Woodland, California
September 17, 1999

I heard the door from the garage whack the wall and started counting. One . . . two . . . three . . .

“Andy! Andy!”

Right on schedule.

“Andy, I need you!”

Choosing stones
Big enough to drag my down
Where I am
People’s voices make hollow sounds
Just be quiet
They’ll go away

Tonic’s Open Up Your Eyes scorched my boom box; I could maybe pretend I hadn’t heard Mom calling. Sometimes she gave up.

“Andy!”

The sound of her shoes on the parquet floor Dad had made for the hallway announced that she intended to insist. Best to get it over with. “Coming, Mom.”

I shut down the computer with a sigh, not wanting Mom to see the blue-and-white screen. Netscape was still showing an estimated 18 minutes to download the story I was hoping to read later that night. I’d have to start all over again, whenever she gave me a minute to myself, and next time it might take even longer. Eff Netscape, eff Earthlink, and eff SBC!

“Are you on the computer again?” Mom had my door open – as usual, she hadn’t knocked. “C’mon Andy. I need you to bring in the groceries.”

“I said I’m coming.” I made a production of wiggling my feet into my always-loose skechers.

“And turn that thing off! Jesus, it’s nothing but noise!” She shook her head in disgust and headed back towards the kitchen and her first glass of Almaden. Well-earned, I’m sure she would say.

I doubted her students at Woodland High would agree, these days. Popular back when I went through, Dad’s death left her angry, bitter and burned out.

Her Mercury Marquis was in the driveway, next to Dad’s old S-10. I popped Mom’s trunk, grabbed the first couple bags, and brought them into the house. Two more trips and they were all in. I didn’t need to ask whether she needed me to put everything away as well.

The TV was now blaring in the living room. News, from the sound of it. Nothing I want to hear about.

She stopped me as I tried to head back to my room. “Dinner maybe six thirty?”

The thought of another choice between Stouffers and Hungry Man options was too much for me; one thing too many. I felt a tightness in my chest, a sense of grinding, crushing weight, inexorable as gravity. I blurted out, “I’m meeting Christie for dinner in Berkeley tonight and crashing at her place.”

“What? When did you talk to her? You didn’t tell me about it. I need your help in the garden tomorrow morning!”

“Mom, I told you I’m teaching tomorrow. I have to be there early.”

“‘Teaching!’ That doesn’t count as ‘teaching,’ young man! And it doesn’t count as a sport, either. Get your head out of the clouds!”

I wanted to scream, but I kept it in. “Mom, I said I’d be there, and Jason’s counting on me.”

“What about me? I’m counting on you, too!”

“Mom . . . what more do you want? I’m giving you half my paychecks. I’m helping around the house. I’m —“

“Oh, stop already,” she snapped, cutting me off. “I keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. The least you can do is be helpful and not give me a lot of lip. Besides, it’s dangerous!”

“Mom —”

She talked over me again. “For God’s sake, Andy! When are you going to grow up and get a life? You work dead-end jobs, you don’t have any friends, and you spend all your time on the computer, or flying. It’s Friday night. You should be out on a date.”

“Mom —“

“I’m serious. You’re almost twenty-four. All the kids you went to school with are —“

“MOM!!!” This time my shout was loud enough to cut through the usual litany of my shortcomings. “I’m not having this conversation again tonight, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow night, but if you want me out of the house, just say the word!”

Her expression somehow mixed fear, anger, longing, and more. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. And I couldn’t bring myself to abandon her.

“Fine,” she snarled. “Maybe you’ll listen to your sister!”

Five minutes later, I had the truck — even after five years, I couldn’t think of it as my truck — rumbling south on the 113 toward the I-80. Close to Davis, I fished the car phone out of the glove compartment and punched a familiar number.

Three rings. Four. C’mon, Christie!

I swore as I got her answering machine, then left a message. “Hey, Sis. I was wondering if I could crash on your couch tonight. I’ll buy you dinner if you’re free. Call me.”

She was probably out with Dennis. Because, unlike her useless older brother, Christie had a life, good friends, a boyfriend, and three years of college under her belt. Popular, ebullient, driven, insecure . . . Christie in a nutshell.

