Maximum Warp
Chapter 4: To Boldly Go . . . .

We had about an hour and a half drive to retrieve my car, once I had recovered sufficiently from the shocks of the morning. It’s a lovely drive, but I wasn’t in the best of moods to appreciate the joys of nature.

Nevertheless – or nonetheless, they are used, if at all, interchangeably – it was time well-spent.

Janet quizzed me carefully about everything the damned termites had said while I was in their hands. Pincers? Whatever.

Then we started trying to think through the implications. They had shot me with something that, over the course of a month, was going to make me both younger – but we didn’t know how young – and better-looking. And, as had become superabundantly clear this so very fine morning, female.

“So, if you’re about a week in, you’ve got a bit more than three weeks to go before the process is done,” Janet said. “And those weeks are gonna be weird as a tap-dancing emu, if your experience so far is any indication.”

I could only agree with that assessment. But I was also thinking about the next hurdle. “Janet, I’ve got an identity. A history. All of that will disappear – I will disappear, for all intents and purposes. I’ll still be me – at least, I hope I’ll still be me, even if I’m an emotional, weepy, not-very-rational version of me. But the rest of the world won’t believe it. As a young woman, or God help me, a young girl, I won’t have any kind of identity at all. No job, no income, no healthcare, no access to funds!”

She nodded as I spoke, pondering my words for a few minutes while she drove. Then she said, “It’s a problem, sure enough. A whole constellation of problems, I reckon. Add ‘em to the list. But . . . there’s a more fundamental problem that you’re maybe missin.’ At least I think y’are, based on what you’ve been sayin.’”

I looked at her, chewing her lip in thought, and said, “Ah? Things are even worse? Splendid. What extra catastrophe do I need to add to my burgeoning list?”

“Patience, patience,” she said, swatting away my comment. “Gotta think about how to say this right. And throwin’ those five dollar words at me isn’t gonna help.” She chewed some more as her car ate up asphalt.

Then she said, “It’s your ‘tude, James. Like I said this morning, you’re handlin’ this really well. Like a trooper. Stoic and all that. Very John Wayne. Maybe even Gary Cooper. An’ it’s better’n lyin’ on the floor cryin’ about it, I s’pose. But . . . bein’ a woman – even bein’ a girl . . . It’s not a frickin’ prison sentence. It’s not somethin’ to be endured, or conquered. It’s . . . it’s . . . “

She pounded the steering wheel in apparent frustration, then finished, “Alright, I’ll say it. It’s a privilege. Understand? Maybe bein’ a man’s a privilege too. I’ve had my doubts sometimes, that’s for sure. But you! – You have an opportunity to see the world in an entirely new way. To have experiences that James Marshall Wainwright could never have dreamed of havin’ . . . . You get to . . . I don’t know . . . .”

“Boldly go where no man has gone before?” I asked, dryly.

“YES!!!” she said. “Yes, damn it. You do! And you’ll get through all of this – and it’ll be a lot to get through, I’m sure – in a whole lot better shape, if you start appreciatin’ what a truly wonderful opportunity you’ve been given. If you march along, grimly determined to bear what must be born, you’ll damned well miss everything that makes being a woman fun and worthwhile. You’ll just be a man in a woman’s body. How’d you describe it? A weepy, not-very-rational version of yourself? Shit, James! No wonder you're grim. Who’d want to be that?”

“Janet,” I said, surprising myself by how gently it came out. “What’s this all about? I need a change of attitude. Splendid. I’ll put in an order for that. But is this really about me?”

“Yes it is,” she said forcefully. “I care about you, idiot. But . . . sure. If I’d been given the chance that you’ve been given? If I’d been crazy enough to be hiking the AT all by myself rather than sittin’ at home, thinkin’ about the kids I never had, or the grandkids I never will have, or what goddamned nursing home I’d have to settle for down the road? I’d be turnin’ cartwheels right now. I’d be turnin’ cartwheels just at the idea that I’d be able to turn cartwheels again!”

She paused, thought a moment more, and added, “And if you told me I’d have to switch genders for the privilege, why . . . I’d view that as a plus. Not ‘cuz I don’t like bein’ a woman; I do. Not ‘cuz I want to be one of you lunks! I don’t. But ‘cuz sure as hell, that's not somethin’ you get to do every day!”

