Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Four

5/15

Oh, God, what am I going to do? I have to go back to school Monday and I absolutely do not want to go. I mean, I like school but I don’t want to go back to being Alan. Stupid Alan. Stupid boy Alan.

What a day.

Saturday morning I woke up and showered. Nothing unusual there, except I felt so different than I had before, for some reason. I got out of the shower and was toweling off, I studied my legs, and something in me snapped. No other word for it; it was a breaking of sorts, between then and now. I grabbed a disposable razor from the medicine chest and Mom’s shaving cream. Not that I had anything growing, really, but I stepped back in the shower and shaved my legs. After all, I thought, if I was going to wear things like the skort and all my shorts since it was going to be a hot summer, I might as well make my legs look as nice as possible.

And to the little voice screaming ‘What are you doing?’ I said swimmers and bicyclists did it, too.

Of course, swimmers and bicyclists didn’t also shave under their arms. I did.

Afterwards, I knew enough to put on baby oil and to not put on deodorant right away. I wrapped my robe around me and went for breakfast.

I was having some yogurt, and Mom came in for coffee. She held my sleepshirt and kind of tsk-tsked at me. I said, “What?” and she pointed out that I’d worn and washed it so much that the hem was coming off and that the fabric was kind of balling up. Yuk! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed. My only excuse was being groggy with sleep when I put it on at night and never noticed. She said she’d have to get better quality next time, and more of them … and her face did something and she nodded like she’d made a decision. Then she announced that she had time before her tennis date, so I put on some blue-and-green Madras short-shorts, a sleeveless yellow tank top and my new Keds and we headed to a mini plaza I’d never been to.

Mom told me it was sleepwear time. There was a lingerie shop I’d never seen; Mom said that they had good quality, low prices, without the whole sexy emphasis of Victoria’s Secret or Fredericks. I don’t know why, but I didn’t even hesitate—I was going to buy some lingerie. And I was going to wear it. And it didn’t feel strange.

Actually, the strangest thing was that the saleslady didn’t bat an eyelash. I know I wasn’t dressed like a macho guy, but I wasn’t dressed all girly, either. I mean, I wasn’t in a dress or anything. Anyway, Mom showed me some sleepwear and talked about the pros and cons of each style. We settled on three, two white and one ivory, each of three lengths. Walking across the store, I noticed some really neat underwear. Mom told me my life would be easier if I just used the actual names. So, I had three nighties and was thinking about buying panties.

I turned to Mom, who had a knowing smile, and something just sort of … slid into place between us and I smiled back at her. We both looked at the rack, and without saying anything we picked out six pairs. Mom had something else in her hands, and showed me some camisoles, she called them, and I really wanted to wear them. They just looked so … nice.

So we went back to the car with my new underthings. My new lingerie. Although I wanted to shop for more and more, I knew that Mom had the tennis date. We were just getting out of the car at home when we saw someone on our doorstep—Susan was here.

The History thing! I’d forgotten she was coming over!

There I was, in Madras short-shorts and the yellow tank and my hair up in a ponytail, holding bags with the name of the lingerie store, and Susan saying hi and then her face going through a zillion changes. She had on a green shell and some blue plaid Capris.

I told Mom I’d forgotten about Susan, and I knew she had her tennis date, and did she want me to cancel. Mom asked Susan if it would be possible for us to study at her house. Susan called her mom who was away from the house; the mothers talked, and it was decided that we’d start at my house while my mom got ready, then she’d take us to Susan’s house, allowing time for Susan’s mom to get home. Whew!

Which just delayed the inevitable questions about my bags. There was no point in saying they were Mom’s. I just looked at Susan and thought, Aw, the heck with it. I asked her if she wanted to see; I know that girls love shopping, talking about shopping, and sharing shopping stories.

I told her my sleep things were getting ratty, and Mom suggested these, and I showed her the nighties. She also saw the camisoles, and I said, again, Mom’s suggestion. Susan didn’t see the panties, or maybe she did. She must have noticed my smooth, shaved legs. I know she noticed my nails, and I told her I’d admired her polish so much Mom got me some. Then I realized it sounded like everything was Mom’s doing, which it isn’t, so I said it wasn’t her, it was me.

