Chapter One

I try to struggle to my feet. It’s useless. Chris straddles me, laughing at my attempt to get free.

“C’mon, little brother. What’d I teach you?”

“Please...” The knee gouging into my spine makes it hard to breathe. “Stop.”

“Don’t be a sissy. Fight my ass! Be a man!”

A swat to the back of my head knocks my face into the worn, dog-scented carpet. I will myself not to cry. “Don’t. Please.”

“Jesus, Shannon, you’re not even trying. Are you a man or a little bitch? Well are you?” Chris punctuates the insult with a slap to my butt.

“Let me up!”

“Then show me what you’re made of! Or say you’re a bitch. Say it and I’ll get off.”

I keep my mouth shut. Maybe if I go limp...

“Say it! Say you’re a bitch!”

I mumble something.

“I can’t hear you.”

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into the rug. “I’m a bitch.”

“Damn straight.” Instantly, the pressure comes off my back. Chris stands, regarding me with amusement and contempt. She straightens her shirt and adjusts her ponytail. Beaming down at me, she looks for all the world like the model off some teen girl magazine. Slightly disheveled, but still.

“Dad says it’s time for dinner, Shannon. Oh, c’mon, get up. I didn’t hurt you.”

I pull my knees to my chin. “I’m fine.”

My sister pauses. “Seriously. I was just funning. Get on up, big guy. It’s all good.”

I pretend to tie my shoe. “I’ll be there in a second.”

For a moment I think she’s going to apologize. To realize that maybe I have feelings and they can be hurt.

But I only hear the door close.

And that’s when I allow myself the tears.

*

The living room TV is on. The TV is always on. I have no conscious recollection of it ever being turned off. Not on Christmas day. Not on my birthday. Not at night.

My first memory is of a car commercial.

My family isn’t so low-class as to eat in front of the television. No. We eat in the kitchen, like all good Americans. But we can still see the screen.

Like all good Americans.

Chris is already at the table. She looks up at me, and for just one second, I think she looks sorry. Sorry that she humiliated me. Sorry that she hurt me.

She smiles and belches.

“Knock that shit off.” My father, grinning, barges up to the table, a steaming meatloaf in one pot holdered hand. He pauses to smack Chris on the back of the head.

I sigh, wearily.

Chris isn’t bothered, however. She just flips my father the bird.

Dad’s already doling out the meat. “That your age or your IQ?”

I’ve heard that joke a thousand times.

Silently, I join them at the table. My father slaps a huge, fatty hunk of meatloaf on my plate.

“Dad...” We go through this like every meal.

“It’s good stuff,” he says, not looking at me. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

It must be true, Dad’s got hair on almost every surface of his body. “It’s just that you said we could start having vegetarian meals occasionally.”

“Mmm!” mocks Chris, her mouth full. “Twigs and gravel.”

Dad flashes his yellow teeth at me from behind his beard. “Next week, sport. I promise.”

He promised over a month ago. And my name is Shannon, not ‘sport.’

I ladle out a heap of green beans, then open my copy of Fahrenheit 451.

“Uh uh.” My father shakes his head. “Put it away, Shannon. Family meal.”

I slam my book onto the table. “Mom working late again?” I ask, maybe just a little spitefully.

His face clouds. “You know she’s doing swing shifts for a while. “

I picture my mother, bent over the conveyor belt at the plastics factory, screwing hinges onto glove compartment pieces, night after night, surrounded by employees living in terror of some guy in Bengal who’d do their job for a fifth of their wages. I think of my father, driving his taxi all over the city all day and still barely making ends meet, because who the hell needs a cab in Des Moines?

I feel like an ass for complaining. It’s not my family’s fault they don’t look at things from a global perspective. Hell, maybe I can be kind of hard to get along with...

A hot buttered roll pegs me in the eye. As I yelp in surprise, I see my sister grinning at me.

“Think fast, Shannon.”

And Dad...Dad just laughs.

I take my fork and stab at the grease ball on my plate. One more year. One more year of high school and I can leave this place.

When Chris graduated last year, I assumed she’d move out. Get her own apartment, in some other neighborhood or some other city. Maybe even go to school. She’s smart enough. And driven enough to succeed, if she actually ever tried to do anything.

Instead, she went from part time to full time at the Dollar General. She still lives at home. Still parties with the same group of high school friends. Still takes time to whale on her younger brother.