I had been so wrapped in my own problems that I hadn’t really thought about what Janet would be thinking. Feeling. From where she was sitting, I was getting an incredible adventure. One she couldn’t share.

Keeping my voice gentle, I said, “You do know we’re in New England, don’t you?”

“Yeah, why?” she responded, confused by the non sequitur.

“Nothing really; it’s just that we normally drive on the right side of the road in this country,” I said warily.

“Oh, fuck you!” she said, exasperated, as she swerved us back where we belonged and dropped the speed down to within ten miles per hour of the posted limit. I relaxed my death grip on the door handle fractionally.

“Hey,” I said, “If you’re going to get weepy, or emotional, maybe I ought to take the wheel?”

“ . . . And the sorry, lice-infested excuse for a nag you rode in on!” she added. “I can cope. You don’t have a clue. Yet.”

We drove a bit in silence. I could see that Janet was still hurting and I didn’t really know how to deal with that. I tried another conversational gambit.

“What are the good parts of being a woman, Janet? What can you do, that I don’t get to do as a man?”

She decided to take the bait. “Well,” she said, “I find women tend to have better conversations than men. Deeper. More meaningful. It allows us to be closer to other women; men seem to be more emotionally isolated.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said in response. I like my solitude, after all.

“Too much of a good thing is a bad thing,” she said.

“Huh,” I said, before adding brightly, “Well, then, we’ve got at least forty-five minutes left to drive. Let’s have a deep and meaningful conversation! What shall we talk about?”

“The fifty different ways to dismember a distinguished professor of linguistics?” she suggested acidly, adding, “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”

“Not to my face,” I said thoughtfully, “though it has come up in some anonymous student evaluations. From time to time.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t put it on a goddamned billboard,” she growled. “Maybe we should hold off on meaningful conversations until you’ve had a period, lost half your ego, and filled out at least a C-cup.”

Ouch! I should have known better than to try a rubber of repartee with Janet. Might as well try to keep both ears while going three rounds with Iron Mike Tyson. Still, Janet riled up was better than Janet distressed. But it was time to throw in the towel.

“You’re right,” I said. “On all counts. But I’m scared, Janet. There is no way I can manage this alone. Will you join me on this little adventure? Share it with me?”

She kept her eyes facing forward. Firmly. She said, “I might slow you down. I’m not getting any younger, but you are.”

“You always said your students keep you young. They have, too. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I’m suddenly supplied with good looks and ‘youthful vigah,’ God help me, all I’ll be doing is falling on my increasingly plump and lovely ass. I only just figured out that women use toilet paper when they piss.”

“Seriously?” she said, incredulously. “What on earth did you think we use? Our prehensile tails?”

“I’d never given the matter any thought,” I said. “Not once. Why would I? It wasn’t germane to my research. But now I need to know it, and probably a million other seemingly obvious things just like it. Please, Janet? I can’t do this without you.”

She kept driving, but a smile slowly began to spread over her face. Not, I hasten to add, the sweetest smile I’d ever seen, either.

“Oh, Honey,” she said, “Count me in, but you may wish you hadn’t asked!”

I gulped. “Why?”

“Don’t worry your pretty golden head about that,” she said. “But just as a bit of an appetizer, before we get back to Northampton, we need to stop and get a few things. To help you learn. Think of them as educational supplies.”

“What kind of supplies?” I asked, warily.

“Oh, nothin’ much,” she said cheerily. “You’re gonna need some new clothes. Some things that have some give, in case you keep, ah . . . y’know . . . shrinkin’. Some decent underwear. A pretty dress or two. Some makeup. Some tampons, just in case. And a bra.”

“Surely it’s too soon for all that,” I protested weakly.

“You need practice, girl,” she replied. “And don’t call me ‘Shirley’!”

I didn’t want to offend Janet again, so I managed – just barely – to avoid repeating what I was thinking.

* * * * *

We stopped at the Target in Lennox after we had picked up my car. I was still getting over the fact that I had needed to adjust my seat and all of my mirrors before I had been able to drive safely. Not for the last time, I wondered just how bad this was going to get.

When we got inside, Janet got a cart and resolutely marched me to the nearest gallows: in this case, the area where the store showcased “intimates” for women. I gritted my teeth and tried to remind myself to improve what Janet – and anyone under forty – would call my ‘tude.