I kept driving, which somehow didn’t interfere with my brooding. If Christie couldn’t put me up, I’d think of something. Even sleeping in the field by the training hill would be better than Stouffer's Escalloped Chicken and Noodles, washed down with a big glass of Mom’s special Friday night piss and vinegar.

But just as the roller coasters of Six Flags came into view, my car phone chirped to life. Traffic kept me from looking at the LED number display. “Hello?”

“Would it kill you to give me a little notice?” Exasperated. Not good. When was the last time I called?

“Sorry, Christie. It was bad tonight and I had to get out. If you’ve got plans, don’t worry about it.”

Her tone softened. “Den had to go down to LA to see his folks. I’m going out with some girlfriends later.”

“Like I said, no worries. Was worth a shot, that’s all.”

“Where are you?”

“In the truck,” I hedged.

“Yeah, I figured that from the shitty reception. Where’s the truck?”

“On the highway. Look, it’s okay. I’ve gotta do bunny hill work tomorrow morning –”

“Do I need frickin’ forceps? Where on the highway?”

“Vallejo,” I sighed.

“A little notice! That’s all I ask! Look, get down here already. Red Sea work for dinner?”

“Christie. It’s okay. Really.”

“Get DOWN here!”

“You’ve got plans.”

“Not until later, and they don’t involve anyone else crashing on my couch. Or at least, they’d better not. Besides . . . you could join us.”

“I’ll crash on your couch, but I’m not crashing your party. The last thing your girlfriends want to deal with is your angsty, depressed older brother!”

Her voice grew soft. “How about my older sister?”

“No!” I couldn’t keep the panic from my voice.

“C’mon, Ang. You know you want to.”

I thought about the stories I’d been reading on that new website. BigCloset. Guy transforms into beautiful girl; finds love and acceptance. Did I want that?

Hell, yeah!

But . . . was it remotely possible? Sure, I wasn’t tall or hypermasculine. I knew I could make myself look okay; I’d done it plenty of times when I had the house to myself. When I grabbed the stepstool from its place by the refrigerator and used it to reach the plastic bin on the top shelf of my own big closet, where I kept my secret stash.

I also knew that I looked even better when Christie helped. It had been our secret, ever since she’d caught me in her room. She was a worldly Middle School queen; I was a confused, tortured high schooler, two years her senior. She’d teased me – of course she had! But then she’d surprised me by being supportive.

Still, it’s one thing to look okay when it’s just me, or me and Christie. I’d never dared to try to pass in front of anyone else. The idea that I could fool her girlfriends or a club full of strangers was fantasy. Nothing wrong with fantasy — I loved those stories! — but that didn’t mean I believed it.

“Angie . . . I haven’t seen you in nearly five years.” She didn’t sound like she was wheedling, this time.

“Look, that was . . . .” Kid stuff. I wanted to say it. I wanted to believe it. But it wasn’t true, and I knew that, now. I’d done enough research to know that I wasn’t just going to wake up one morning and find that I was comfortable and happy with my male body.

She filled the gap my pause left open. “I’ve missed you.”

“Christie, please . . . don’t tease me.”

“Do I sound like I’m teasing? It kills me to see what you’re doing to yourself, trying to pretend that “Andy” is real and you aren’t. Listen, never mind going out. I’ll catch up with the girls another time. But I want you to be you tonight. Please?”

“I don’t want to spoil your evening!”

“Stop it, okay? I’m not just doing this for you. I miss my older sister, and I really, really want to see her again. Capische? So get yourself down here, right now. I’ve got everything you need.”

I gave in. When she wants to be, Christie is both unstoppable and irresistible. “Concedo. I give. I’ll be there in fifteen or twenty.”

Depending on traffic, Berkeley is only an hour-and-a-half to two-and-a-half hours from Woodland, but in every other way they are as far apart as Paris and Podunk. Woodland is ordered and semi-rural, boring and baked by the heat of the Central Valley. Berkeley, cooled by the breezes that flow up the hills from San Francisco Bay, is a tangled mess of one-way streets and foot traffic indifferent to lights, signs or cars.

Berkeley is street people and tents, cheap food and backpacks and almost-constant noise. Burdened, blessed, and above all defined by the University of California’s flagship campus, Berkeley bursts with students desperate to find places to live. The university enrolls about 35,000 and houses maybe ten percent of them. If, like Christie, you manage to get an apartment, you hang on to it, because rent control makes them both cheap and scarce.

