important to me. Tell me and don’t worry about offending me; this is …too important to soft-pedal.”

Her eyes were boring into mine. I sighed. “Usually it was just name-calling.” On her look, I shrugged. “Faggot, fairy, queer, princess, fruit, um …fudge-packer …uh, cocksucker …” I flinched at that, worried I’d offend her.

Her eyes were now brimming with tears and her hand was at her mouth. “Oh, sweetheart! I had no idea! I can’t believe they …and you took this?”

I shrugged again. “Had to. What could I do, say the same things back? Fight them? I’d either be as stupid as they are or I’d be seriously injured. Hah! I’d be just as stupid and seriously injured! So …I just didn’t respond and kept my head down.”

“And …how long did they say these things to you?”

I frowned. “Mom, they never didn’t say them. I mean, when it started it was like ‘fairy’ and then they learned the, um …harder words as they got older.”

“Started when?”

“First, maybe second grade. Just a fact of life, like I said.”

She stared and her tears spilled down her cheek. “I had no idea …” she said again.

“Mom, there was nothing I could do about it. Oh, I suppose I could have grown a foot taller and gained a hundred pounds and it would’ve stopped, but that wasn’t going to happen. But I learned to tune out the names.”

“I can’t believe the school allowed …” She frowned. “They never knew, did they?”

“No, just like the coach calling Santiago and me ‘faggots’ up close so nobody else could hear.” It was weird thinking of Santiago as the bobble-head fat boy anymore; there hadn’t been any of that in his family restaurant.

“Terrible,” she muttered to herself. “But at least they didn’t harm you–”

Unfortunately, my face had betrayed me.

“What?” Mom asked, sitting taller. “They …did they do anything physical?”

That made me chuckle; it burst out of me without thinking. “Mom, think back to all the stories you know of kids being hassled in school. From your own school years to movies.”

She frowned.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me what kind of hassles you mean?”

“Well, pushing and shoving, for instance?”

“I’ll count that as one thing,” I said, raising my index finger.

She frowned again and said, “Well …pushing …and tripping …”

I ticked off the next finger.

“Hitting food trays in the cafeteria so the food goes everywhere …”

I did the next finger, causing her eyes to widen.

“Oh, honey!”she gasped. “Restroom things …”

I said, “Tossing things in the toilets, from books to clothes,” another finger, “and spraying my crotch with water from the sink,” another finger, “peeing on me,” she gasped loudly and I moved to the other hand, “and ‘swirlies’, shoving my head in the toilet–although that only happened twice–”

“Twice?” she shouted. “Oh, my God! I had no idea …This is …You’re not just playing–no, you’re not …oh, my God!” Her hands were at her mouth, her eyes spilling tears.

I dropped my hands and shrugged. Quietly I said, “So you can understand that the coach getting up close and calling me a faggot was …kinda mild.”

She enclosed me in a hug, almost frantically, as if she could protect me from the things I’d already suffered.

“How could you …” She squeezed tighter. “How could you endure?”

“I had to,” I said simply, earning me a tighter squeeze.

It took several minutes to calm her down. She was still seething, but managed to get her tea back in her hand, I said simply, “So …Andrew was just getting through day-by-day. No thoughts about college, growing up, jobs, careers, anything.” I frowned. “Mom, you’ve got to believe me on this. I never thought of killing myself. But I did think of Andrew just …ending. Maybe moving to a new city and …being somebody else. Andrew was like …you know those disaster movies where somebody’s going over a bridge and they realize it’s been torn off? They get out of the car and just stand at the ragged edge, looking down at the ocean or the nothing where there had been a road?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment.

“That was Andrew. And the Road of Life, I guess. Any future was unimaginable for Andrew. But I didn’t think of actively ending my life, killing myself. Just the Road going nowhere, like that bridge; just a drop-off into …nothing.” Involuntarily, I shivered and sipped my tea. Cold.

I stood with my mug and reached for hers. “Gonna nuke ‘em,” I explained and went to the kitchen. A terrible pun came to me regarding tea and tonight’s movie: While You Were Steeping. It made me laugh and suddenly I thought …did Andrew make jokes like that? I was still thinking about it when I came back with the hot tea.

“Mom, I had a thought in the kitchen,” I said as I sat and handed her mug back. “Maybe it’s not the road ending, torn off. Wait, I mean, for Andrew it is. But who’s to say there isn’t the other side of the bridge, just with that ragged edge behind, so it’s leading forward? And that’s the Angela side of my Road of Life, or is that too easy a cliché?”

She gave a little smile. “Dangerously close, but remarkably accurate. I had thought along much the same lines while you were in the kitchen.”

I told her my bad pun and she almost got tea up her nose from laughing.

When she was under control, she said, “So, keeping the bridge and road metaphor, are we agreed that Andrew had no future plans because, somehow, some way, in the back of your mind, Andrew had no future.”

I nodded.

“And Angela? What are her plans?”

I smiled. “Angela is so new in the world–wait, not that she’s so new herself, like we talked about, but so new out in the world?” She nodded and I did a confirming nod. “So it’s going to take time for Angela to discover what she wants …ah, the heck with the third-person! Mom, I’m open to anything as long as it includes being allowed to live as Angela.”

She nodded. “Angela’s moving forward. On the other side of that bridge …”

End of Part 4