I’d said it offhand, just to stop blaming Mom, but there was that snapping, breaking, ‘then-and-now’ thing and I knew it was absolute truth and said it again to Susan: It was all me; it was all my choice.

Susan asked if she could know what was going on. I thought for a moment, and simply told her that, on one hand, I had an imbalance of my endocrine system, and also that I really didn’t fit in with the guys, did I? She said no. She was nice enough to ask gently, was I gay?

The weird thing is, at no point had I thought about sex. That’s what I’d told Judy, and it was true. I mean, if being gay involves sexual interest, and I guess it does—or at least part of it—then it’s been the farthest thing from my mind.

I told all that to Susan, and had to honestly say I didn’t know because I wasn’t thinking about sex. She asked how long I’d been dressing in girls’ clothing.

I laughed and said I never had; I dressed in my clothing! But I knew what she meant, so I told her it had been about three weeks. She didn’t believe it, but Mom passed by, overheard, and confirmed it.

Then the big question: Susan asked where will I go from here. I told her what Judy had said—calling her ‘my doctor’ and not ‘Mom’s girlfriend’, of course—that I should find out who I am. And all I know is that this is the way I am, and I’m exploring it.

Susan thought for a moment and then nodded, smiling, thank God!

Mom was ready to go, so I quickly put the things back in the bag and put it in my room, and we left for Susan’s—we really didn’t have to pack up because we’d never unpacked. I just grabbed my school backpack and off we went.

I knew things would be strange with Susan’s mom; I told Mom to wait because I might be leaving immediately if Susan’s mom freaked out. I had debated changing, but I guess my key phrase for the day was ‘Aw, the heck with it.’

Her mom was cool. Although I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, she’s known me since I was about three. Before I’d been short and nondescript, but obviously a boy. Now I was in high-cut, blue-and-green Madras shorts, a yellow, scoop neck, sleeveless top, shaved legs, socklets and white Keds, with my hair past my shoulders and loosely held with a white scrunchie, and blue nail polish like her daughter wore.

I had, uh, changed from the last time she’d seen me. She handled it well. She had the same look that Susan had—I guess it was genetic—and Susan said, “An endocrine imbalance.”

Her mom just said, “Of course” and let us in. We unloaded our stuff on the table, and through the living room window I could see that Susan’s mom had gone out to talk with Mom.

Then Mom took off and Susan and I got to work.

There was one of those crazy moments when, about an hour into it, we were stretching and Susan’s mom came through and asked, “Can I get you girls anything to drink?”

The look on her face was priceless; she genuinely hadn’t thought about what she was saying. Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We said yes and stretched while her mom brought us Diet Pepsis, apologizing profusely.

I told her to relax; it was an obvious mistake. As we sipped, her mom asked the same question Susan had. I told her that for whatever reasons, medical or otherwise, I was happier this way. It was me. And no, I didn’t have a master plan and didn’t know where I was headed.

Susan’s mom asked if I wore dresses. I blushed and said no, I hadn’t. “Pity,” she said. “With those great legs, you should show ‘em off.”

That freaked me, because … well, just because.

We got back to work and got on a roll. This whole project thing is to come at a historical event in a roundabout way, not just a straight ‘he did this and they did that’ thing. It meant researching the culture and what the people were like, what they were thinking, and other things, too. We were doing the Norman Invasion and the Battle of Hastings in 1066.

Susan had a computer with a fast internet hookup, and we kept coming up with things to add to the mix. “Weather!” I’d say, and we were off, trying to find out the weather of the period. “Food!” she’d say, and we’d find out the diet of the average Englishman of the 11th century. Yuck, by the way.

The most amazing thing was finding out about the Viking invasion in the north that happened just before the Norman invasion in the south …

Anyway, that’s why it was such a big project. The thing is, Susan’s really smart and interested in lots of things, and we were a good team.

Finally, finally … we knocked it off for the day. We had all the primary research and had divided up the sections each of us was going to write. Mom had called around four and I told her we were on a roll and I’d call her back.

Mrs. McMillan asked if I’d like to stay to dinner. I could tell Susan wanted it, and I liked the idea. I called Mom and everything was settled. Susan said her dad and brother were at a double-header baseball game and wouldn’t be back until ten or so, so I wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with them. Mom would pick me up at nine.

