Then I caught myself. What if she only meant "tea girl"? A girl who serves tea?

The floor dropped out from under me. What Maisie said took me so completely by surprise that I couldn't speak. I could barely think.

Honestly, I tended to forget that I wasn't always Marcie and that physically I'm not 100% girl. Of course, there were always problem situations, like with gym class and with boys, but nothing that had ever cut me like this. If someone was mean to me, or just didn't like me — the seniors, for instance — it wasn't because I had some boy-remnants.

Maisie assured me, with lots of energy and venom, that she would make her father pay. And she told me that Chrissie had fought with him for me for the past three days. That was something; I appreciated it. But in the end, I couldn't go. Even if I paid my own way.

Truthfully, I had been looking forward to the private jet. Maisie had painted a vivid picture of the two of us and Chrissie zooming across the country. She had described the jet in so much detail that I almost felt that I'd already flown in it.

Now, it would never happen.

I wondered whether my whole life would be this way, even after I got the operation. I mean, after all, I couldn't change my past. Anybody paranoid enough to do a background check would find out that I used to be called Mark.

I wondered whether I'd be better off getting it over with by just telling everyone.

If everyone knew I was a t-girl, I could quit taking gym with the seniors. If everybody knew, I wouldn't have to worry about being exposed or found out, because I'd already *be* out.

Even that stupid hypocrisy about the bully: he could beat up a boy without a problem, but when he hit me he was horrified because I'm a girl. How would he feel if he knew I was a t-girl?

And there I stopped. Because I knew that my life wouldn't be easier if everybody knew. It would be harder. Maisie's father wouldn't have bothered to do a background check. He would have said NO from the very start.

And everyone else — the bully, the seniors — it would all be worse.

I felt so angry and frustrated... and humiliated — but the worst thing was, I had no one to talk to about it. I knew my therapist would tell me encouraging things, but — I sighed. It would be nice to talk with someone who knew *exactly* what I was going through, because they were going through it, too.

... like the girl who wrote that diary, for instance. I wasn't so sure that it was Mara any more. I'd looked at her as closely as I could without getting her angry, and I did't see a single atom of boy in her at all.

I didn't really want to talk to Maisie about it. She was sympathetic to me, and angry with her father, but that only went so far... and talking with her mainly reminded me of her father's insult.

And Mom... I didn't want to tell Mom. I know my mother cares and and I know she loves me, but she's so unpredictable. She could just as easily make things worse as make things better.

Susan, of course, had no idea that I was in transition, so I'd be opening up the whole can of worms if I talked to her. And I was in no mood for matter-of-fact judgments and opinions. Susan is my friend, one of my best friends, but so far I'd never told her my secret. I didn't have a real reason not to... but somehow I never got around to telling her.

I thought, with a slightly bitter laugh, that if Susan was as remarkable a detective as everyone thought, it was surprising that she hadn't figured it out on her own already.
 

The next evening I went to work. Mr. Fisby wasn't there, so it seemed the perfect opportunity to find out how Jordan felt after her father's explosion.

But Jordan cut me off. "We can't talk about that here and now," she said. "My father will be back any minute. He will flip right out if he hears us talk about that."

So, I closed my mouth, put on my apron, and got to work. It turned out that Jordan's father didn't come back for several hours. In fact, if Jordan and I were quick, we could have talked a little when I first came in, but then it got so busy that the subject flew out of both our minds.

Eventually the rush slowed and the tea shop gradually emptied out. Jordan and I bustled around, clearing tables, collecting money, washing cups and teapots, and suddenly the tables were empty!

All except one.

There sat Lee Sheppard, the woman with the Ponzi scheme.

"Well, well, well!" she said in a voice that filled the little shop. "If it isn't my favorite investment advisor and t-girl!"

I blushed hard. I felt embarrassed, angry, and exposed. I was also quite indignant. How on earth does she know? I asked myself. Then it occurred to me: She must have done a background check on me, just like Maisie's stupid father did.

Then I caught myself. What if she only meant "tea girl"? A girl who serves tea?

Lee sat there, smiling, watching my face. Then her gaze moved to Jordan.

I turned to look at Jordan, too, but she wasn't looking at me. I've always said that Jordan's face was unreadable, but for once, it was easy to read. She was angry, indignant... even outraged... and nearly on the point of tears.

That's when it hit me: Lee didn't mean that *I* was the investment advisor and t-girl... she meant that I was the advisor and Jordan was the t-girl!

Jordan was the other girl at BYHS in transition! She was the one who wrote that diary!

And now I knew how Lee Sheppard was getting to Jordan. She was calling her a t-girl, pretending she meant "tea girl." She probably did it every time she came in. And poor Jordan had to be polite and take it. She couldn't say a thing.

Until now. Now, Lee had called her out in front of me.

And that made ME see red. She had no right. She had no right at all.

All this time, while my brain was churning, processing this and realizing that, Lee Sheppard was watching my face and reading a story there as well.

"Oh, my goodness!" she said. "I never thought! Do we have two t-girls in this little tea shop? What are the chances?"

Jordan's jaw started working, as if she was trying to find something to say but couldn't.