I think Dad realizes I’m upset. “So how was school today, Shannon?”

I shrug. I sat where I was told to sit. I put marks on the papers as instructed. I did not act stupid enough or smart enough to cause problems for the establishment. I talked to no one. I dropped my best pen in the toilet.

“The usual.”

“Hey, don’t be modest,” my sister chimes in. “Tell him what you did today, Shannon.”

I freeze. With my eyes, I beg her to shut up. To drop this.

Dad glances back and forth between us. “What? What happened?”

Chris wipes her mouth. “The drama club was having auditions for the spring production. And ol’ Clark Gable here tried out.”

I turn and stare venom at my blabbermouth sister. “How did you know that?”

She shrugs. “Vonnda told me.”

Someone needs to remind my sister that high school lasts four years, not five. She doesn’t need to keep up with the gossip or the old crowd anymore. I know I won’t.

Not that I really have a crowd.

“Like a play?” asks my dad. “That’s great, Shannon. You haven’t been in anything since you were a freshman.”

“Yeah, I brought down the house as ‘Townsperson Number 2.’” I can’t look him in the face. Not that stupid, happy-go-lucky grin.

“So when will you—”

“I don’t know! Just drop it, okay?”

They give me the stink eye, but I don’t care. I don’t want to sit here and explain how I already know that I’m not going to make the cut. That when it comes to school productions, talent has nothing to do with who is cast. It’s all about politics and cliques and...looks. Good looks.

And popularity. The right friends. Connections. Which is why my audition today was stupid.

I’m no longer hungry. I retreat to my room.

No one tries to stop me. They never do.

*

I walk home from school the next day, angry and sad. Mostly sad.

They’ve posted the cast list for the spring production. And I’m on it.

Man on train: Shannon Ferguson

It didn’t matter that I’d practiced for weeks for one of the lead roles. It didn’t matter that I’d had the entire monolog memorized while everyone else just read the script. It didn’t even matter that I’d been working behind the scenes at the various school productions since elementary school.

No, what matters is that I’m short and gangly and unpopular.

It wouldn’t sting so bad if it were fellow students making the casting calls. I wouldn’t expect anything more from them. But Mrs. Hardy and Mr. Darst. I really thought they’d do the right thing. I really thought they’d choose talent over looks.

I need solitude. I need alone time. Mom and Dad are both working. I’ll just go home and lock myself in my room. It’ll be okay, just as long as…

Shit.

They’re here. The three or four identical POS cars that have been parked in front of my house every weekend since Chris was a sophomore. And they’ll contain the same half dozen people who’ve been hanging around here since we were in junior high.

I don’t need this. Not today. Bracing myself, I head through the front door. If luck is with me, they’ll be on the back porch.

Nope, right in the living room. The same group of kids Chris hung out with in high school. The same group of now nineteen and twenty year olds, still in Des Moines. Still working at the same fast food joints and retail stores, still reliving their past drinking glories, and still hanging out on my parents’ couch.

“Shannon!” barks one of the guys. “How’s it hanging?” I wave, half-heartedly. When I graduate next year, I’m only coming back to this house for Thanksgiving and Christmas. If then.

As I turn toward my bedroom, I feel an arm wrap around my neck. I’m soon in a semi-headlock, much to the amusement of our guests.

“C’mon, Chris, knock it off.”

She releases me. I rub my shoulder. The only female member of the wrestling team in the history of my high school and she happens to be my sister.

“Shannon! Hey, c’mon, sit down with us,” she sweetly commands. Her friends bark in

approval, either of me joining them, or Chris saying anything, or of their ability to breathe oxygen.

“Maybe later.”

“C’mon, you never want to hang out anymore.”

I don’t recall ever wanting to hang out, period. “Some other time.”

“Shannon, this is your last year here…”

I start to walk away. Her hand on my arm stops me.

It really stops me. To a casual observer, it may seem like a sisterly touch. But I feel the pressure. The strength. The look in her eyes.

If I don’t obey, she’s going to hurt me.

I sit on the couch.

I sit on the couch like some well trained puppy. I turn down offers of beer, of dope, of girls. They eventually stop trying to talk to me. I can’t wait to leave, both from the living room and from this life.

But will I really get out? Or will every audition I attend be another humiliation like today?