We put everything away and I asked if I could help Mrs. McMillan; she laughed and said her cooking was ‘therapy’ and for us to get out of the kitchen and relax. Susan asked if she could show me something in her room, and there was an awkward moment while her mom weighed it, and then she smiled and said go ahead.

Susan’s room was a dream. Everything matched, and there was kind of a time-line flow to it. I could see her little-girl years in some of the dolls, and her gymnastics and dance awards as she got older. I didn’t know she’d won so many, and I didn’t know she loved horses, judging from the pictures. She told me she thought about really competing in dressage, but as much as she liked horses she loved gymnastics and dance too much to give them up.

She flopped on the bed and I sat politely on her vanity bench. I complimented her room and there was a moment after and then she started bouncing with excitement. It turned out she really wanted to ask if I was going to dress like this at school. I told her I hadn’t thought about it; it was something that was happening to me a bit at a time and so far I was okay at school.

She surprised me by snorting and saying that if I showed up at school looking like I did right now, I’d have guys following me asking for a date! I blushed and stammered and didn’t know what to say.

Then she asked if I really truly didn’t wear dresses. I told her I didn’t have dresses or skirts or anything like that. I had only gotten the nighties this morning and hadn’t worn them yet. It was all so new.

She asked if I knew that girls always shared clothes, and makeup—even though they knew they shouldn’t—and did each other’s hair, and all that. Yeah, I knew, but what did that have to do with anything?

Susan went to her closet and pulled out a denim skirt. “Here’s your first skirt,” she said.

Oh God.

My mouth went dry. I had a tight throat.

And an intense desire to try it on the skirt.

I slowly reached for the offered skirt and … things just happened naturally. Susan thoughtfully turned her back to look in her closet, and I slipped out of my shorts and pulled up the skirt.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

It was wonderful; it felt right. I looked down at my legs, and thought, ‘So that’s how they should look’. I know that’s silly; my shorts showed more of my legs but there was just … something about the hem of the skirt … Susan turned around and stared, then said, “My oh my, I think we’re onto something!” She had me turn around, then walk around in her room. She snapped her fingers and said, “Shoes!”

It felt like I was falling; I felt like Alice going down the rabbit hole. Part of my mind registered that Alice and Alan both started with the same letters. I didn’t feel like an Alan at all anymore. Besides; it was my father’s name and I didn’t want anything of his.

Susan had a whole section of her closet devoted to shoes; not as many as some girls I’d heard about, but a lot more than Mom and me put together. She said “Aha!” and handed me a pair of strappy sandals with a small heel. I took off my Keds and she gasped, giggled, and hugged me when she saw that my toenails were wearing her color of nail polish.

I sat on the bed and put on the sandals and immediately knew I had to have some! My feet looked so good in them, but could I walk? I got up and took a few tentative steps, and other than a slight pressure from my calf muscles because of the heel, I could walk. And my legs looked so much better—I never realized that standing on tiptoe could make my legs look so good!

Susan said, “God, you’re a natural!”

I started crying. It was that ‘cry-for-happy’ thing, but still, she hugged me and sat me down on the bench in front of her vanity. While I got it together, she held me and went ‘there-there’ and I calmed down. She started brushing my hair out of my face, and then picked up a brush and really started brushing.

All the time she was talking about other things, about what some girl in school bought, or a new song she liked … instinctively, she knew what to avoid; she didn’t talk about what I was experiencing. She began playing with my hair, brushing it this way and that, piling it up and over and fooling around with it, while I dabbed my eyes with tissue.

Then she frowned slightly and got serious, brushing and pulling sections and she basically put my hair up, with cute wisps hanging down by my ears because the hair wasn’t long enough to be caught up completely. When she was done putting my hair up, she handed me a gold necklace and told me that with my neck, I should wear my hair up more often. I giggled and pointed out that I’d never worn it up and she smiled and said, “You will!” and sounded really confident. To cover my embarrassment I tried to put on the necklace; I had a little trouble with it, as I’d never worn one before, so she fixed it behind me.

Then she let out a whoop of frustration and told me to sit still, close my eyes and not move. I had a trembling hunch what she was going to do—and she did it. I could feel her begin applying makeup to my face, the foundation, blusher, eye shadow and liner and mascara and finally drawing on my lips and a spritz of some fantastic perfume.