Lee smiled and looked first at me, then at Jordan, going back and forth, enjoying the sight of our discomfort. I'm sure that all she saw was a pair of harmless teenage girls, girls in transition. I'm sure that the bully in her thought that we'd never dare stand up for ourselves, that we'd be too embarrassed and afraid. And the three of us were alone: there was no Mr. Fisby to witness her nastiness, so she settled in and got ready to poke us, to see how far she could push us, and maybe make us cry or run away.

Maybe yesterday, it might have worked. Maybe if she'd tried this rotten trick a few days ago, I would have been taken by surprise; I would have been embarrassed. Any day but today I probably would have been tongue-tied, humiliated, and left kicking myself or crying afterward.

But not today. I already felt humiliated, angry, and hurt, and I was not about to take any more. Not from anyone, and especially not from someone who made a habit of bullying a girl in transition. There was an angry energy bottled up inside me. It was like I had a hornets' nest in a jar inside me, shaken up, buzzing mad, and ready to go. If Lee pushed me, even a little — or if she said the wrong thing to Jordan — I was going take that jar, give it a good shake and open it up... on her.

Lee's smile broadened, and she said, "So what about it, Marcie? Are you a t-girl? Or a real girl? Which are you, hmm?"

I stood up tall and said in a strong, clear voice, "I'm a real t-girl."

She was clearly taken aback by my manner and delivery, so she said, "What's *that* supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?" I shot back. "It means that you can't push me around!"

Her face blanched for a moment, but only for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know who — or what — you think you are, little thing, but you don't cross me," she said in a tight voice.

"Right back at you," I growled. I had had enough. Enough of the seniors in gym class, enough of Maisie's father, enough of my mother, and more than enough of this scam artist in front of me.

"We'll see who has the last word here," she said, and she stood up. She went to the door, opened it, and paused in the opening. "You two 'girls' have fun playing dress up," she said, and shut the door behind her.

"GO TO HELL!" Jordan shouted as the door shut.

Then she burst into tears.
 

Of course, Mr. Fisby arrived at just that moment. He entered through the back, so he hadn't seen Ms. Sheppard.

"Honey, are you alright?" he asked, his face full of concern. He glanced at me, then moved quickly to the door. He locked it and turned the OPEN sign over to CLOSED.

"Let's go in the back and talk," he said. "Are you alright, Jordan? Marcie, what happened?"

Jordan began blurting out the story in between sobs. I filled in some of the gaps and translated when Jordan cried too hard to be intelligible. Mr. Fisby was stunned.

"Jordan, I had no idea," he said. "You should have told me she was saying those awful things to you."

"I didn't think you'd listen," she said. "You think that woman walks on water."

He spluttered for a moment, then asked, "And she did this every time she came here?"

"She never missed a chance," Jordan answered, sniffing. She was beginning to calm down.

Jordan's father made helpless motions with his hands. "I wish you'd told me, Jordan. I didn't know! I'm so sorry."

Jordan shook her head. "I tried to talk to you about her, but you think she's some kind of saint or something."

"She has helped me a lot," he said. "She's made me a lot of money."

"She's suckering you," Jordan said, but she said it in a low, downcast voice, because she was sure he wouldn't listen.

"Now I understand why you think that," he replied.

Jordan gave a resigned sigh.

"Mr. Fisby," I said, "I guess I can't work here any more." I took off my apron and handed it to him.

He looked at the crumpled cloth in his hand. "I don't know about that, Marcie. I know that the customer is always right and all that... but she really crossed a line. With both of you. You shouldn't have to take that from anyone, no matter who they are. I'm glad that you realize that losing your temper is not a good thing, but believe me, I understand why you were upset, and I appreciate the fact that you were defending Jordan as much as yourself."

"I guess," I said.

He smiled and handed me back the apron. "I don't guess, I know," he said. "Please, Marcie. Don't quit."

"Okay," I said.

"And I'm glad you two know about each other," he said. "It must be hard thinking you're the only one. But you know... Marcie, honestly... I never would have guessed."

"I never would have guessed about Jordan, either," I said.

"Seriously?" Jordan asked, looking at me in disbelief.

"I don't see anything boy about you," I replied. "When I found that diary, I thought it belonged to Mara."

"Mara?" Jordan echoed in puzzled disbelief. "The basketball player? You've got to be kidding!"

I shrugged, and the two of us laughed.

"Alrighty then! I will talk to Lee Sheppard," Mr. Fisby said grimly. "No matter who she is, nobody talks to my daughter — or any of my employees — like that. If she can't give you two the respect you deserve, she won't be welcome in my shop."

"Really?" Jordan asked, blinking.

Mr. Fisby hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded. "Yes, really," he said.

"And what about her 'investments'?" Jordan asked.

He hesitated again. This time, a little longer. "Well... to tell the truth, all this money stuff has been making me nervous. Every time she has an opportunity, I have to put out more money. Even though she tells me that there's no risk, I'm still afraid I might lose that money."

"So you'll stop?" Jordan asked.

He glanced at me before answering, considering how much he wanted to say in front of me. Then he gave a quick nod and said, "Lee has one more opportunity coming up in a week or so," he said. "If I can be a part of it, I will. But after that, I'm done. It's too much for me. The stakes are way too high, and the suspense just kills me."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way