Chris is in the kitchen. I have to leave. If I go to my room, Chris will just drag me out. I’ll hang out on the porch. I can make a break for it if she comes after me.

“Just getting some air,” I yelp, as I head for the back door. No one hears me.

Freedom at last. Except I’m not alone. There’s someone out here. Someone I’ve never seen before.

A girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She’s leaning on the porch railing. She has fair, freckled skin, dyed reddish hair, and the narrowest nose I’ve ever seen. A skinny frame and an obvious retainer complete the vision of awkwardness.

She glances at me with little curiosity.

Who the hell is she? How have I not met her before? She’s completely beautiful.

She takes a drag from her cigarette.

Almost completely.

“Hey,” I say, my problems temporarily forgotten.

She exhales smoke in my direction and nods. I join her at the railing.

“I’m Shannon. Chris’s brother.”

“I know.” There’s a pause. “I’m Tanya. Pete’s sister.”

I don’t know who Pete is. I fumble for something to say. “You didn’t have to come out here to smoke.” It’s true. Our house already smells like an ashtray.

She butts her cigarette on the railing. “Too noisy in there. I came out here to be alone.”

“Hey, me too! It’s so nice to get away from the crowd, isn’t it?”

She lifts one shoulder in what might be a shrug.

I lean against the railing next to her. I struggle to think of something cool to say. I try to recall every online lesson I took about stage presence and projection. I try to make myself appear to be larger.

“So didn’t I see you at the spring musical tryouts?” I didn’t, but it’s a way to start a conversation.

“Nope.” She glances over her shoulder.

“Oh, thought I saw you there. I, um, just landed a part.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, not much, but hey, you know what they say. There are no small roles, only small actors.”

She’s leaving. Without thinking, I step in front of her.

“Hey, you want to go for a walk?”

Without a pause she weaves around me, and without a look back, returns to my house.

Perfect effing ending to today.

*

In my room. Alone. Headphones plugged in. I can’t hear the TV. I can’t hear Chris and her friends laughing at their own jokes, at the television, and whatever they find so funny about our lives.

I stare at my laptop screen. I bought this computer with my own cash, nearly a year of tutoring money. My parents don’t know I have this.

Not that they wouldn’t approve, or would try to monitor my internet or something. It’s just that last Christmas, they bought me a secondhand laptop. Probably paid a fortune for it. God, the looks on their faces.

I can’t tell them it was a broken, outdated piece of shit. I can’t let them know they were ripped off. It sits on my desk, pristine and untouched. I let them think it was the best present ever.

My door is locked. Not that that ever stopped Chris before, with my ill-fitting latch and her powerful shoulders. Hopefully she’s too busy with her friends to bother me again. I log onto my email account.

And there it is. They’ve responded.

My hand hovers indecisively over the mouse. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been through this before. It’s not like this is good news. The logical side of my brain tells me to delete the message unread.

But still...

I open the letter.

Dear applicant...

Shit, shit, shit.

Same as always. The form letter. Polite, generic words, telling me in two paragraphs why I’ve been passed over for the audition. Or drama program. Or scholarship. Vague, sweet sounding terms that all mean the same thing.

You’re just not good looking, Shannon. Not enough. Not really.

Now, it’s not a requirement that you have to be Ryan Reynolds gorgeous to break into theater. But it sure as hell helps.

And there are exceptions to the rule. But for every John Goodman and Seth Rogan, there’s a thousand guys with washboard abs, blue eyes and six inch chins who are clamoring for the role of ‘waiter.’

So where does that leave me? Double checking the lock on my door, I pull out my secret envelope. The one filled with the headshots I had done at the mall last winter. God, if anyone ever found out...

And there, staring me in the face, is the reason I’ll never get a lead role. Not in Hollywood, not in the school musical, not in the Des Moines Players production of Rent.

My face. My brown-eyed, hollow cheeked, snub nosed, straight haired, gap toothed face.

My longish hair didn’t say ‘rebel’, it said ‘guy too clueless to know when he needs a haircut.’ My smile didn’t say ‘Yes, that is a gun in my pocket and I am happy to see you.’ It says ‘Paper or plastic, ma’am?’ And my eyes don’t say ‘You feeling lucky, punk?’ They say ‘Please don’t hit me.’

The whole picture says ‘future employee of the month at the Apple Genius Bar.’

My parents would be so proud.