She waved the spray away from my face and said to open up and look.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

In the mirror was a really pretty girl. Not movie star-fashion model gorgeous, but definitely not plain.

Definitely pretty.

And definitely not a boy.

I stared—I think we both did—and I’ll never forget this; Susan said, “You know how you told me that your doctor said to find yourself, to discover yourself? I think you just did.”

Wow.

There were this period where time stood still as we both realized the world had changed. I knew those were both clichés, but they’re the absolute truth for how it felt. We both knew this wasn’t a one-time thing; we both knew I had truly found myself.

Susan softly said, “I don’t think I can call you Alan anymore.”

I told her that was funny, because I had just thought the same thing, and that I sort of felt like Alice in Wonderland. We both agreed that I needed a new name, and Alice was just too old-fashioned. Susan suggested Alana or Alannah, keeping my original name, but I told her that I had been named after my father and that I didn’t want anything to do with him or his name.

She pointed out that if I was going to truly change, to become a full-time girl—and looking at myself in the mirror, and enjoying the time spent with Susan, how could I not?—then having a feminine version of my name might make it easier to persuade people (like school administrators) that I’d always been Alana; somehow the computer dropped an A.

There was a lot to that, and I didn’t want to let hatred for my father color things. But then Susan got on the internet and we were looking at baby-naming sites, and we suddenly shouted “Alyssa!” at the same time! It was a much cooler name than Alice, but paid tribute to that original idea. It had the same start as Alan, as I had with my father, but then went in a different direction, the way I did. And the fact that out of all the names, we both said it at the same time—it was official. I just hoped Mom liked it.

Susan turned to me and said, “Hello, Alyssa” and it was so sweet that my eyes teared up. Susan rushed a tissue to me and told me to gently dab, and when I pulled the tissue away and saw my mascara marks, we both laughed at the natural, feminine moment.

Susan frowned again, and said something wasn’t quite right; something was off. I felt a cold grip of fear, wondering, and then her face brightened. I went from fear to embarrassment when she asked why I wasn’t wearing a bra.

I told her I didn’t have any; she found that hard to believe. She said with my long hair and a kind of slump when I walked in, she hadn’t really noticed, but with my hair up (and I guess I was standing straighter with the heels—and with a new pride) she said she could really see my boobs.

That’s what she called ‘em—my boobs. And as embarrassing as it was, I was thrilled.

And confused.

She really couldn’t believe that I didn’t have any bras, but she said her mom was a stickler for propriety, and as long as I was staying for dinner, I really should be properly dressed. She giggled when she said it, and I kind of giggled back, and then she got serious.

She said it was hard to say what she was going to say, because she’d known me—or Alan—for so long, but she always had kind of wished that ‘Alan’ had been a girl, because we always got along so well. She had friends like Amanda Joyner and Natalie Condolini, and she was friendly with some boys, but she said she always felt different with me. Maybe, she said, she was somehow sensing Alyssa, hiding inside of Alan.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Thank you; you’ve always been so special to me.”

Susan said she didn’t know what the future would bring, but she would really, really like it if she could be friends with Alyssa. I felt choked up but I said, are you kidding? Of course, and I was so grateful to her for letting me try on the clothes and she cut me off.

“Girlfriends are always lending each other clothes, remember?”

I laughed and gulped a happy sob at the same time, and managed to say that I’d heard something like that, but never really knew for sure; I had a lot to learn and I’d love to learn with her. And I’d love to be her girlfriend!

She seemed to be weighing something in her head, making a decision, then nodded and said, “Cool—first lesson: girlfriends don’t have any modesty, and we tell each other everything.”

I said, “Agreed,” but I didn’t say anything more out of shock, because she had pulled off her top and stood there with only her bra, a pretty light blue.

“Well?” she said, daring me, sort of. I eased out of my yellow top and for some reason held the top over my chest. Susan made a face and unhooked the back of her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, revealing her breasts, which made me gasp slightly.

But not like a boy seeing a girl’s breasts for the first time. This was pure envy; she was more developed than I was, of course, and her skin was creamy. She just looked incredible.

“What?” she asked, and I told her that I wished my breasts could look as nice as hers. She made me so happy by saying she thought that mine would be, and in the very near future. She said that mine looked better than hers did when they were that size, and I could have hugged her with thanks, except that would be too weird.

