I

“Tell me this, Shel, do you think I’m weird?”

Jason sat rigid, waiting for the reply that he knew would be honest and feared might be too candid. He felt as though his life depended on her answer. Shelly was Jason’s oldest friend. True, until fifteen minutes earlier, he hadn’t seen her since second grade, but they had been inseparable until then.

The smile on Shelly’s face tightened a bit as she considered his question. She thinks she might hurt me, Jason thought. It’s OK, Shel, whatever. Nothing Shelly could say would hurt more than the hell Jason endured at school. Hardly a day went by that he wasn’t cornered, bumped, slapped, jabbed or shoved, that the the contents of his backpack weren’t scattered along the corridor or his gym clothes floated down the main staircase, that Jason wasn’t taunted for a sissy. It was so unfair that Jason couldn’t help crying, but that of course proved he was a sissy.

“No, silly, why would you say that?” Shelly reached across the tiny table and squeezed Jason’s arm. Overwhelmed by her kindness, Jason couldn’t help the tears that started, first drowning his eyes and then flooding his cheeks until Shelly handed him a paper napkin.

Her simple gesture released memories of happy days. Shelly had been like a big sister — a big sister who was never mean or petty. Jason had been her willing slave, her helper and supporting actor in a thousand games and make believe stories. Then Shelly’s family had moved away.

“I’m just so happy; I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve missed you so much. And, you’re so pretty!”

“Aw, Jase, silly little Jase! You really think so?” Shelly was pleased. She knew she was pretty, but it was nice to hear it confirmed by this boy with whom she’d shared a playpen, a sandbox and a dollhouse. And she was pleased that she’d found him, too. Something about the boy huddled on a bus stop bench had tweaked a long dormant synapse. He looked, well, familiar, and so Shelly’d walked right up to him and asked “Are you Jason Baldwin?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he’d replied, hardly looking up until she replied “Well, I’m Shelly Atkinson.”

A little more than a chronological year separated Jason and Shelly, but at that instant in time, light years separated the childhood friends in coolth. Jason was a totally prepubescent 12, Shelly a teenage dream at 14 going on 20.

A few moments later, Shelly had dumped the friend-boy who’d invited her to a mall movie to dish instead with Jason at an ice cream place. She listened sympathetically, her well-timed nods and smiles encouraging Jase to pour out his tale of woe. Jason for his part had decided that he could lay his soul bare to Shelly.

“My life sucks, really. I don’t have any friends anymore. No one wants to be seen with the class geek. There’s four or five guys who push me around, call me fay-rie, that stuff. Sometimes I think about taking a gun and killing them. Sometimes I think about killing myself.

“You know what I think, Shel? I think I should have been a girl. I mean it! I’m good at stuff girls like to do — art and writing, especially — and I really suck at gym.”

Something about what Jason said, or maybe the way he said it, as though he’d given the matter a lot of thought, caused Shelly to consider her own reply.

“Jase, there’s no bunch of apes on earth uglier than a pack of thirteen year-old boys, but it won’t last. Give it time. Just be yourself.”

“I hate being myself. I hate gym. I hate the way they make me lie and pretend I’m someone I am not. Why won’t they let me alone? Why am I such a retard?” Jason paused. “My prick’s still the same size it was when you saw it.”

Shelly remembered, and reflected that since that time she’d grown both nice breasts and a bush. “O Jase, Jase, relax! You know you’ll get there. Everyone does.” Her attempt at soothing him unleashed another flood of tears. “But Shelly, here’s the thing. Snf! I hate having to pretend that I want to be gross and stupid. I hate having to pretend not to know the answers in class, or that the only thing I read is the sports page. Girls don’t get beat up for being smart.”

Oh, right, Shelly thought, sucking hard on her straw, sucking up the last of the shake. He thinks it’s so easy. “Look, Mister,” she said, stressing the mister, “it’s not so easy being a girl either. . . . Though,” Shelly added as an afterthought, “it is worse if you are dumb.”

“Jeez, Shel, I’m not saying I want to be a girl. I only want not to be a boy!”

Jason was maybe five feet two, skinny from top to bottom. Shelly studied his face — not bad was the unspoken thought — and his shaggy blonde curls and slender hands. Shelly checked out the rest of him. “Stand up, Jason, and turn around.” Out of ancient habit, Jason did as Shelly commanded. It might work, she thought.

“It might work,” she said aloud.

“What might work?”

“I think you could pass for a girl, Jase. Want to try?”

“Like I said, I don’t want to be a girl.”

Shelly detected less conviction this time. There was something exciting about that. Was it the memory of Jason’s slavish devotion when they were children together? “What have you got to lose?” Shelly asked. “Why not have some fun for a change?”

II.

A distance so vast that it had sundered a childhood friendship was now only a matter of half an hour’s bus ride. Telling his mom that he’d been invited to go to a football game, Jason secured most of a day to visit Shelly. Her current neighborhood and her house were, well, intimidating, but Jason had decided to throw caution to the winds. He rang the bell; Shelly answered. In pink capri pants and a tank top, Shelly was, Jason realized, hot. “Hi,” he said, and tried to remember what he was supposed to say next.

Leaning against the door sill, Shelly stretched forth a finger and traced it idly around Jason’s ear. “Don’t vurry, darlink. Ve von’t hoort you. Now you coom in,” she purred in a pseudo-accent suggested by the late night movie of the night before. “Coom on. Mommy’s avay for ze day. Ve haf some pretty tings for you to stry on!”