“Alright,” she said, neither raising her voice nor making any effort to lower it, “let’s start with some panties. What do you fancy?”

“Asphyxiation,” I replied, sotto voce. “As a way of dying, it’s far preferable to mortification. At least, that’s my assessment at this precise moment.”

“Drama much?” she asked sardonically. “If it helps, James, just tell yourself that it’s for science.”

“You could try to keep your voice down, at least,” I whispered furiously.

“I could,” she agreed. “But where’s the fun in that?”

I gave her a glower that should have reduced her to a puddle of quivering jelly.

She looked at me quizzically. “You’re gonna have to retire that look, James. Without your bushy eyebrows, your glare just looks . . . I dunno. Cute?”

I tried gritting my teeth, but she just shook her head. “Nope. Not that either.” Then she reached out and touched my arm lightly. “No-one’s paying any attention. But if they do, why should you care? We’re a long ways from home, and you’ll never see any of these people again.”

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded myself, once again, about my ‘tude. Without opening them, I said, “Fine. Something basic. What’s the female equivalent of tighty-whities?”

“You are!” she retorted. “Or you will be, if you don’t get over yourself.”

I opened my eyes to see Janet just staring at me impatiently.

“Got that outta your system?” she asked.

I nodded, chagrined.

“Good,” she responded. “Now listen up. Is there a female equivalent of ‘tighty-whities? I’m sure there is. At very least, there are things that are boring, even if they don’t actually go out of their way to be grotesque. I mean, really? Tighty-whities?”

I wanted to glower, but I had been warned. It wasn’t working.

She continued, “You go down that path, though, and you will end up becoming just a double x version of yourself. Less emotionally stable, I expect, as you suggested before. Not because women are unstable, but because you won’t have learned to handle your emotions. And . . . you won’t be any more emotionally connected. Or connected to the physical world. The world of sights and sounds and smells and feeling. If you want more – and, honest to God, Honey, you do – you have to stop thinking like a man.”

“Okay, okay!” I said. “But you can’t really be suggesting that women have deep and meaningful thoughts about underwear, for God’s sake?”

“I can, and we do,” she said. “Maybe not every day, but it happens. Honestly, does that shock you? Why else would a discount store in a town of maybe five thousand people have so many options?”

I just shook my head. No clue. The question was far beyond the scope of any intellectual inquiry I had ever pursued.

She said, “Sometimes we want underwear that’s just useful or comfortable, sure. But sometimes we want to wear an outfit that requires different underwear. Other times we may want to feel sexy. Or just pretty.”

“Janet,” I said, panicked. “I’m not trying to pick up a date, for the love of all that’s holy! I just need some underwear! Why would I want to feel pretty? Much less . . . er . . . sexy?”

I was blushing so hard that all traffic would likely stop until I turned green again.

Janet gave me a pitying look. “Sure, sometimes we want to feel pretty or sexy for some guy. But other times we may just want to feel pretty or sexy for ourselves. As a reminder of that part of our existence. Feelin’ pretty, or sexy, is one of those things about being a woman that can be a very special experience. One you’ve never had. Why wouldn’t you want it?”

She gave me a look, chuckled, and said, “You might want to control your saggin’ jaw, James. You look funny with your mouth hanging open.”

As I endeavored to bring my facial expression back under control, she continued, “Remember, the main point of this exercise isn’t to get you clothes. There’s a good chance you won’t fit them for long anyways, ‘cuz you’re still shrinkin’, remember? The main point is to get you to start thinkin' differently. Women pay attention to things. Like color, texture, cut. Including when shopping for underwear. What colors do you like? Look at them. What fabrics? Touch ‘em. Use your imagination. Imagine how they would feel on you.”

“Janet!” I said, “that’s practically pornographic!”

That earned a grin. “If you say so,” she said. “Now: Look. Feel. Imagine. Choose.”

I wanted to protest, but I had asked for her help. I had to take it on faith that, while she might enjoy embarrassing me, that wasn’t why she was doing what she was doing. I had to start thinking in different ways. Women didn’t just dress for comfort? Fine. Got it.

I looked at the racks of panties. Black, white, off-white, pink, red, blue, peach. Animal prints. Why animal prints, for pity’s sake? Why would anyone want to make their ass look like a cheetah pelt? Some idiot in camo and an orange vest might just load you up with buckshot!