Seriously. That time I resurrected my mom’s cell phone after she dropped it in the sink, they called my grandparents to brag.

I’m about to slam the laptop shut in frustration, when I decide to log onto desperation.com. That’s not the real URL, but it should be. It’s a website where thousands of out of work actors post leads, rumors, and other vague hints of where the next big audition is going to be. The one big break. The role that’s going to knock them out of obscurity.

I’m quite familiar with the site.

I check anyway. It’s the usual tripe.

They say Chuck Johansen dropped out of the latest Delta Strike movie. Any African-American actors who can play a blind man should get ready to audition.

I hear they’re going to be filming the next Bohemian Buccaneers movie in Charlotte. Any east coast actors who can do a good pirate voice should stay by their phone.

LARGE MOTION PICTURE COMPANY LOOKING FOR ACTRESSES 18-25 GUARANTEED WORK PLEASE E-MAIL...

Sigh...

It’s only when I see a photo of Natalia Jenkins that I pause. And smile.

That perfect, heart-shaped face. The adorable blond bob. Those curvy, um, other assets.

But it’s not just her looks. It’s the whole package (and believe me, the package is wrapped nicely). Her almost meteoric rise to stardom in the past couple of years. The adorable way she’d tripped on the stairs going to claim her Oscar. The selfless way she worked, campaigning for the environment, women’s rights, universal healthcare.

I thought about her a lot.

Yeah, me and half the guys in America. But still. I could picture me getting cast as a hotel clerk or something in one of her movies. During a lull in filming, we start talking. She’s impressed by my intelligence and my love for Skylar Robbins novels (which I started reading after she mentioned them on her blog). Afterwards, she invites me out for coffee.

I laugh out loud. Kind of a roadblock to that fantasy, Shannon. You’ll never be in the same room with Natalia Jenkins. And it’s not like she’s going to invite you to come out to Los Angeles to meet her.

I glance at the link under her picture.

COME OUT TO LOS ANGELES AND MEET ME!

Uh...

Chapter Two

The following Monday, I sit in front of my webcam, paralyzed with indecision. I practiced this all weekend. It should be simple. It should be fun. The opportunity to actually send a message to Natalia Jenkins, and I can’t think of a thing to say.

I log onto the website again. Becoming.com . It’s a reality show, a series. Every episode, some lucky fan gets to shadow their idol for a couple of months. To live with them. Work with them. Hang out with them. Perform with them.

I watch a clip of a young guitarist meeting his punk rock hero. Within a month, the kid is decked out in skeleton makeup and playing backup at a rowdy concert. In another show, a high school second stringer meets his idol, the quarterback for the Browns. At the end of the episode, the kid throws a touchdown pass in a practice game (I think. It was the Browns, after all, maybe they really signed him on). I see aspiring actors, musicians, and athletes living the dream with the people they admire.

Natalia will be filming an episode in a couple of months. To be considered, all you have to do is submit a two-minute video essay.

And I don’t know what to say.

I mean, I can think of plenty to say, but nothing impressive. Nothing to make me stand out among the thousands of fans who will surely apply for this. Really, what makes me so special? A seventeen-year-old kid from Iowa, sitting here in my father’s dress shirt, trying to think of something to tell this gorgeous movie star that doesn’t sound like ‘I want to see you naked?’

Miss Jenkins, I’ve always admired your work with...

Miss Jenkins, I’m your biggest fan...

Natalia, I think you and I...

Hell with it. I shouldn’t bother. Shouldn’t set myself up for a really painful form letter.

“Hey, numbnuts!”

Chris has barged in without knocking. I quickly turn the laptop screen away.

“Dad wants you...hey, what were you looking at?”

“Nothing!” I attempt to shut down the browser, but it locks up, of course. Chris hovers over my shoulder.

“What is this, some kind of porno site? Hey, let me see!”

I can’t let her know what I’m doing. I’d hear about this for the rest of my life. She’d tell our parents.

Acting on instinct, I throw an elbow backward and catch her in the gut. I hear her gasp in pain.

A second later, I’m the one gasping when she slaps me in the ear.

“I was just looking, jerkwad!” she storms out of the room.

I will not cry...

I will not...

Oh, to hell with it.

I turn on the camera. I shove my face toward the grainy screen. I do not smile.

“My name is Shannon. I do not fit in anywhere. Please help me get away.”