True to her word, Shelly had combed her closets for outgrown clothes, and assembled a wardrobe that many of her 8th grade girl friends would have killed for. There were short skirts and long, tees and tank tops, a pink mohair sweater with puff sleeves, ballet shoes, short heels and strappy little sandles, a pair of embroidered jeans with jacket to match, and a pile of panties and bras.

Jason breathed hard. Something made him want to flee. Something else made him unbuckle his belt. “Not yet, Jase,” Shelly said, having reverted from Mata Hari to the bossy girl next door. “First I want you completely clean.” She made him drop his pants, shed his shirt, socks and shoes. “Now get in the bathroom and take a shower. Wash everything. Especially your feet.”

Jason dropped his underwear, stepped into the shower, and did as he had been told. When he finished, he opened the curtain and there was, well, Shelly. She handed him a towel. As he finished drying his private parts, she handed him a pair of silk panties and a training bra to match. “Try these on,” Shelly ordered in a tone that brooked no defiance.

Later that day, and on many occasions afterward, Jason was forced to admit to himself that he was a lot more attractive in the clothes Shelly had chosen for him than in a tee and cargo pants or anything else from his closet at home. She’d solved the hair problem by raiding the attic for a short wig left behind by an aunt who’d died of cancer — which morbid fact she did not share with her protégé.

Shelly also drilled mannish gestures out of Jason. To tell the truth, it wasn’t very hard to teach the boy how to sit in a dress, to walk in low heels, to show off his assets-under-development while preserving his modesty. She taught him how to use just enough lipstick and blusher and to handle a purse. Midday on the third Saturday, Shelly declared Jason ready for a trip to the mall. Jason winced, but as usual succumbed to Shelly’s edict. And why should he not, when a glance in the mirror proclaimed him as pretty as any hottie seventh grader? Jason did not need Shelly’s support to know that when he was dressed as a girl, no one would recognize Boy Geek Jason.

The mall was fun. They’d spent most of the afternoon trying on clothes under the bored gaze of salesgirls who knew that neither Jason nor Shelly carried enough cash to buy anything substantial. At four, it was time to scoot for home, before Shelly’s mom got back from work, but guess who’s car was in fact already in the driveway.

“Just keep your cool,” Shelly commanded, opening the door. “Mom! I’m home! I’ve brought a friend,” she shouted. Obediently, Jason followed. Shelly’s mother appeared, looking a lot like Mary Tyler Moore. “Hello, sweetheart. Introduce me,” said Mom.

“Mom, this is Jayne. I know you’ll like her, ‘cause I do. She’s from near here. She’s in 7th grade and I’ve kind of adopted her. C’mon Jay, let’s run upstairs for a minute” Shelly said in a couple of breaths.

Jason bolted for the stairs before Shelly’s mom could see he was hyperventilating. Jayne?! A bit of a shock, but not so bad a name, perhaps. As we will see, it soon becomes second nature. At first, it’s a bit of a sweat.

“Chill, Jayne. Here’s our plan” said Shelly, always prepared. “You are my protégé. You are a mall rat that I took pity on and have scooped up. Your family is poor and your only hope for couth and coolth is to hang out with us. And, untypically for a 14 year-old drama queen, I like to help out my less fortunate peers. Capisce?”

Where did Shelly pick up Italian? No big deal. As usual, Jason let her direct him through the scenes she set, this time prominently featuring Mom Atkinson.

III.

“Mom? Can Jayne stay to dinner?”

“Does Jayne want to? Is it OK with her parents? Does she like tuna?”

“Of course she wants to. We just want to know if it’s OK with you before we phone.”

“Mrs. Atkinson, I love tuna.”

“Call me Barbara, sweetheart.”

Now for the other part. The kids went into the den, out of Shelly’s Mom’s earshot. Shelly picked up the phone and dialed Jason’s house.

“Mrs. Baldwin, this is Steve uh, Schwartz. I’m the guy Jason’s been doing his history project with. My mom says it’s OK for him to stay to dinner if that’s all right with you. . . .

“Yes, ma’am, we’ve been working all day and it’s almost done. I’m awful glad to be working on this project with a guy as smart as Jason. We can probably finish up in just a couple of hours after dinner. My mom says my dad’ll run him home when we’re done. . . .

“Oh, thank you, that’s great!”

Jason was blown away by Shelly’s mom management. He hugged her. They high-fived and went in to set the table.

At dinner, or more accurately, over the remains of dinner, Shelly popped another question. She hadn’t run it past Jason, in fact it was spontaneous, but she sensed he wouldn’t object. “Mom, do you remember you said I could invite any girl friend I want to go to the beach with us when school lets out?”

Mrs. Atkinson, er, Barbara remembered.

“Well, could we take Jayne?”

Barbara nodded, wondering who Jayne was, really. Where did she come from and was she good company for two weeks? Then, remembering her manners, she nodded more enthusiastically and said “of course! We’ll have a great time, won’t we? But Jayne, I’ll need to talk to your mother first.”

Jason thought about just sinking silently below the table. Shelly kicked him. He abandoned the thought, but he still hadn’t a clue as to how Shelly was going to bring this one off.

Shelly was having too much fun, and she knew it. A bedrock element of decency reminded her that she was messing with Jason’s soul, with unforeseeable consequences, but it didn’t stop her.

IV.

The plot would have been blown if Shelly’s mom had done the driving instead of her stepdad. Shelly’s stepdad, however, didn’t know that where he deposited Jayne was only half a block from Shelly’s old house. Nor did he notice that in the back seat Jayne had changed just enough items of clothing to make a fair imitation of Jason as he went through the front door of the aging bungalow.

“Jason, is that you? It’s late.”

“Yes, mom. We got a lot of work done. What are you watching?”

“Sit down and tell me about your friend’s family. . . . It’s American Idol. . . . Are they Christians?