There were also different fabrics. Cotton, clearly, was a minority option. Most looked more like nylon of some sort. Then there were the actual shapes. Lots of fabric. Next to no fabric. The decorations. Lace. No lace. Little embroidered flowers. What was the purpose of this many choices?

Glancing furtively around and seeing no-one, I reached out and ran a finger down the front of an innocuous looking nylon pair as I had been instructed.

I almost jerked my hand away. Just the act of running a finger down the front of a pair of panties had given me a shock of pleasure, not unlike the shock I had gotten when I lathered my chest earlier in the morning. I felt something – something almost . . . squirrely? In the newest parts of my anatomy. A warm, pleasant feeling that made me want to squirm.

I stroked the front of the panties again, more thoughtfully. It’s for science! Again per Janet’s instructions, I imagined what it would feel like, to pull these panties up my legs . . . my suddenly smooth legs . . . to settle them where they belonged; feel them touching me. Cradling my new equipment . . . .

YIKES! Yeah, I hadn’t been kidding! It was practically pornographic. I felt flushed and looked up, embarrassed, to find Janet looking at me, a bit of mischief dancing in her eyes.

“He likes it! Hey Mikey!” she said playfully. “See? Bein’ a girl ain’t all bad. You like that color?”

The panties I had been fingering were a sort of light brown. I said, almost without thought, “I guess so . . . .”

“But they’re maybe a bit boring?” Janet probed.

I felt my blush growing stronger. I opened my mouth. Closed it again. And finally said, in a small voice, “Yeah, maybe they are.”

“Now you're talking,” Janet said approvingly. “Can you imagine yourself wearing something in red? With your new coloring, you could pull it off.”

I closed my eyes again, my body and senses at war with a lifetime of living, and imagined myself wearing red panties. My first mental image was me as I had been, up until a week ago. The panties looked absurd. But I forced myself to adjust my mental image. To imagine myself as female first . . . . My breath quickened, ever so slightly.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Okay!” Janet responded. “That’s one small step for a woman – pretty much just another Saturday, really. But sure as hell, it’s one giant leap for mankind.”

She put several pairs of panties in the cart, including two in a cherry red. All of her selections appeared to use fabrics that were softer, silkier, than anything I had ever had next to my skin.

Next she took me over to where the store had arranged racks of bras. “This’ll just be for practice,” Janet said, “since we don’t know either the band or the cup size you’ll need once everything has, ah, shaken out. Although . . . .”

She appeared to have been caught by a thought she was reluctant to share with me.

I decided that if Janet thought discretion was the better part of valor, I definitely didn’t need to hear it. Whatever it was.

She shook off the thought and said, “let’s just get you something you can wear now.” She flashed me a grin. “In red, of course!”

My blush came back in full force.

“Excuse me,” a female voice said behind us. I froze. The voice continued, “I’ve got a tape measure if you need one.” I couldn’t bear to turn around. I wanted to sink into the floor. Liquidate, like the Wicked Witch of the West.

But Janet, naturally, took it completely in stride. “Do you? That’d be a big help. Thanks, love.” She reached a hand behind me and it came back with a roll of something in it.

“Lift up your arms, Hon,” she said to me.

I was flashing panic signs at her with my frantic eyes, but she ignored me and unwound the roll of measuring tape. Feeling like a circus performer, I raised my arms to the height of my shoulders.

Janet wrapped the tape around my torso and said, “Forty.” She wound the tape and handed it back to the other woman, still behind me.

I felt foreign fingers run through my hair, and the woman said, “I’m just in for some . . . supplies. But I’m always on the lookout for new subs. What do you say, Toots? Looking for a walk on the wild side!” Her voice was low and sultry.

“Great good heavens!” I barked, stepping out of her reach and spinning around, “Just what kind of a job are you subcontracting!”

Before the woman could do more than chuckle, Janet said, “Now, now, dearie. No poaching. This one’s mine. Run along, now.”

The woman – dyed red hair and fairly dramatic, er, curves, puckered her mouth in a strange expression. “Such a pity!” she said, and sautered away, chuckling.

“What the hell was that?” I asked. “Another fun part of being a woman?”

I was a bit caustic, and I was certainly louder than I intended to be. I looked around frantically, but with the woman’s departure we were again alone.

“Nah,” Janet said. “I doubt you’ll run into that kind of problem once you can pass. So we should speed the day, right?”