*

The invitation comes a week before school lets out. And I’m not the first one to see it. My mom is.

Mom always looks hungover. She’s perpetually bleary eyed, yawning, and headachy. It’s funny how a ten-hour shift has the same end results as a hard night of drinking.

I’m at the kitchen table, reading. I promised Dad I wouldn’t spend so much time in my room. Plus Chris is blasting her stereo, so that side of the house is kind of a war zone anyway.

Mom kisses me on the top of my head. I try not to stiffen.

We go through the usual dance of how-was-your-day-fine-how-was-yours-fine. Just when I think we’re through, she throws in an extra line.

“Picked up a little something for you today.”

I cringe inside. She doesn’t need to waste money on stuff for me. And I do mean waste. Just because I like reading, doesn’t mean I want my own copy of Devotionals for Teens or the abridged version of Moby Dick.

But then she drops a large envelope in front of me.

“I had to sign for this at the post office. What is it?”

A registered letter? I’m too young for jury duty or the draft. It’s a huge envelope with padding and everything. No name on the return address, just a PO Box in Los Angeles.

Wait a minute...

Mom is hovering over my shoulder. “Well?” she asks excitedly.

“Nothing. Just, um, some, uh, comic books I ordered. Excuse me.”

I rush for my room.

*

The first thing I remove is an autographed glossy of Natalia.

Dear Shannon,

I’m looking forward to meeting you this summer! We’re going to have a blast!

XXX

Natalia

I collapse on the floor.

I did it. I won. I came out on top.

For the first time in seventeen years, Shannon is number one. How many people entered this contest? Five-thousand? Ten-thousand? And they chose me.

She chose me.

I bite my knuckle to keep from screaming.

I picture the twits who didn’t cast me in the spring production. I picture Chris, mocking my attempts to get into drama camp.

I picture Natalia, meeting me at her door with one of her famous lemongrass milkshakes.

Can this really be happening?

I reverently place the photo in a folder in my desk, then dive into the stack of paperwork.

Dear Shannon, (not ‘dear applicant’)

Congratulations! You have been selected to appear on the newest season of Becoming. Natalia Jenkins was very impressed with your video letter. She feels you are a remarkable young person and is looking forward to working with you.

Please complete and sign the attached forms and return them to us by the end of May. Upon receipt of the contract, we will send you a plane ticket to Los Angeles (departing the week of June 2nd). For the next five weeks you’ll be staying at our luxury hotel, living like the star you’ve dreamt of becoming!

They know me so well.

All your food and transportation will be provided. But the best part is, you’ll be hanging out with Oscar-winning actress Natalia Jenkins, star of such hits as My Brother’s Keeper and Sahara Safari! You’ll experience some of the trendiest shopping, dining, and nightlife the Golden State has to offer. But that’s not all! After some exciting one on one coaching from Natalia, you’ll go on stage for an actual speaking role in her upcoming movie Darkness in the Daytime!

We look forward to seeing you in California this summer. Again, congratulations!

It’s happening. It’s really finally actually happening. Do I burst out of my room and rub this in Chris’s stupid face, or do I wait for dinner? Wait for them to ask me how my day was?

I’m too giddy to think. I can barely read the enclosed contract. It’s dense legalese, but they’ve attached a brief summary page on top:

1) I’m not getting paid for this.

2) They own my ass for five weeks, and can film anything I say or do for the show.

3) I’m on social media blackout. As soon as I arrive, anything I post online is subject to the approval of the gods.

4) I’m not to make a drunken ass of myself.

5) If I’m under the age of 18, I’ll need to have a parent or guardian accompany me...

Wait, what was that last one?

I reread it, then check the actual clause in the contract.

Any contestant under eighteen has to have an adult with them for the entire five weeks of filming. The show will pay for the hotel and plane ticket. No exceptions.

I won’t turn eighteen until October.

I think of my parents. Five weeks. Over a month with one of them in LA.

It’s unthinkable. It’s impossible.

They can’t miss five days of work. Hell, five hours is a stretch.

I stare at the papers in my hand. My dreams in physical form. The one thing I’ve ever wanted. My ticket out of here.

And I can’t go.

No point in hiding the tears this time.

*

Four hours later, things seem just as black. Every scenario I imagine is hopeless. All my adult relatives have jobs. No one could miss this much work.