By “Christian,” Betty Lou Baldwin meant fundamentalists. Jason suspected that the Atkinsons probably didn’t even go to church very much, so he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He lied. Then he excused himself, pointing out that tomorrow was Monday. Betty Lou sighed to see that her little boy seemed, for once, happy about going to school. She made a mental note that he needed a haircut, and kissed him good night.

Back in Ranch Valley, Shelly was filling in Barbara. “She’s such a sweet little thing, mom. Smart and basically pretty, but so out of it. And she’s had an awful life at home.

Barbara lifted an inquiring eyebrow, and Jayne explained. “Her parents are Baptists or Holy Rollers or something. Everything that’s fun is a sin. I want to help her. I’m going to teach her how to be cool. Is it OK that I gave her my old clothes? Could we tell them that I’m inviting Jayne to church camp?”

“That wouldn’t be true.”

“It’s a necessary white lie. If we don’t help Jayne get out of her cage, she’ll be messed up for life. You write a note, mom, please. We’ll both go to Sunday School if we have to.”

Fifteen minutes later, worn down by Shelly’s relentless advocacy, Barbara Atkinson had bagged the idea of a phone call. Instead, she’d agreed to write a note to Jayne’s mother inviting Jayne to join the Atkinson family in Ocean City for two weeks. She managed to mention the Methodist Sunday school twice. Barbara’s scrawl was so bad that it was possible to read ‘Jason’ where she had written ‘Jayne’ and ‘Steve’ where she’d written ‘Shelly.’

Hours after that, beguiled by the thought of a holiday from motherly duties and swayed by Jason’s enthusiasm, Betty Lou Baldwin agreed. Neither of the women realized that the other was a former neighbor. Though Jason and Shelly had been close, Barbara and Betty Lou had never been, and anyway, back then Shelly’s mom had had another last name.

V.

When you’re a kid, you live for the moment. Fast-forward to teenager, you can imagine trouble ahead, but still you don’t necessarily take out an insurance policy. For all practical purposes, Shelly and Jason were winging it. School was at last finished for the year. The summer stretched before them.

Either Betty Lou Baldwin or Art Atkinson might have noticed that Jayne looked oddly boyish and Shelly oddly girlish when Art and Shelly picked up Jason that morning, but neither did. By the time they’d gotten to the the Atkinsons to load up the SUV, Jayne and Shelly were both giving a good and giggly imitation of nymphets, so much so that it crossed Art’s mind that perhaps he ought to keep a close eye on both.

At the beach, the sky was blue, the sun was hot, the surf and sand crowded with kids having fun. Shelly was a boy magnet. Having ditched the wig in favor of a boy cut that showed Jayne’s curls to advantage, wearing a subteen bathing suit that created a suggestion of non-existant curves, Jason attracted attention too. It was enough to provide Shelly plenty of instructional material when, at the height of the day, they retreated to a secret shady spot under the boardwalk. Shelly coached Jason in the art of flirting, devastatingly deconstructing the moves of the boys who made passes at her or Jayne, gently suggesting how Jayne might have hooked and reeled in the more attractive ones.

Jason objected. He didn’t want to hook any boys. Shelly explained that flirting was flirting, whether Jason was Jason or Jayne. If he could understand it from a girl’s perspective, Shelly argued, he could as Jason charm the flipflops off any 13 year-old girl on the beach — once he started to grow a little, that was. Jason understood.

By Wednesday, Jayne had hooked some guys. Not much compared to the swarm around Shelly, but both Don and Matt asked Jayne if she’d like to go out, Wednesday night, Shelly and Jayne went to the boardwalk with Fred and Don. Thursday night, they rode the rides with Greg and Matt. On Friday, Shelly wanted to date Fred again but Jayne preferred Matt, who was nicer than Don. The inner Jason sensed that Matt was safer, and for once Jason didn’t let Shelly roll over him. Shelly said ‘what the hell’ and double-dated with Greg again. They went to a karaoke place, took possession of a booth in back, and sang along with the romantic songs. Jayne was wearing an off the shoulder dress with a dropped waist and short skirt. Shelly’d accessorized her with strappy one inch heels and a temporary rose tattoo on her upper arm. Jayne would have felt foxy even if Don wasn’t nuzzling her neck. Jayne glanced behind her and saw Shelly was wrapped around Greg. What the heck, thought Jayne; might as well try it out. He’ll never know.

Matt! Quit singing. Kiss me! thought Jayne. She almost said exactly that, but it seemed simpler to grab his face and insert her tongue. Or was it Jason’s tongue?

At this point, as Matt vigorously kissed him back, Jason began coming to a conclusion that successfully being Jayne was about the best thing that’d ever happened to him. There was a small problem, though. His little wee-wee was stiff.

VI

“Jase! Wake up!”

A cool breeze off the sea made sleeping very pleasant, and Jason wanted to keep it that way. Shelly, however, wanted to talk. Needed to talk.

“What?” said Jason, rolling over away from Shelly so she’d know now was too early for civilized conversation. “What? What!” she answered. “What the hell were you up to last night making out with that guy Matt?

Jason sat up, a dreamy smile covering most of his face and his brain as well. “Yeah, wasn’t he cute? I had such a good time! C’mere, Shelly . . . .” Jason reached over and gave his friend a hug. “Thanks.”

“Thanks for what?” Shelly was on guard. Girl friends hugged all the time, and Jason in pink baby doll p.j.’s certainly looked the part. Last night he’d acted the part — and that was the problem. Jason was getting further into the Jayne role than Shelly had expected.