I felt so much better. I was hoping that the incident would lead Janet to cut short our little shopping spree, but I should have known it wouldn’t.

She just went to the rack, found what looked like a really large bra, in red, and put it in the cart. She got something else as well – something I’d seen some of the girls around campus wearing when they were jogging. It looked very different from the red bra, but the functional elements were sufficiently similar that I had to conclude the garment served a similar purpose.

“Sports bra,” Janet said in answer to my quizzical look.

I looked at it. It was a royal blue and had to have twenty criss-crossing straps in the back. “I don’t get it,” I said. “How does that help you with sports?”

Janet gave me an evil grin. “Well, now, that depends on the sport, doesn't it?”

If I got any redder, someone was going to call the paramedics.

Janet did spend less time on the other items that she wanted to get. I had the sense that I had managed to jump whatever gate she had set for me, and she was now eager to get what she needed and get out. Good by me, though . . . damn! The woman was a whirlwind of activity. Nylons. Two shirts (she called them “tops”). A short, stretchy black skirt. Something she described as a “shirt dress.” A nightgown. The thought of the nightgown gave me another shiver. A robe. Two pairs of “leggings.” A few cosmetics. Some of what she described as “feminine hygiene products.”

We brought them to the register and I got a kind of funny look from the guy who rung it up. I decided the best thing to do was tell myself, as firmly as I could, that I would never see him again, and even if he saw me . . . he probably wouldn’t recognize me. Hell, I probably wouldn’t recognize me.

In the parking lot, we loaded the purchases into the back of the Forester. Then Janet said, “James . . . Why don’t you just follow me home. Your condo isn’t the most private place in the world. I’ve got a spare bedroom you can use, and this way I can keep an eye on you. I won’t be much help when you’re at home.”

I thought about it. I like my privacy, but . . . as Janet had said, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. Right now, I found that I had a strong desire to stick to my friend like a cocklebur to a terrier. That was worrisome. Extremely worrisome, really. But I decided I wasn’t going to fight it.

* * * * *

We were back at Janet’s place by 1:00, or so. She had me bring the Target bags into her spare bedroom. The room was clearly used as her study. Desk, computer, a wall of books . . . . my own study looked pretty similar, though the book titles were of course different. There was practically an entire shelf of books on Nathaniel Hawthorne – titles like Hawthorne and Women: Engendering and Expanding the Hawthorne Tradition; Understanding The Scarlet Letter: A Student Casebook to Issues, Sources, and Historical Documents; and Student Companion to Nathaniel Hawthorne. I knew Hawthorne held pride of place in Janet’s pantheon of authors. But I have a hard time reading fiction itself. Reading articles and books about fiction . . . I think I’d prefer giving a lecture while wearing nothing but lingerie. At least the students might stay awake!

The room had a twin bed tucked against the wall that had drawers under it, as well as a narrow, deep, typically useless old New England closet. Fortunately, while it had felt like we bought an enormous amount at Target, it was actually about what one might pack for a weekend away. It didn’t look like much when we put it all away.

When we were done with that project, Janet said, “Okay, I’m gonna make us some lunch. What I want you to do is to spend some time tryin’ on your new purchases. See how you like them. Don’t worry about the mirror just now. That’s gonna be unhelpful for a bit, I expect. Just try your things on, see how they feel and how they fit. Then pick something to wear and join me in . . . forty-five minutes?”

I nodded, trying not to allow my trepidation to show. I didn’t want another sermon about my “beatitude.”

She smiled and left, closing the door behind her.

I stood for a long moment, cursing fate and termites alike. Then I sighed and stripped.

Unfortunately, my male genitalia had not seen fit to re-emerge from their hiding place over the course of the day. Instead, some peach fuzz had started to sprout in the triangle above my new equipment. Naturally, it was both fiery gold and itched like poison ivy. Figures.

I opened the drawer, and the silky red panties stared back at me. I growled, “I’m not Maria, for God’s sake! I’ve got no business feeling pretty . . . or witty . . . or effing bright!”

But I reached down anyway. I picked them up, feeling an absolute shock of . . . something. Of knowing, maybe. The logical part of my mind – which is to say, all of it, dammit! – told me to stop fussing. It was just a piece of fabric, and it was absurd to invest it with some deep meaning. It was stupid to delay putting on undergarments that had been designed for my body’s current, ah, configuration. To instead be standing bareass naked in the middle of the room holding them, like I was about to declaim an Ode to Red Panties.