Her place was probably half a mile from campus. I parked in the back lot, as usual feeling a little self-conscious about the amount of space the pickup took. It took me longer than it should have to make my way up the stairs to her unit, my heart racing with a mix of anticipation and fear. After a moment’s hesitation, I gave a tentative knock.

“It’s open!”

Christie was sitting at her kitchen table — also her dining room table, work table, and everything else table — cutting the feet off of a pair of laddered nylons. “Just in time!” She gave me a smile and added, “Drop your stuff and get your stuffing, will you?”

I shook my head, bemused. It had been a few years. “You’ve got rice?”

“Better – I’ve got couscous!”

“That’s better?”

“Smaller grains; it’ll make for a smoother look. Know what I’m saying?”

I stepped into her galley kitchen and opened a couple of doors before finding the right one. I gave the container of couscous an experimental shake and decided she was right, as usual. “Here you go.”

“Tell you what – I’ll hold it open, and you pour. Decide how much boobage you want!”

My mind was whirling, worries trying to overwhelm me, but I put them aside and pretended this was no different from back when it was just the two of us and the stakes were low. When Dad was still alive, Mom was still herself, and the household wasn’t in desperate need of someone to play the man’s part. How much boobage? “It’s not like I packed a bra, brat, so I’m going to need to borrow one of yours. That means your size boob, I guess. Say when!”

She rolled her eyes. “Wow – going for the gold, huh? Okay, then, big girl . . . slow it down. Slowly . . . Stop!” She tested the weight. “Feels about right to me.” She tied it off and we repeated the process with what had been the other end of the stocking.

I looked at the two weights, innocently lying on the table, then into her eyes. “Christie . . . I want to. You were right about that. And it scares me. I’m sorry to be so nuts about it.”

“I know. But I want to discuss it with my sister, not my brother. Go shower. Wash your hair, and shave extra close. There’s a terry robe in there for when you’re done.”

“Okay . . . but, aren’t we going to get dinner first?”

“We can get take out later . . . unless I can talk you into going out with me as Angie.” I started to say something but she held her hand up and said, “I”ll be reasonable, I promise. But I’ll only discuss it with Angie. Got it?”

I conceded. “Okay, Sis. We’ll do it your way.”

“I know.” She smiled. My, what big teeth you have!

It took me a bit to get myself looking as presentable as I wanted to. I don’t have a lot of face or body hair, but I didn’t have any back when Christie used to help me, and I wanted to look at least that good. When I was done, I put my shoulder-length hair up in a towel turban and stepped into her robe. As expected, the latter was scandalously short, only covering my upper thighs.

She appeared to be doing serious reading when I emerged. But she gave me an approving smile and said, “everything you need’s laid out for you in the bedroom. Let’s see what you remember.”

Her selections were pure Christie — part practical, part challenge. A bra and panty set the color of milk chocolate, a short, stretchy black skirt, and a russet-colored silky top with boat neck. Black sandals with a low, stable heel. No stockings, so nothing to disguise my legs. I got dressed, pausing to slide my “boobage” into the D-cups of Christie’s bra. That girl has it where it counts!

“Looks like you haven’t forgotten your ABC’s.” She was leaning against the doorframe, a fond smile on her face. Just as suddenly, she teared up and spread her arms to give me a rib-bruising hug. “Oh, dammit,” she sniffed. “Where have you been?”

I held her and stroked her thick, fine hair, and a feeling of peace, of rightness, bubbled to the surface. “Shhhh. Shhhh. It’s okay, baby girl. I’ve got you.”

“I needed you so bad,” she whispered, her voice suddenly hoarse. “When Daddy died, and Mommy went nuts. And suddenly you were gone too, and that just left Andy, and he hurt too much to help anyone!”

“I know, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” I pressed her head to my shoulder and used my hands to soothe her as best I could. I couldn’t say anything more, both because I was too choked up, and because I really had nothing to say. Christie knew why I decided to step up and be Andy, and I knew that an explanation isn’t the same as an excuse.

We must have stood like that for ten minutes before Christie relaxed, gave my shoulders a squeeze, and tried to sound like her usual, in-charge self again. “Let me do your hair. And your face. And while I’m at it, I’d better do my face, too!”