“Thanks for making all this possible. I can’t remember when I’ve been so happy.” There wasn’t a hint of irony; Jason was genuinely, completely thankful, and completely comfortable, this very early Saturday morning in late June, to be for the nonce not Jason but Jayne, an almost thirteen year-old babe.

“This isn’t going to last forever, right?” Cranking in the new data (Jason was happy being Jayne), Shelly was working out contingency plans in her head. So far she’d gotten up to Plan F, and every one of them from A thru F now ended crash and burn.

“Just a minute. I gotta pee.” Jason didn’t quite shut the bathroom door. Shelly listened. It was the sound of someone peeing sitting down. Aw, jeez, Jason!

Jason returned to the bed they shared. He started to say something. So did Shelly. Both stopped. “OK, Jase. You first,” she said.

“Do you think your Mom would adopt me?” he asked.

A remarkable idea, Shelly thought. “No,” she said. “Why?”

Put on the spot, Jason hesitated. He licked his lips and twisted a lock of hair and looked for a long second at the ceiling. And then the thoughts rushed out.

“It’s like this. I’ll bet my parents could care less. I’m a total disappointment. I think sometimes my dad likes our dog better than me. Anyway, he’s always gone; he drives a long-haul truck. As for my mom, she couldn’t wait for me to go here with you so she and our preacher could get it on.

“My school sucks. If I lived with you, I could go to your school. Your mom is nice. So’s your dad. That’s all.”

To her credit, Shelly took a full 90 seconds to process this new data. She checked out Plans G through J. The result was still crash and burn.

“Meaning,” she said carefully, “we should tell my mom and dad that you’re really Jason and we want you to move in with us?”

It was Jason’s turn to think some more, about half a minute. He thought about the apes at school that worked out their pathological urges on him every morning before homeroom. He thought about the time he’d walked in on mom screwing the preacher and they’d explained it away as an intensive prayer session. He thought about his dad quoting the Bible about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. That was the bad part. Then Jason thought about how happy he’d been helping Barbara cook dinner. How much he’d liked hanging out on the beach and the boardwalk with Shelly. How grown-up he’d felt when Mr. Atkinson — Arthur — had poured him a tomato juice as the sun went down and talked with him about space travel and global warming. And told him that he wished that more of Shelly’s girl friends were as aware and articulate.

“Your dad says I’m aware and articulate. Your mom says I’m feminine without being silly and she’s happy I’m your friend.

Jason took a deep breath. “Do you think they’d let me live with you and still be Jayne?”

“Oh, jeez, girl!” Plans K through at least R spun through Shelly’s head; none worked. “Here’s a Flash. The Jayne bit is just make-believe. It’s to help you get out of your hole and high enough up to see that life can be fun. Not to turn you into a permanent girl!”

“Could we talk to your mom anyway?”

VII

The first thing was to find a good time to talk.

That ruled out Saturday and Sunday and Monday morning because Art was going to make the best of a long weekend before going back up to the city. So instead Shelly and Jayne went out with Art and Barbara to feast on crab and corn on Saturday night, and waterskiing on Sunday, and then that night to a movie with Matt and another friend of Matt’s that Shelly liked substantially more than Greg, so she wasn’t bored when Matt and Jayne played tonsil hockey.

Monday afternoon, Barbara sent Jayne and Shelly to get their shaggy locks cut and styled. Shelly got a boy cut like Jayne’s. Jayne got a shaggy boy cut that looked more like a girl’s.

Monday night, Jayne dried the dishes while Barbara washed up. Shelly had found a reason to be absent. “Barbara, can I ask you a question?”

Barbara picked up on Jayne’s anxiety. “Sure. C’mere.” Barbara pointed at a seat at the kitchen table. She took one herself. “What’s up?”

“If you found out that I’m not who I seem to be, would you be really mad?”

Long pregnant pause. Nothing Barbara has read or been taught had directly addressed this question. At last she said “What is it? I’ll do my best.”

“I’m a boy.” Barbara inhaled. She tried not to seem too astonished. “Not much of a boy. I wish I really was a girl.” Barbara registered silently that there was nothing about Jayne that communicated “boy.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Barbara.

VIII

Six rings. At last he picked up. “Art? We have a problem. . . . Jayne doesn’t want to go home. Turns out her home life sucks. Odor of child abuse here. . . . Oh, and Jayne’s really a boy, though she’d rather not be one. . . .

“Yes, I know. . . . No, I don’t think so. . . . What do you expect? Nervous.

“Yes, Shelly’s OK, at least I think so.

“All right, sweetheart. . . . You too. Bye.”

Jayne hung up. The phone rang again.

“I understand, Art. Much as I’d rather not. G’bye!” She slammed down the receiver.

“Jayne?”

Jason braced himself. He regarded Barbara gravely.

“What’s your real name?”

“It’s Jase . . . Jason Baldwin.”

“Like little Jason on Amherst Street?

“Yes, ma’am. Shelly was my best friend. This isn’t her fault. She’s nice, and I’m a mess.”

Quietly, “How’s your mom?”

It wasn’t a question Jason expected, but something urged him to tell the truth. “She’s all messed up too. She’s in love — I guess — with the preacher from our church.”

It was more truth than Barbara expected, but helpful in a way. Helpful to know that a straight line isn’t necessarily the shortest way between two points, or two parents.

It was necessary to lower Jason’s expectations. “Jase? May I call you Jase?” The child sitting forlornly at the kitchen table looked perfectly like a Jayne. Slowly, he nodded.

“Jase, honey, I’m not comfortable with where you’re at. Have you ever had counseling? Talked to a psychiatrist or social worker? Told any other adult how you feel?”

