We left after breakfast Sunday and took the direct route. Mary dropped me off about 6:00, dressed in short shorts and wedge sandals. I had my pearls in my purse, but my studs needed to stay in until the piercings healed, which wouldn’t be for weeks.

“Well, aren’t you pretty!” Alice said warmly as I walked by the kitchen. “I love your hair – and pierced ears as well. … Sit down, let’s chat. … I’m baking a frozen pizza. … There’s enough for two. … So, did you give up on being a boy?”

“I really don’t know, Alice. I mean it’s not like I want to date boys … or maybe I do, but not let it go too far.”

“Well, that’s easier said than done. You’ve never talked about dating before – boys or girls. Did you have a date on your trip?”

“Well, not a date, but I did spend an evening with a boy and – this is so embarrassing – I had a good time.”

“Well, there you go sweetie. There’s nothing wrong with a boy liking boys.”

“Yeah, but I think I’d have liked being with a girl just as much – if she thought I was pretty.”

“You spent two weeks with your friend Mary. How did that go?”

“We’re not like that. We’re, well … girl friends.”

“I see. … You know school starts tomorrow, and looking at you, I don’t think anyone’s going to believe you’re a boy.”

“I suppose not. … I was thinking of going unisex.”

“Well, you should have thought of that when you got your ears pierced and your hair done – which is lovely by the way.”

“Thank you, I really like how it looks. … Thinking about it’s made me tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Well, you know you’re welcome to any of Barb’s clothes. Good night, sweetie.”

I found some curl clips in the bureau, wound up my tendrils, and crawled into bed.

I woke early. One look in the mirror confirmed that I needed to dress as a girl. My skort was wrinkled, so I remembered Alice’s offer and looked in the wardrobe. I picked out a pale lime blouse and a rose skirt. The colors went well with each other and with my complexion. My white tennis shoes finished a casual look. I was about to go downstairs when I decided to add lipstick. No trace of male Morgan was left.

Faye came in for her morning coffee and agreed to drive me to campus, which was not far beyond her office. Before she dropped me off, she asked me to come by her office when I was done at school.

I had a 9:15 appointment in the Art Department with my counselor, Dr. Whatley. A tall boy coming out of her office held the door for me. Dr. Whatley looked up with a slightly surprised expression.

“Are you Morgan Ross?”

“Yes. Is something the matter?”

“No … well, yes. This says you’re male.”

“Oh, is that going to be a problem?”

“Not if I change it to female. Should I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you look female, Morgan. Are you?”

“My friends say I am, but biologically, I’m not.”

“And what do you say, Morgan?”

“I really don’t know.”

“How about I change your gender to ‘Not Given’?”

“Could you?”

“Yes. … It’s done.”

“And later?”

“You can decide. … Now for your schedule – your file says you’re interested in art. Do you want to declare a major?”

“I think so. I want to work in a museum or gallery.”

“Art History is the best we have to offer for that kind of career.”

“Then, that will be my major.”

“Good. You can always change later if you get interested in something else. … Now, for your schedule …”

I left with the standard freshmen courses plus Introduction to European Art, and Aesthetics as a philosophy elective. Outside, a brunette was waiting for her appointment. As she walked by, the tall boy who’d held the door for me stood up. He had mousy brown hair and was so nervous he was almost shaking.

“W-would you like some coffee … or something?”

Spending a few hours with Ron, whom I’d never see again, was one thing, but starting who knows what with a boy I’d likely see all the time was quite another. So, I was inclined to brush him off. Still, he was so shy and vulnerable. He reminded me of the boy me. I didn’t want to shoot him down.

“Sure, I’d love some.” I could let him down over coffee. “What’s your name?”

“Mel Rivers.”

“I’m Morgan Ross,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. “Where shall we go for coffee?”

“Oh, the Student Union is just across the quad. I ate breakfast there this morning.”

I took the conversational lead to help him relax. I never would have as a boy, or before my trip with Mary. Now I found myself flirting with him. When I realized I was, I stopped, but by then the ice was broken, and Mel started telling me some quirky things he’d picked up on that morning. By the time we sat down with our coffee, we were both laughing, and I wanted him as a friend.

“You know, Mel, I like you, but I’m not looking for a relationship … maybe a friend?”

“You’re so pretty, but if you only want to be friends, that’d be wonderful. … I never had a real friend … just people I say ‘hi’ to.”