I looked at her closely before replying, as gently as I could. “Christie, hon. I know you want to whisk me off to dinner . . . and probably take a run at convincing me to join your crew for a little clubbing. I know how you think! But I’m guessing we aren’t done with crying just yet. Let’s just do take-out tonight, okay? I need some one-on-one time with you.”

That earned me another hug. “Okay, Angie.”

“Good. I’ll dry my hair while you fix your face and put in an order, okay?”

Ten minutes later, my hair was just slightly damp and I was fussing with it. Straight down looked boring, and I hadn’t been all that careful about trimming it. Bangs? No bangs? Enough! I finally just gathered it up on top of my head in a high ponytail and stepped out to see how Christie was doing.

Her eyes still looked red and puffy, but they showed some sparkle when she saw me. “Uh-uh, girlfriend! That won’t do!” She sat me down at her dresser and pulled the band off my hair. “Let’s see what I’ve got to work with here.”

“Yeah, I know . . . . It’s rough.”

She ran her finger through it. “No, I can tell you’ve been taking care of it. Still using the same conditioner I started you on?”

I nodded. “Even trying so hard to be Andy every day, I just couldn’t let it go. I wouldn’t cut it, and . . . I guess the smell of the conditioner tapped a whole lot of good memories.”

She kissed the top of my head. “Good. But you aren’t a teenager anymore, so I’m gonna try something different. Do you trust me?”

“Long as you remember, it's just for tonight,” I warned.

“Ang, why —“

I wouldn’t let her finish the thought. “Please. Not now, okay?”

“Alright,” she said reluctantly. “Spoil-sport. But anyway, it doesn’t matter. With what I have in mind, you can do whatever when you roll your cute little butt out of bed tomorrow.”

“Couch.”

“Whatever. Mi sofa es su sofa.”

“Only you would name your couch Sue.”

She rightly interpreted my smile as a green light, and spent the next few minutes tugging, teasing, and pulling my hair, making me bend over so it flipped upside down, and spraying it like a spinach field infested with aphids. Before she let me look, she spent a few minutes on my face, too. It didn’t take her long.

“There you go,” she said, clearly pleased. “What do you think?”

A mane of tousled hair framed my face, looking both spontaneous and stylish. Well, maybe not stylish. Actually more like I’d just had some pretty damned amazing sex. Hair straight out of a fantasy story! “How do you do that?”

She rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’d say it’s magic, but you know it isn’t. It’s just the stuff most girls get to learn, and you never did.”

I thought I might get weepy, so I asked about the take-out instead.

“Should be ready by the time we get there. You will come with me, won’t you?”

I knew no-one in town, and my own mother wouldn’t recognize me. Well, she would, but only because I looked a lot like Christie. And I felt like it was the least I could do. “Yes, I’ll come. But aren’t I a little overdressed for walking down Telegraph Avenue to grab take-out?”

She giggled. “It’s Berkeley, girl! You could dress like Cinderella at the ball and no-one would bat a false eyelash.”

It’s almost always perfect weather in the cities on the eastern edge of San Francisco Bay, and the evening was lovely. Not cold, by any means, but just cool enough to make me hyper aware of my bare and freshly-shaved legs. The short skirt accentuated my thighs with every step, and the crisp clicking of my feminine sandals brought a smile to my glossy lips. I’m living in a story! Right now! “I love this. All of this.”

“I know.”

The sound of a bitter argument broke the peace of the moment, but it proved to be just a single guy, scraggly hair and beard, shuffling in our direction. Near as I could tell, he was only arguing with himself. Normally I would have paid him no attention, but dressed as I was, I felt strangely vulnerable.

“Hi Alistair,” Christie called as we got close. “How’s your evening?”

He ignored her — ignored us both — and just continued his argument, though as he passed us by he paused his invective just long enough to mutter, “spare change?”

“Not tonight, sorry!” Christie sounded regretful, though firm.

“Alistair?”

“I don’t know what his name is and he won’t tell me. But it feels wrong not to call him something.”

I thought about that. “Is the wrong name better than no name?”