Jason thought about his life up until now. School sucked. His dad was ashamed of him and that embarrassed his mom. Until six weeks ago, the best part of Jason’s whole life had been playing house with Shelly. Now the best part was hanging out with Shelly as Shelly’s friend Jayne.

Where was this conversation heading? “No,” Jason said. “No counseling. None of that. And I’m Jayne,” he added defiantly.

IX

Art came back to Ocean Shores the next day, even though it was only midweek. He was waiting when Shel and Jason got back from the beach. Jason could see by his expression that the news was not good.

“Shelly, why don’t you and Jase get cleaned up, and then come back to talk?” he said. They did. Trying not to rattle Art any more, Jason wore cutoff jeans and a tee, no makeup or jewelry, as androgynous a look as he could improvise under the circumstances.

“Um, er, Jason — do you mind if I call you Jason? — it’s easier for me” said Art.

“I’d rather you still called me Jayne” said Jason, refusing permission.

“Can’t do that,” he said. “Look, do you know . . . you do know, don’t you? . . . that this is an impossible position for Barbara and me? You’re way too young. No one will ever believe we didn’t encourage you.”

“You didn’t,” Jason replied truthfully. “Shelly did. And I liked it.”

“Shelly made a mistake. A big mistake. She didn’t consider the consequences for Barbara and me if it got out that we tolerated — no, they’d say abetted — sexual deviance.”

Shelly was in agony. “Daddy, I told Jason it was just a joke. I told him he had to stop!”

Jason on the other hand was merely decomposing as he contemplated the ruin of the sand castle he’d built in his imagination. The boy felt his eyes fill with tears and then overflow. “It wasn’t Shelly’s fault. She didn’t know how much I’d like it . . . not being a boy, I mean.”

“I’m sorry, Jason. Barbara and I are both public figures. Our careers would be on the line. We can’t chance it.” It was the speech Art had been rehearsing as he drove down the parkway to the shore. Jason could tell he believed it. Maybe it was true.

Right there, twelve year-old Jason Baldwin realized that Art and Barbara were deathly afraid. He owned them, if he wanted to. Meanwhile, Art was running on. “I’ll take you back to the city tomorrow night. We’ll pretend this never happened, OK? You’ll be all right. You’ll see. Maybe you can still be friends with Shelly, but you have to be a guy, OK?”

Jason’s eyes were dry now. You piece of shit, he thought. Aloud he said “Whatever you say, Mr. Atkinson.”

“I think maybe I hate you, Daddy,” said Shelly. “For now, at least.”

X.

The phone rang. Sunk in his private gloom, Jason tried to ignore it. It wouldn’t quit. He threw off the covers and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“It’s me, Jase. We got back night before last. Guess what? That guy Matt asked me for Jayne’s phone number.”

“Yeah?”

“I told him to give me his number, and you could call him instead.”

“Shelly, are you trying to mess me up for life?”

“You like him; you know that. He likes Jayne. You like being Jayne. I’m being a friend.”

Jason paused, as though Shelly’s logic needed time to sink in. Was it going to start again? Better it didn’t. “Look, Shelly, maybe I’ll call you, OK. Not right now.”

XI.

The ride back from the shore had been horrible. Shelly’s father ignored Jason. The batteries on Jason’s CD player died after twenty minutes. After that, there was nothing to do but watch the scrawny pine trees whip past. As the scrub pine gave way to subdivisions, Art Atkinson spoke.

“Jason, you should get psychiatric help. Maybe you imagine what you were doing is just play, but what you were doing is wrong. It’s dishonest and it ought to be illegal. You should be ashamed. Frankly, you disgust me. I don’t want to see you near Shelly unless you can act like a young man, do you understand? I don’t want you corrupting my daughter.”

It was a relief when Shelly’s father dumped Jason and his suitcases in front of his house.

The car was gone, meaning Mom was at work. Jason retrieved the back door key from a can under the steps, let himself in, went up to his room and opened a window to let out two weeks’ of dead air. Then he replaced all the clothes from his boy suitcase in the drawers from which they had come, save a tee shirt and a pair of briefs. He took the suitcase Shelly had given him to the kitchen and dropped most of the contents into the washing machine. Jason studied the dial and pressed Light Wash. He took off the sphagetti strap tee, the shorts and panties and dropped them in the washer too. Then Jason put on the boy’s briefs and tee shirt and a pair of cargo pants. He sat on the back steps waiting until the washing machine stopped spinning.

A shrink or social worker, seeing Jason at that point, would have said “Wow, that is one seriously depressed kid with pink fingernail polish and blue toenails.” After he moved Shelly’s old, but now freshly washed clothes to the dryer, Jason remembered to take off the nail polish. Then he took the ironing board down off its hook and began ironing. I feel like a zombie, he thought, and that’s appropriate because now I am a zombie. I had a life and now I’m dead”

The boy took the clean underwear and socks and folded them. He folded the ironed shirts and shorts and two dresses, and put them all back into Shelly’s suitcase, on top of the sandals and shoes and the little purse and the costume jewelry. Then he closed up the suitcase and gave it a decent burial upstairs in the back of the hall closet, underneath some boxes of Christmas decorations.

When Betty Lou Baldwin came home — late, because she’d stopped in at the church — she noticed the shades were drawn in Jason’s room. Unlocking the front door, she heard the radio playing. “Jase, is that you? What are you doing home already?” she called as she climbed the stairs. No answer. Seized by a sudden rush of panic, Jason’s mother threw open the door to find her son lying stolidly on his bed, his eyes wide open but fixed on apparently nothing. Unbidden from Betty Lou’s mouth came something midway between a gasp and a sob.

Jason turned his head, focused on the silhouette in the doorway, and said “I came back early, Mom. It was a bad trip.”