She went to her bureau and pulled out two bras, telling me that she took off her bra to help me relax, but it was also digging in and she wanted to change it, anyway. She laughed and told me that I’d find out soon enough that wearing bras wasn’t nearly as sexy as boys thought it was!

Susan decided to give me a quick lesson in Bra 101, pointing out some of the features from the ones she had in her drawer. She handed me a creamy, stretchy one and then she put on a white one, showing me how to attach it around the waist, turn it and pull it up. The one she handed me fastened in front, so I put it on and clasped it together. Susan pulled it this way and that, pulling the cups down a bit and adjusting the straps, because I was bigger than she’d been when she started developing.

We were just two girls, standing there in our bras, and it felt like the most natural thing …

I put my yellow top back on while she put on a pinkish camp shirt. She told me about adjusting a bra after the top was on, and how to deal with falling straps. God, I’m going to have to deal with bra straps! I told her this was all incredibly exciting, but not sexy-exciting, just new-exciting, and how strange it was that everything seemed so normal; it all seemed so regular, and she said that’s what she was feeling, too.

She changed out of the capris without any warning; one minute she had them on and the next minute she stood there in panties, white with small red flowers. She pulled a black skirt from her closet and wriggled into it, giving me instructions about skirts as she did. Slipping her feet into Dr. Scholl sandals, she bent at the waist and flipped her hair, then straightened and looked in her vanity mirror while she fluffed her hair, and then said, “Let’s go.”

Go? I freaked. But I timidly followed her downstairs; she told me to wait and that she was going to ‘present me to society’ like a debutante. I could smell that dinner was almost ready; her mom was in the living room, and I heard Susan announce, “May I present Miss Alyssa Cunningham!” and I marveled at how nice my new, whole name sounded.

There was a pause where my feet didn’t want to move, and then I carefully walked into the living room and stood with my hands in front of me, holding my fingers.

Mrs. McMillan stared, and then said, “Oh my God, what have you done?” to Susan.

I jumped in and said, “No, it’s not her fault, Mrs. McMillan, it’s mine.” I thought it was a disaster and was ready to run away.

Mrs. McMillan waved her hand in the air and quickly said, “No, no, no, you misunderstand. I was just amazed to finally meet you.”

‘Finally?’

“Oh, let me get a good look at you,” she said as she stood and walked around me. “Amazing! If I didn’t know Alan … but then, none of us really did, did we?”

I was amazed at how accurate her observation was, and also wondered, has it always been that obvious?

And what was that ‘finally’?

Mrs. McMillan ‘A-hemmed’ and gestured to my chest. Susan and I looked at each other, and I quickly said, “I’ve got some … ah … development, and Susan was nice enough to lend me something.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding; you don’t have … does your mother know?”

I told her, well, sort of; but I’d never dressed this much before. I’d never worn a skirt or heels or makeup or … anything like this. Mrs. McMillan couldn’t believe it, just like Susan couldn’t. I told her that she could ask Mom herself, and she thought for a moment, nodded and announced dinner was ready.

I was glad for the release from scrutiny. Susan and I helped set the table, and I felt this wonderful feeling of shared womanhood that I hope is going to be my future. It was really strange—well, everything about this was strange!—but more than putting on a bra or skirt, more than my new name, it was the moment of the simple act of setting the table that I had the absolute realization that I wanted to be a girl for the rest of my life. Maybe it was the combination of things, but the sense that there were three females in the room—and I had no idea how I thought that—was the clincher. It was also bending and stretching while wearing the bra; I could feel it as I reached to put down plates. I liked the support that I hadn’t even known I was missing. And, certainly, things like Mrs. McMillan casually saying, “Put those over there, Alyssa” and Susan saying things like, “Isn’t that a pretty color on her?” that helped put me at ease.

Anyway, it was a delicious pot roast with crisp seasonal vegetables, and ice tea. We helped clear up afterward, too, and I saw that it was nearly eight; Mom would be here in an hour but I decided to do something before I chickened out. I tried her on her cell phone, and she chuckled at my call, telling me that she’d found what she needed and was just going to kill an hour at the bookstore, so of course she could come over now.

I figured I had to show Mom what I looked like before giving the clothes back to Susan.