Christie was quiet for a moment, the music of her heels syncing up with mine. Then she ran her hand lightly across my back, a friendly gesture that caused the silky top to slide across the straps of the bra I was wearing. “You tell me. Is it?”

I wobbled on my low heels, but managed to right myself. Resolutely, I said, “Look, enough about my dramas. I haven’t seen you in months. How’r your classes going? How’s Dennis?”

“The Cliff’s Notes version is, ‘I’m good, he’s good, and we’re good.’”

“I don’t suppose there’s a longer version of that story? Maybe with a bit more detail? Local color? It might be on the test.”

She snorted. “Have it your way. But I’m warning you: We’re going to have a serious talk before we go to sleep!”

The story of her life and times managed to occupy the rest of our walk to the restaurant and back. I found myself regretting that I hadn’t come out to visit her more often; it’s not like I didn’t come out to the Bay Area every chance I got.

But while the landscape that we walked through was all familiar, her stories felt like letters from a strange, exotic, and very foreign place. Days and nights packed with classes, a close-knit group of friends with whom she both studied and partied, and a semi-serious relationship with a guy in the architecture department . . . . I could only shake my head.

“I am so glad,” I said, finally. We were back in her apartment, setting plates on what was, once again, her dining room table.

“Glad you came?”

“That, of course. But no; I was thinking I’m so glad that you’ve really found yourself, here. You’ve managed to build a busy, exciting life.”

She took a chair and waved me into the other one. “College life is kind of a bubble. It isn’t like it’s the real world.”

I pulled off a piece of spongy injera and nabbed some spicy lentils. “I disagree. The rest of your life will certainly be different, but it won’t be any more ‘real.’”

“Be serious! My rent is so cheap it’s almost embarrassing; my tuition is subsidized, and my time is my own. How’s that real?”

“Your studies are real because you take them seriously. Your friends are real. Dennis is real.”

She leaned back in her seat, toying with her wine glasses and giving me a thoughtful look. “It should have been you.”

“No.”

“I’m serious. How many colleges did you get into? You were so excited. Then Dad died, and Mom fell apart. I guess I did, too, some. And you held it all together, and got real jobs, and kept us from losing everything until Mom was able to go back to work.”

“Tower Records is a great place, but I wouldn’t call it a ‘real job.’”

“Tower Records, and the print shop, and doing drywall . . . I don’t even remember the rest. And all I could think of was how quickly I could finish high school and get the fuck out.”

“Christie, don’t do this to yourself. You belong here, right now. Doing just what you’re doing.”

“I left you holding the bag, and we both know it!”

“C’mon. Mom needed someone; she didn’t need two someone’s. Besides, you know how proud she is of how well you’re doing. It means at least as much to her as what I do.”

“You thought she needed a man.”

I shrugged, embarrassed. “Or as close to one as I can manage.”

“Let’s say for a minute that she does need one of us, and go even further and say you should be the one.” She waved a piece of loaded injera. “For the sake of argument— I’m not conceding anything here! But you’re as much a girl as I am. Why hide it from her?”

“Because she can’t handle it.”

“How do you know that?”

I sighed. No easy way to say this. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t there. She holds it together, most of the time. Grinds through the week. By Friday, she’s practically feral. She needs to retire — for her sake, and her students’ sake — but she can’t afford to. And she blames Dad for that. For having no pension or insurance when he died.”

“I know all that. What’s it got to do —”

I cut her off. “You don’t know. She was bad before, but she’s gotten worse. She’s got no resilience anymore. No ability to roll with any bumps.” I waved a rueful hand at my augmented chest. “Let alone a pair of them.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? She accepts you, or she kicks you out. Then you’re free.”

It’s not that simple. I tried to sound reasonable. “Well, she needs the money I contribute to pay the mortgage and taxes, so she’d lose the house.”

She flinched. Dad had practically built that house; every inch was a testament to his skill as a craftsman and his love affair with woodworking. But she shook it off resolutely. “Then she sells it. She can find a small apartment she can afford on her own salary.”

“She could,” I agreed. “And maybe it would be better if she did. Better for all of us.”

“Well, then . . . .”

“It’s not just the house, or the money. She’s still in there, somewhere. The Mom we remember. She still loves us, even if she forgets how to show it, most times. She worries about me; she’s proud as all get out about you. But she’s just . . . she’s broken. If I don’t help hold her together — give her someone she can safely yell at, even — she’ll shatter.”