XII.

The next day Jason ate breakfast, assured his mother that he’d be OK, and went right back to bed as soon as she left.

The day after that, he didn’t bother to pretend. When she called him to get up, he just turned up the volume. She pulled the plug. Jason glared at her.

“Baby, please. Can we talk?”

“Just let me alone for a while, OK, Mom?”

Many moms at this point would have made a doctor’s appointment. Jason’s mom had small faith in doctors, and a lot of faith in Reverend Prentiss. She excused herself from work a little early and stopped by the church office. As always, the preacher was very happy to see Jason’s mom. His enthusiasm flagged, however, when he realized that Frances wasn’t in the mood this day for nookie.

“OK, sweetheart, what is it? Confession’s good for the soul.”

Betty Lou reached into her purse. She extracted a tissue and applied it to her moist eyes. Then she extracted a pair of silvery silk panties. “Frank, I’m so worried about Jason. I found these in the bottom of the washing machine.”

The story poured out as Frances had lived it. Jason’s curls, now scraping his shoulders. His unexpectedly early return from the beach. The tan lines on his shoulders. His withdrawn, gloomy brooding. The panties.

Frank Prentiss could add. He gave extra weight to the curls and the panties. “It adds up to something sick, I fear, something sinful. I sense an Abomination, dear. Maybe we’d better pray.”

She sank to her knees and he followed her, thinking she’d rarely looked so appealing. Being a principled sort of adulterer, Frank merely uttered a prayer, something like this but much longer:

O Lord, who sees all and justly condemns them that stray from Your righteous path, we ask You to show Your mercy on Jason Baldwin, who is but young and perhaps confused. Deliver him, O Lord, from Abominations of all sorts and cause him to be the sort of son that your servant Betty Lou deserves, A-men.

Betty Lou felt better immediately. Frank knew, however, that His work was not done. “Here’s what you gotta’ do, Bett. First, get Jason to a barber before Bud comes back. And then all of you come to church this Sunday, you hear?”

XIII

It took another two days, the imminence of his father’s return from humping a wiggler to Portland and back, and a combination of wheedling and threatening before Jason’s mom convinced him to let the barber cut back nearly three months’ growth of red-blonde curls.

As usual, Bud Baldwin was in a vile mood after fighting heavy traffic for 14 hours, and with only a couple or three beers in him he decided Jason needed a whumping. Though there were lots of things about life that made Jason cry or want to, this was not one of them. He was not going to give his father the pleasure of seeing tears. Probably he got an extra whump or two for being stubborn.

The next morning they all dressed up and went to church. Preacher Prentiss gave everyone a warm hello, led the congregation through a number of prayers and psalms, and then launched into his sermon. In language both lurid and vague, the Reverend P warned about a large number of things distasteful to the Lord to which confused Youth are specially prone. He mentioned gays/homos, lesbians, transgenders and baby-killers. That the preacher did not put his finger specifically on Jason, Jason took to be an act of kindness when it was in fact more a failure of the preacher’s imagination. Jason had no doubt that the preacher was addressing himself directly to Jason’s own sins, no more than he doubted the truth of the Hell that awaited those who did not repent of their Abominations.

It was hot in the small church, but Jason felt a distinct chill as Preacher Prentiss swung from sermon to prayer. In well-practiced cadences, Prentiss invited the sinners to step forward. Repent and you will be forgiven; continue your Abominations and you will go to Hell, no middle ground, the message was clear. Jason bit his lip, fighting back nausea and fear of Hell.

The service ended with a ragged hymn. The church emptied slowly of its congregation. Most paused at the door for a word with the Preacher. Jason’s father paused longer than most, gripping the other man’s hands and whispering intently — angrily, it looked to Jason. They climbed into the car, Bud Baldwin last, slamming the door. “Bett, that’s the last time I’m coming to services here. We can find another church.”

Jason’s mother sucked in, waiting for the rest of it. It was best to let Bud rant when he was mad.

“Prentiss is a fucking hypocrite. He can rot in Hell with his whores.”

Pause. “What do you mean, Bud?”

“There’s a roadhouse on Route 22 that my good buddy Denny goes to sometimes. He’s seen Prentiss there. Seems he’s a regular.”

“Bud, most men drink. Lots of men go to bars. You know you do.”

“Prentiss is cozy with all the girls there. ‘Cept they aren’t girls, Bett. It’s a gay bar. It’s full of transgenders.”

“Oh my God, Bud! Is that true?!

“Fucking straight it is.”

XIV

Transgender! That was the word he needed to know. As he mowed Mrs. Holloway’s lawn, Jason pieced together what he’d learned at church, from his dad’s rant, and from Art and Barbara Atkinson. He collected two bucks from Mrs Hennessy. Still deep in thought, Jason started in on the Baldwins’ own lawn. Transgenders were people who belonged to one sex but acted like the other. Were they just pretending, or was it a real feeling? Were there lots of them? Were they all going to Hell?

Jason was putting away the lawn mower when his dad came out with a mug of black coffee. Bud Baldwin sat on the back steps, squinted at the sun and said “Looks like a hot one today.” Jason recognized this as an invitation to talk, so he sat on the steps too. “Yeah, real hot. You taking the truck out again soon?”

“Yeah, I have a load of air conditioners to Houston for starters. Leaving tonight after dinner; that’s why I slept late.

“Look, Jase, I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have thumped you. I was upset because your mom told me she’d found a pair of girls’ panties in the bottom of the washing machine.”

Jason swallowed hard, waiting.