During dinner, we hadn’t talked about me; we’d talked about the food and some social stuff—Mrs. McMillan was angry at some legislation and wanted to know what we as teenagers thought about it. It just all felt natural and normal and pleasant. So I wasn’t on the spot until after dinner, when I sat down in the living room with Susan and her mother.

Mrs. McMillan wanted to know my plans. I told her I didn’t have any; everything was all so new and I had to talk things over with my mother. She asked how I came about the name Alyssa—she’d been very good calling me Alyssa all through dinner, saying, “Try these carrots, Alyssa,” or “Susan, would you pass Alyssa the gravy boat?” and it was amazing how fast I adapted. There wasn’t any hesitation in my brain—nothing like ‘But I’m Alan!’ bouncing around inside me.

We told her my reasons for the name choice, and she was surprised that this new me was … so new. She said I looked, acted, and moved so completely natural and normal that she figured that I must have been living as a girl for years. Nope, I said, ask Mom. Mrs. McMillan did have a point when she said that traditionally, parents name their children, so before I get used to Alyssa, I should get Mom’s input, and I agreed—other than hoping Mom liked the name, I hadn’t thought about Mrs. McMillan’s point about my parent naming me; everything was moving so fast.

Right on cue, Mom rang the doorbell. Susan and I had decided to do the debutante thing again, so I quickly went into the kitchen. Mom was greeted by Mrs. McMillan, who told her “The kids have something to show you.” I’m sure Mom thought it was related to the History project.

Susan was nervous; I’d told her to do this and it kind of put her on center stage. She said to Mom, “Mrs. Cunningham, you know how things are … changing for Alan?”

There was a long pause as Mom considered her response. I knew that Mom knew that Susan knew; Mom had heard it when Susan quizzed me on the lingerie earlier at our house.

Finally, Mom said, “Yes they are, and we don’t know how things are going to go.”

Susan said, “Well, maybe we all have a clearer idea after today. May I present to you … your daughter, Miss Alyssa Cunningham!”

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

It was only remembering the red-dress scene from She’s All That that I could find the courage to move.

Heart in throat, stomach in knots, my insides all topsy-turvy, I took the steps out of the kitchen into the living room and stood as I had earlier.

Mom’s hand flew to her open mouth; she’d said, ‘Oh, my God’ when she got the first glimpse of me. She looked me up and down, from my painted toenails in the heeled sandals, my shaved legs, denim miniskirt, a bra under the sleeveless yellow top she’d seen earlier, my hair pinned up in a feminine style, a delicate gold necklace at my throat and subtle makeup.

“Oh God,” she said, and I thought, ‘Funny, that’s what I said’.

Then Mom was rushing off the couch to me, flinging her arms around me in a swooping hug, sobbing, “Oh, my beautiful, oh, my love!” and I was hugging her back, loving her and crying too, but hoping she’d say it, say the word, hoping she’d make it real, make it official.

Then she said it: “Oh, my beautiful girl!” and I hugged her even harder, sobbing.

“Mom,” I cried, “please, is it okay? Can I be your daughter? Please?”

And she said, “Yes, oh yes; my beautiful, darling daughter!” and I just kind of went away for awhile, standing there hugging my mother and loving her so much; so grateful to Susan and her mother, and so wanting that moment to never end.

Mrs. McMillan and Susan had quietly left us, and I sort of came to and we broke the hug when they came in with cups and a pot of tea. I was so emotionally drained and gratefully accepted the box of tissues Susan handed me. Both Mom and I stood, dabbing at our eyes, checking our tissues for mascara and laughing at the similarity of our actions, and then we all sat down to tea.

Susan and I took turns telling about how things had reached this point. I was so grateful to have a friend like Susan, and she said such nice things about me, and of course I retaliated with wonderful things about her. Finally, the subject of my name came up.

Mom surprised me by saying that she loved the name Alyssa. I asked if she had a name picked out for me; she didn’t. I asked if she had a name picked out if I had been born a girl; she laughed and said my father wanted to name me after his mother, Monica.

“I guess even with that show Friends …” Mom trailed off.

Susan and I looked at each other, and Susan said, “Not even Phoebe!” and we both laughed.

Mom said “Alyssa” to herself several times, and smiled warmly. “Alyssa Cunningham is a wonderful name, honey!” and that settled that.

So now I’m Alyssa Cunningham.

So what am I going to do about Alan Cunningham?

End of Part Four