“You can’t live your life for her forever.”

“Forever’s a long time, kid.” I forced a smile. “No-one’s talking about forever. She’ll be able to retire in five years; four if there’s a package. That’ll take a huge amount of pressure off her.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, like she was counting to ten to control her frustration. It didn’t work. “Can’t you see it’s killing you!”

“No. It’s bad, sometimes. Like tonight. I just hit a wall, for some reason. Usually I’m able to cope. I’ve got my flying. And then, ah . . . .” I paused. Maybe I shouldn’t have started that sentence.

“And then?”

“I found this new website. It was started by someone like me, I think. At least, they have lots of stories about girls who, you know, have the wrong equipment. Or silly stories about guys who are magically transformed into girls . . . .”

Christie’s jaw was slack. “Seriously?”

I could feel my face turning red. “Look, this is going to be hard for you to understand. But I’ve lived my whole life thinking I was some kind of freak. I know there are other people who are ‘transgendered.’ But that’s just, you know, book learning. When I go to this website, I can be part of a community. I can read stories that treat my thoughts, my dreams — even my fantasies! — as valid. Worthy of writing about. I can ‘chat’ with people who understand what it’s like. Who know what I go through, every day. I can’t begin to describe what that means to me.”

I couldn’t go on. I’d choked up, and I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing.

She was by my chair in an instant, wrapping strong arms around me and pulling my head to her chest. “God, I’m so sorry!”

Through the tears, I managed to rasp out, “I’ve just been so alone!”

“I’ve been right here, you know. You could have come to me. You. Angie!”

“Can’t you see? I wanted you to get away. To be free to have a life. A good life.”

“Get this through your stubborn, pigheaded excuse for a brain, girl. You are part of my ‘good life.’ I miss you.”

Come on, Angie, I said to myself. Sternly, even. Pull yourself together!

But I couldn’t. It felt too good to just be held.

She let me cry myself out, and when I looked up she was crying too. “Okay,” I said shakily. “Okay. I’m sorry I lost it like that. But thanks for being here.”

She gave me a final squeeze, then sat back down and dabbed her eyes. “Listen. I know I ran. I couldn’t deal with Mom anymore. She broke my heart, every day, and . . . and I just couldn’t. And I’ll admit I was mad at you, for burying Angie and doing the whole ‘man-up’ thing. But I never meant to push you away.”

I looked down, afraid my face would betray me. Yes, I’d stayed away to shield her from the gravitational pull of our family’s drama, hoping she could somehow achieve escape velocity. But I also knew, and she knew, that she most definitely had meant to push me away — so long as I was only presenting as Andy.

The silence stretched too long, and she sighed. “I will be here for you, whether you come as a bother or a sister. I promise. But . . . wouldn’t it help you, to have some place where you can be Angie now and then? Apart from your mysterious website?”

“Don’t knock my website! And I’ve also been Angie in my bedroom, whenever I’m positive I have the house to myself for a few hours. Still . . . I’ve really enjoyed this evening.”

“Then come visit. Regularly, okay? I’ll have my sister back, which makes me happy. You’ll stay more sane, and that’ll help you suppress the urge to strangle our sole remaining parent. Which will also keep you out of jail, and keep me from having to visit a jail to see you. Win-win-win, right?”

I was tired of fighting. Of trying to tell myself that Angie wasn’t real; that my life began and ended with Andy. I was tired of feeling ashamed of who I am. I could well imagine what my new friends at BC would advise: Say “thank you,” you idiot! “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

We cleaned up the plates and switched seats to the couch. Christie had another glass of wine but I passed, knowing that morning would come early and be unforgiving.

Although I hadn’t seen her frequently since she went off to college, we hadn’t been complete strangers. Sometimes, she came up to Woodland for one of the holidays, and I’d visited her a few times in Berkeley, just swinging by. Still, I hadn’t had a real conversation with her in years. Maybe she only opened up to me as Angie. Or maybe I only opened up when I let Angie out.

I was sorry to cut the night short. When I emerged from the bathroom, having removed my makeup and properly moisturized, I was back in boxers and a T-shirt, and I had folded my borrowed clothes with the care and love they deserved.