“You’re way too young to be messing around with girls. Don’t be in a hurry. Don’t get caught having to get married the way I did, or you’ll be hammering an eighteen-wheeler sixty hours a week too. I want your life to be different. Special. We’re saving up so you can go to college.”

Was it still OK to hug your dad when you are 12? Jason wasn’t sure, so he leaned closer and kind of hugged his dad’s leg. His dad gave him a pat on the back. “You’ll be OK, kid. Anything you want to tell me?”

Jason thought about his Mom shagging the preacher, and then he thought about double-dating at the beach with Shelly, but he heard himself answering “No, Dad. Except . . . I love you.”

“Thanks, kid. Me too. Let’s go make some lunch and watch a game together.”

XV

The next day, Jason got up before his Mom left for work. “I’m glad you’re up, Jase. I worry when you just lie in bed all day with those earphones on.”

“Mom, I’m bored. I’m going to the library today to see if I can find any books I want to read.”

“Wow, that bored, huh?” Mom herself was not much of a reader.

Jason put Mrs Holloway’s two dollars in his shorts pocket and rode his bike to the library. The public use computers were in the back. He clicked open a search engine, looked around to see if anyone was watching, typed in transgender, and pressed the Enter key. The old machine blinked a couple of times and then a screen appeared:

By direction of the Putnam County Library Board, this computer is equipped with software that screens out obscene, violent or overtly sexual material. This is to protect the community’s youth from indecency. If you are over 18 and wish to have the software temporarily disabled, please fill out a form explaining why and give it to the research librarian.

Books and articles dealing with ___transgender___ are in the locked stacks. If you are over 18, wish access to them and have a legitimate research purpose, please fill out a form and speak to the research librarian.

Jason had no doubt that his research purpose was legitimate; he also was sure that the only thing that would result from his talking to the librarian would be a phone call to his mother. He shut down the computer, nodded to old Mrs Hasking, unlocked his bike and pointed it toward the Comic Shop.

Usually, Jason would have stopped to check out the new issues. This time he headed for the game room in back. There were already half a dozen kids there. Two little ones were playing some sort of Pikachu game. The others were whacking away at each other in a multi-user sword fight. A kid with a stud in his nostril and a ring in his eyebrow was sitting at the control desk. Jason paused, unsure. “Seventy-five cents an hour, or three hours for two bucks,” said the Goth, answering Jason’s unspoken question. “I guess I want three hours, and, uh, a computer with a good search engine,” Jason said.

“Use number three; it’s a little faster than the rest, and more private.” The Goth kid took his money and gave him a wink.

Jason sat, clicked open the search engine, and again typed transgender. This time he was rewarded by a screenful of possibilities. A bewildering screenful of possibilities. He clicked on one and a popup of a broad-shouldered naked lady filled the upper corner of the screen. Jason hurried to kill the pop-up window; it died and then resurrected as a black lady fondling her penis. Killed again, the window was reborn as a lady shot from behind with her skirt lifted up to expose her ass and an improbably large dong. In desperation, Jason shut down the search engine. When the screen was blank, he cautiously started it up again. Remembering what he’d learned in IT class, this time he typed in transgender not sex.

Up came another screenful of offerings. They were more sedate but still confusing. Most wanted him to buy something. Time was passing, and Jason wasn’t getting answers. “Aw, shit,” he sighed as the screen came alive again with an advertisement for She-Male Fun! This one at least died quietly.

“Uh, hey,” said the Goth. “Don’t I know you from school?” Startled, Jase tried to think but didn’t connect. “Yeah,” said the Goth, “you’re that 7th Grade kid that was always getting beat up every morning by a gang of dorks. Hi. I’m Eric, sometimes called ‘RedRaven.’” He stuck out a hand, so Jason shook it. “Try typing in FAQ and whatever you’re looking for. FAQ means frequently asked question.”

“Thanks. My name’s Jason, often called ‘fay-rie.’ I’m trying to figure out why.”

“OK, let me know if you need more help.”

Two hours later, Jason had practically memorized a FAQ posted by a woman named Laura and another posted by a college lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender association. He’d declined invitations to register for admission to a private chat room and a special store for discriminating shoppers. He’d found a Dr. Anne somebody’s site and then a site run by Andrea somebody when he realized he was out of time.

He wheeled the chair around to face Eric RedRaven. “I’m out of time, huh?”

“Yeah. Want to stay for lunch with me and my father? I think you’d find it interesting.”

Jason started to say no, asked himself what he had to lose, registered the grin on Eric’s studded face and said yes. “Thank you,” he added.

Eric led Jason to the kitchen in the back of the shop. It was hot. A man with a ponytail was standing at the stove cooking with his back to the boys. “Dad, this is Jason. He’s got some problems you can help with. Jason, this is my dad, Earl, sometimes called ‘Darla.’

Turning, Earl acknowledged Jason’s presence with a smile. “I’ll be Darla Dahllin tonight. Right now I’m just Earl Lindahl. Not quite what you expected?”

XVI

In the first place, Earl was wearing ballet slippers. His legs were hairless. Under his apron, Earl was wearing a bra and silk panties. He had the beginning of a bald spot.

“Eric, if you’ll sweep away those manicure things and set the table, I’ve got some good soup here. Cheese sandwiches, too. You like grilled cheese sandwiches, Jason?”

Jason was gawking. He couldn’t much help it. About the cheese sandwiches, he nodded.

“Well, I wish I had as much impact on my regular audiences. I guess your tastes aren’t so jaded, right, Jason?”

Jason launched an utterly confused look at Eric, who laughed, but kindly, and started to fill in the blanks. “Twice a week, my dad does a show at a roadhouse on Route 22. Darla sings and dances. That’s how she’s saving up for her sex change operation. I told Dad he could use my college fund but he refused.”