Now I felt bad. I couldn’t start a friendship with a lie. So many times other foster kids pretended to like me, then turned out to be lying for one reason or another. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“What did I say?”

“No, no! It’s not you. … It’s I’m … I’m lying.”

“Lying? About what? You’ve hardly told me anything!”

“It’s not anything I said. It’s … how I’m dressed.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was on the verge of tears – torn between the need to be honest with a potential friend and the fear that I of flushing my entire college experience down the toilet. “I’m a boy,” I whispered.

“No way! You’re kidding, right?”

I could only shake my head. One more word, and I’d break down … and maybe run away. Finally, I pleaded, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Geez, I won’t. I swear.” He paused, lost in thought. “Morgan, that’s so brave. You’re so brave! No one’s ever trusted me like that. I hope that we can still be friends.”

Tears were rolling out now. “I think we are.”

We drank our coffee quietly. When we’d finished, I stood up to go.

“When can I see you again?” Mel asked.

“Let me see your schedule. … We’re both in European Art tomorrow. I’ll see you then.” I walked off toward Faye’s office.

Bobbie looked surprised to see me in a skirt and with a French braid. I wasn’t sure she approved. “Doctor said you’d be by. She’ll be free when she’s done with the patient she’s seeing now.”

“Where’s Mattie?”

“On an RFD.”

I knew that RFD stood for Rural Free Delivery – what Mattie called home deliveries covered by MediCal. Bobbie looked busy, or maybe put off by my appearance, so I read a magazine. A few minutes later, Faye called me in.

“I’ve thought for a while that I should give you an exam, and when I saw you dressed in a skirt this morning, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.”

“Why? What’s wrong with me – other than being a bit crazy?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, but I’m pretty sure your hormones are off because you have few, if any, male secondary sex characteristics. There is likely some physical reason for that, and it might be important to find out what it is. I could send you to a urologist, but it might be embarrassing and unnecessary. So, if you’re willing, I could do a preliminary work up for you – gratis. Maybe I’ll find the cause, but I might still have to refer you.”

“If you think it’s important. Given how I’m dressed, I suppose I should have an OB-GYN, anyway,” I quipped.

“Okay, please remove your blouse and bra.”

This was going to be very embarrassing.

“Hmm…, ah …,” she said as she poked, prodded and squeezed my chest. “Squeeze here, Morgan. … Feel how soft that is?”

“Ah, yes.”

“That’s adipose tissue – fat.”

“Okay?”

“Now squeeze here … feel how much more solid that is?”

“Yes?”

“Those are your mammary glands. They are what make the milk babies suckle. Ducts connect them to your nipples. Now see how your nipples get bigger and harder when I stimulate them?”

“Yeah.” My heart was beating faster.

“That’s so baby has something firm to latch onto. Stimulating them also feels good in romantic situations. … The point I’m making is that your breasts are typical of those I see on 11-12 year-old girls … and they respond in the same way. … I’m surprised no one suggested you wear bras before you started on your own.”

I thought of Mattie telling me I needed to wear a bra, and Alice wanting to see how I looked in one, but I said nothing.

“Okay. Put your bra and blouse back on. … Drop your panties, climb up, and put your feet in the stirrups.”

After 10 minutes of more poking, and squeezing, including an ultrasound of my belly, she let me to get down and put my panties on.

“Well, Morgan, you don’t have any ovaries, so you’re not intersexed, at least not to that degree. But, you have the breast development of a 12 year-old girl and ascending testicles, also called acquired undescended testicles. I think your testicles may have led to a hormone imbalance preventing full puberty, reducing your male sex characteristics and allowing your natural female hormones to have more effect than they normally would. Your testicle condition can also cause infertility and increase the risk of cancer. Out patient surgery can corrected it. So, I’m ordering some blood tests and plan to refer you to a urologist.

“Another thing hormones do is change the brain in subtle ways – ways that affect how we feel about ourselves, I mean if we feel masculine or feminine, and also who we find sexually attractive – men or women, or both, or in some cases, neither. So, I’d also like to refer you to a counselor who specializes in such issues.

“We could start with a visit to a urologist to deal with your testicles. They are easier to schedule.”

“Will that cost a lot?”

“No, your MediCal and supplement should cover most of the cost.”

“And when it gets fixed?”

“You should have a lot more testosterone and feel … well, more manly.”

“I see. Thank you, Faye.”

As I walked up the hill to Alice’s I wondered if I wanted to feel “more manly.”