Christie shook her head. “No, that won’t do.” She pulled me into the bedroom, and fished a pink satin nightie with rose-colored lace from her dresser. “This is for you. Not just tonight, either. Take it with you. For whenever.”

I couldn’t refuse if I’d wanted to — and I didn’t want to. I thanked her, changed, and settled myself on the couch under a light blanket. The nightie felt as sweet as a long caress, and I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

An erotic dream, intense but immediately forgotten, gifted me with an almost painful case of morning wood. My travel alarm read 5:52, though, so I hadn’t missed more than ten minutes of sleep. I carefully rolled off the couch and turned off the alarm.

Christie isn’t a morning person and I intended to let her sleep. But when I got out of the bathroom, still in my new nightie, she was already making coffee. She threw me a smile and a “good morning, Sis!”

“Hey,” I said shyly. The nightie was awfully revealing, and I felt exposed both literally and figuratively.

“The tousled look held up pretty well,” she said, appraising what was left of her styling efforts. “Between that and your new sleepwear, you look like a sex kitten.”

I couldn’t suppress a guffaw, which probably didn’t do wonders for my budding kittenhood. “Thanks . . . I think.”

She busied herself a bit in the kitchen and ignored my protestations that she shouldn’t bother. In short order, she put yogurt, fruit and coffee on the table and waved me to a seat. “So you're giving lessons today?”

I nodded. “Yep. All beginners; never touched a glider.”

She shook her head. “I guess I’m with Mom on this one, though God knows that makes me doubt my sanity. You should get hazard pay, doing something so dangerous.”

“I only get paid to teach beginners, and that couldn’t be safer. I mean, I stay on the ground, almost the whole time, and the students don’t go much higher than ten feet off the ground.”

“Well, okay, I guess. But . . . you’re already working three jobs. At least they’re closer to home. Why do this?”

“Honestly, all the money I earn teaching— and, just so we’re clear, only that money — goes for my own gear and lessons. Other than the time I spend with my virtual trans community, it’s the one thing I do just for me.”

“I’m sorry, Angie. I don’t get it. You are the most responsible person I know. Why would you do something as crazy as . . . as jumping off a mountain strapped to a kite? For thrills? That doesn’t sound like you at all!”

I took a long pull from my coffee to think how to answer her. “It’s not for thrills, you’re right there. I’m extremely careful.”

“What, then? Help me out here.”

“It’s almost as hard as explaining why my online trans community is so important to me. I’ve . . . I mean, my life’s crazy, okay? It weighs me down sometimes. These are things that keep me sane.”

I could tell by her expression that my explanation hadn’t helped.

I tried again. “When I’m up there, there aren’t any demands. No expectations. No one judging how I look, how I act. What I say. Male, female — none of that matters. The wind doesn’t care. I’m free.”

She looked at me for a long moment without saying anything, then just reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’d like to see that, someday. Just remember there are people here on earth who love you, okay?”

“I’ll do that.”

The clock on the wall said it was almost seven, and I still wasn’t even dressed. I gave Christie a hand with the dishes, then dashed into the bathroom and changed to a pair of sweats, a t-shirt and a hoodie. I figured I could deal with the hair later.

Christie walked me down to the car, subdued now that I was back in Andy mode. I tossed my bag in the back, then turned and gave her a hug. “Hey. I know I look wrong, but it’s still me in here, and I still love you. Okay?”

She nodded, then gave my cheek a kiss. “Come back soon, okay? You owe me an evening of clubbing!”

I stepped up into the driver’s seat, then got the phone out of the glove compartment to see whether I had any last-minute messages from Jason. Sure enough, the light was flashing.

Beep. “Andy, it’s your mother. I think the cable is out, I’m just getting static. What time are you going to be home? Oh, and Chuck Morsey wants you to call about extra time at the print shop next week. Call me.”

Beep. “Andy, my man. It’s Gordo. We got a last minute rush job rocking a family room. Dude tried to DIY and it is so FUBAR. We need you to do your taping magic. Give me a jingle, okay?”

Beep. “Andy? Andy, it’s Mom. The cable’s still out. Thought you should know. Bye.”