“You mean . . . you’re a transgender,” stammered Jason.

“Absolutely, young man. In the flesh and in the fantasy!”

Eric cut in. “Dad, look, get serious, please. I invited Jason to stay for lunch because I saw he was surfing through the TG sites. He doesn’t know much yet. More than he did, though. I think you can help him sort stuff out.”

Earl and I exchanged slightly embarrassed looks. Then he said “Sorry, Jason. One of the things TG people do is joke around. It covers up a lot of pain.

“Let me guess, you think maybe you’re more girl than boy, in spite of the anatomy? And you wonder why?”

Jason nodded.

“Let’s eat and talk,” said Earl, exchanging his apron for a light silk robe. You and I can talk most of the afternoon, if you’re free. Are you?”

XVII

When Jason unlocked the door and let himself in at half past four, it struck him that this house, and everything else in the world as he had known it, was irreversably changed. It was as though all kinds of things that hadn’t made sense at all had started to fit together. He and Earl — well, mostly Earl -- had talked for the better part of three hours. Earl offered a cleaned up version of his and Darla’s life story. How he’d acted out, and been thrown out, on the streets at fifteen. How Eric’s grandmother had taken him in, and straightened him out, she thought, and how happy she’d been when Earl married her wayward daughter. How after Eric was born, both he and Jennifer had drifted back to their old habits — she dropping acid and he doing drag. How Eric’s grandmother had been smart enough to leave her estate to Eric, not to him or Jennifer. Jennifer’s death by overdose, and was it on purpose? Darla not to be denied. Earl’s resolve to be both a good father but true to herself. (At that point, Eric had drifted back to the kitchen, listened for a moment, and cut in to say “and he is a good father. The best.”) Deciding, at 31 and with Eric’s blessing, to start in on hormones. Hoping to go all the way in a few months.

Earl hadn’t asked for anything in reply, but Jason volunteered his and Jayne’s history, such as it was. When Jason finished, Earl said “I’m not ready to come to conclusions. But it seems to me that you should read everything on AntiJen’s site. It’s www.antijen.org. I know Jennifer Lynn, and you can trust her. Tell me what you think afterward.”

Jason murmured that he was out of money.

“Tell Eric it’s on the house. And tell him I said to give you back your two bucks from this morning.”

XVIII

The next day, Jason pulled Shelly’s suitcase out from under the Christmas stuff. He opened it, took everything out, and set it around him in neat piles. The shoes and sandals. The camis and tees. The shorts and skirts and the skort. The two dresses. The bathing suits and the two training bras. The little pocketbook with lip gloss and blusher. The wig that had belonged to Shelly’s aunt. The baby doll p.j.’s and the peasant shirt. The bracelets.

I wish, he thought. I do truly wish.

Then Jason packed everything back up, everything but a pair of panties and a tee that could just barely work for a boy, and wearing them he went back to the Comic Shop and as Earl had recommended, read everything on the AntiJen Pages. She was way cool, and the stuff she posted spoke straight to Jason’s confusion.

He wasn’t sick, he learned. It was unusual but not abnormal to wish nothing more desperately than to be the other sex. There were girls who longed to be boys, too. There were teens who had shed their birth gender and lived in the gender they wished. Some of them had surgery to make their anatomy coincide with their feelings. But until age 18, a person is still a minor, and doctors generally refuse to perform sexual reassignment surgery on minors. That used to mean that by the time a boy or girl could have “the operation,” they already had developed a lot of secondary sex characteristics of their birth sex. But — and here Jason almost forgot to breath — now it is possible to delay puberty. There are hormones that don’t do anything irreversable; they just stop beards and chest hair from sprouting, the voice from deepening, muscles from thickening, the penis and testicles from enlarging. Stop the hormones and everything starts up according to the usual genetic program.

There were other blocking hormones for girls, Jason read, hormones that stopped breasts from sprouting, hips from widening, periods from happening. He went back and read about the hormones for transgender boys again. This time Jason also read the page about how doctors and parents were coming around to allowing fifteen or sixteen, even fourteen year-old kids who were unambigously transgender to start taking the hormones that caused their bodies to take on the characteristics of their brain sex.

Wow! What this means is that as long as I don’t mind being a little kid for a few more years, I can grow up to be a real girl! Well, almost real. I won’t be able to have babies. Babies can be adopted, though. I could marry Matt!

There was more stuff on AntiJen’s site about how to talk to grownups about feeling transgender. Sometimes parents could be persuaded. Often they’d known already that there was a problem but didn’t know there was a solution. Adults like school guidance counselors and some social workers were required by law in many states to help you get good help from psychiatric specialists.

XIX

When Jason got home, he tried to watch TV but his mind wasn’t on it. Not the World’s Cup match and not Oprah, either. There was too much new data to integrate; 8th grade was now barely a month away. Jason found his way back to the suitcase. He put on the training bra and a cami. He put on the wig. He painted his lips and accessorized with bracelets and a necklace. He wondered if he should do his nails but instead lay back on his bed. Jason’s hand found its way within his panties. He dreamed a waking dream. Jason was wearing a bouffant gown, like Scarlett O’Hara. It was strapless and trimmed by a broad scarlet ribbon woven through the tiers of tulle. Ringlets waved about Jason’s neck and shoulders, his dainty feet were shod in red satin pumps, his breasts were heaving with excitement. Jason’s date had arrived to take him away to the prom. Jason couldn’t make out his escort’s features but he could see his dad and mom clearly. They were happy for their son, or maybe for their daughter. A wave of joy rose inexorably from his groin, surged high and broke over Jason: his first orgasm.