But my mind, I realized with something like a thermal shock, was wrong. The panties positively screamed “girl-woman-female-feminine!” If I put them on, it would be like I was accepting my new reality. Becoming an accomplice. It wouldn’t just be something that had been done to me anymore, it would be something I was actively advancing. Could I live with that?

My mind turned to Janet’s words earlier today. I considered how I would feel if Janet was the one who had been injected with . . . with whatever. If she were the one who was growing younger, better looking. Changing genders. Would I feel horrified for her? Or would I be jealous? If I could switch with her right now, give her the big adventure and return to my old life, would I?

Yes, I would. Absolutely.

But . . . Not because I didn’t want the adventure. I’d switch because I knew how much it would mean to her. Because she was my best friend, and I wouldn’t want her to feel left behind. Or . . . old. Before her outburst today, I had never thought of her as old.

So I’d switch in a heartbeat, and inside, where no-one would ever see, I would weep. For what I might have done. What I might have been.

I found myself tearing up again, but I shook it off. No! I’d give the gift to Janet if I could, but since I couldn’t, the least I could do was try not to squander it. Resolutely, I put one foot, then the other, through the appropriate holes and pulled the panties up my legs. I settled them into place. I ran my hands down the sides. Across the bottom. They felt . . . .

No. . . . I felt.

I felt pretty. And sexy. Oh. My. God.

Before I could chicken out – or, for that matter, pass out – I bent down and grabbed the matching bra. In for a dime, in for a . . . .

How in hell does the contraption work? It was obvious where everything went, but how were you supposed to fasten it? There were no buttons or zippers. Just rows of strange hook-looking things.

After a couple minutes, I figured out how the two sets of hooky thingies connected to each other, so I did that. But now how was I supposed to get it on? It was apparent that the hooky thingies weren’t supposed to be fastened until my arms were through the straps, so I undid them and tried that. But then the things were behind me. I couldn’t see to fasten them.

I tried putting it on backwards. I was able to get everything connected, but now the parts that were supposed to hold my still non-existent breasts were over my shoulder blades. I sure as hell hoped that the termites hadn’t screwed up and put my breasts on backwards!

I tried rotating it, but the shoulder straps held it in place. What lunatic invented these things?

Finally, I managed to get my arms out of the shoulder straps, then I was able to rotate the cups to the front, then I put the straps back over my shoulders. It was crazy, and uncomfortable, and about as efficient as a Soviet-era collective farm. All of my good intentions were dissolving into intense frustration.

Janet knocked on the door and called out, “How are you doin’ in there, Hon?”

I froze. I wanted to scream my frustration. But . . . I didn’t want Janet to see me. I would cheerfully have lied, but I was strangely tongue-tied. While I wallowed in indecision like a rowboat in heavy chop, Janet walked in.

I stared at her, panicked. Feeling ridiculous. Absurd.

But she looked calm, and there was no hint of her usual sharp wit in her eyes.

“Good start, Hon,” she said in a kindly tone. “Those things are harder than they look. Let me help.” I could only stand, silent and petrified, as she walked over, reached behind and did something with one strap, then the other. Then she tugged the front of the bra lower, until the tight band was a couple inches lower than my nipples. Suddenly, it felt fine. Strange, of course, but not uncomfortable.

She put a hand on each of my shoulders. “You okay?”

I thought about it, but not for long. I’d already done my thinking. I put my hands over hers and gave them a squeeze. “Yes. I’m okay now. And I’ll be okay. Mostly. Prolly. Except when I’m not. But I won’t . . . I won’t waste the opportunity, Janet. I promise.”

She gave me a long, searching look, her eyes radiating concern and kindness both.

“Your panties are on backwards,” she said. “You know that, right?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?” I asked, with suitable affection.

“Every day and twice on Sundays,” she replied proudly. “Do I get a medal or somethin’?”

I giggled. I’m the Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics, for God’s sake. I’m giggling?

It felt good.

She giggled with me and eventually we were laughing like loons. That felt even better.

Finally, she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and said, “Girl, you need a new name. James won’t work, and Janet’s taken. How ‘bout Jessica?”

To be continued. Oh, surely.