Beep. “Andy, it’s Jason. I’m scrubbing the morning class. Winds at the hill are twelve to fifteen and NWS says that’ll hold ‘til noon or one o’clock. But Tim and Courtney say the west launch on Tam looks good. The Falcon’s yours if you want it.”

My blood pressure had risen through the first three messages, as the world rushed back in after my special time with Christie. But Jason’s message . . . !

A wrap on the door panel startled me. Christie said, “I was waiting to wave as you drove off into the sunrise or something, but you just sat there with the phone in your ear. Is everything okay?”

“Better than okay. Do you really want to see me fly?”

She broke into a big smile. “Hell, yeah!”

“I won’t interfere with your studying?”

“I’m good . . . I figured I’d be sleeping off a hangover this morning anyway. Can you give me a minute to get dressed?”

“I’ll come up. The class was a scheduled thing. Jason doesn’t care when I pick up the glider for my own use.”

“Huh,” she said. “That gives me an idea!”

~o~O~o~

Around an hour and a half later, I was on the west slope of Mount Tamalpais, preflighting the glider I hoped to buy in the not-too-distant future. Christie watched, asked questions, and even helped as I extended the wings, attached the battens, set up the ridge pole and checked every guy-wire and connection.

When I was confident the glider was ready, I put my helmet over my “tousled” hair and stepped into my harness, smiling as the pressure made me aware of the lingerie Christie had insisted I wear under my sweats. The chocolate-colored bra-and-panty set were now mine, as well as a cream-colored camisole.

I was more grateful than ever before that the preflight checklist was etched in my brain, because my mind was pulling in too many directions. I had calls to deal with. And Mom’s cable. Jobs to do.

And I needed to figure myself out. I knew I was a woman inside even if the rest of the world couldn’t see it, just as surely as I could feel Christie’s silky underthings caress my skin, hidden from the world by bulky male sweats. But was that enough? Could I let myself be Angie now and then, on BC and with Christie, or would that just make it harder to play “Andy” the rest of my life?

Christie brought the nose of the glider down so I could hook myself in and do a hang check. Everything good. I rose, putting my upper arms into the downtube triangle to lift the glider up. A sweet light breeze gave it enough lift that the weight was almost non-existent.

But my mind was still whirling, distracted. Do I have to be Andy? Does Mom really need me there? Last night felt so good. So right.

“Be safe!” Christie said. “I’ll meet you at Stinson Beach!” Then she stepped back and out of the way.

Breathe, Ang!

My focus narrowed, as it always did, to the strip of dry grass immediately in front of me, sloping downhill. Gently at first, then more steeply. I felt the light wind on my face and turned my body ever so slightly, bringing the big delta wing over my head just a little to the left. When it felt perfectly balanced, I knew I was heading straight.

Look left. Look right. Look straight. All good.

Breathe!

My shout of “Clear!!!” rang out in the stillness of the morning. I began to move forward, trotting smoothly down the hill, keeping the wing level and straight into the eye of the wind. Four steps. Five.

The hill fell away beneath me. Instinctively, I pulled the base tube in, causing the glider nose to drop and airspeed to increase. Pull right, stiff left arm then back, and I slid into a slow, graceful turn that brought me parallel to the ridge, staying in the lift zone caused by the light morning air moving up the mountain. Airspeed remained constant, but groundspeed increased dramatically since I was no longer flying into the wind.

On my right, Tamalpais burned with the color of ripe hay, while on my left the vast expanse of the Pacific stretched to the farthest horizon, where the sky outlined the curvature of the earth. The silver strand of Stinson’s Beach was miles ahead. I could be there much faster than Christie, since she had to take the S-10 down the winding mountain roads, but I wasn’t planning a short or straight flight. I could stay up in the ridge lift for hours.

My problems would be waiting for me when my feet touched sand again. They always were. But all of time was reduced to the moment I was in – to air and light, the salt tang of the ocean, and the feel of wind rushing past my face. The world was so beautiful up here, so perfect, and my heart sang with the sure knowledge that I was part of it all. I was myself, and for that sliver of eternity, that was all I needed to be.

I soared.

— The End

~o~O~o~

Author's note: This story is dedicated, with love and affection, to the BC Community, to Erin, who created this space, and to everyone who has helped her to maintain it for twenty-five years.

June 30, 2024
— Emma Anne Tate

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.