I can’t ask the producers to bend the rules for me. They’d cancel the contract the second I brought it up.

I can’t lie about my age. Mom and Dad are going to insist on seeing all the paperwork. They won’t let me fake being eighteen.

Could I lie about where I’m going? Say I got into a drama camp or something? Unlikely. They’ll want to know the details. Want to see the brochures. Want to research the facility, talk to someone in charge.

I stare morosely at Natalia’s photo.

We were so close.

I need air. Sliding the envelope full of my broken dreams under the bed, I head out to the darkness of the back porch.

My Dad and I scare the hell out of each other.

“What are you...” we both bark, when we realize we’re not facing down a burglar.

My question really needs no answer. Dad’s guilty expression and the smell of smoke in the air gives him away. He told me he was going to try to quit...

He looks at me expectantly. I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

We both stare at each other. It shouldn’t be this awkward between a father and son.

“Hey, Dad?

“Yeah?”

“Do you think, this summer, you and I could take a trip sometime?”

He grins so wide I feel terrible about my true motives. “You bet! We haven’t been camping in years.”

Here goes nothing. “Well...I was thinking of something maybe longer. Like a road trip.”

He looks thoughtful. “Yeah, I got some time coming up. What did you have in mind? Chicago for a couple of days?”

“Um...I was thinking of something…more. How much time could you take off?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Shannon, you know fares are way down. I go away for more than a few days, they might realize they can make do without me.”

I try to laugh it off. “Sure. I understand. Camping would be great.”

“Fighting mother nature on her own uncompromising terms! Man versus the wild!”

I manage a thin smile. The awkwardness descends again. Dad moves, as if to leave, then stops.

“Hey, Shannon, is everything okay?”

“Huh? Yeah. Fine.”

Dad starts to walk away again, but pauses. “Talk to me, Son. You’ve been weird lately.”

And I want to. I want to tell him everything. About the contest, and how I’m going to miss getting a chance to meet my hero and act in one of her movies because I’m four stinking months too young. But I can’t tell him. He’d just feel bad about not being able to help.

Shannon, I know I said I’d try to pay for that drama camp, but then the furnace went out and…I’m sorry.

You know I wanted to be there, son. I really did. But with half the guys down with the flu, they needed me at work. I’m sorry.

Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Shannon. I was laughing with you. Don’t be mad, sport. I’m sorry.

“Just worried about the future. Kinda feel like I’m not going anywhere. Nothing’s ever going to happen. Does that make sense?”

My father puts his arm on my shoulder. I’m kind of surprised, it’s the first time he’s really touched me since I can remember.

“I know just what you mean. Especially at your age. Big ol’ world out there, and maybe you feel like you don’t have the cash or the time or the talent to see it. But you have to remember, those opportunities aren’t going to be handed to you.”

Nope, they come by registered mail.

Dad continues. “Shannon, this may sound like old person talk, but now’s the time in your life when you got to get out there and make things happen, okay? Don’t sit around and wait for it to come to you, because it won’t.” He swallows, and then says, almost inaudibly, “Believe me.”

I nod and quickly return to my room.

He’s right. This is the chance of a lifetime. Am I going to let some stupid piddly legal clause rob me of my chance to drink mimosas with Natalia Freakin’ Jenkins? Nope.

But I have to think this through. When am I supposed to go to California? Early June. And I’ll turn eighteen in October, so I’m just a few months over the limit. So...why not exaggerate the truth? Tell them my birthday is in May or something? It can’t be that hard to get a fake ID...by the time the show goes on the air, I’ll already be legal age. It could work. It’s better than not trying.

There’s only one flaw in the plan. I cannot tell my family what I’m going to do. And I can’t lie to them. Mom and Dad, they’ll want to know every detail of the show. They’ll insist that one of them at least fly out with me. They’ll want to talk to the producers. Embarrass me in front of Natalia.

Blow my cover.

I’m going to have to do this the way I do most everything in my life.

Alone.

Chapter Three

It’s easy to say how you’re going to do something. It’s much harder when the time comes.

Three months ago, when I sent in my signed contract swearing that I was eighteen, I felt like I could do anything. Just a little fib and a faded copy of a copy of a copy for the scanned copy of my driver’s license, and I was six months older.

Now, standing in my carport at two on a Tuesday morning, shivering in the pre-dawn cool, a backpack on my shoulder, I’m having second and third thoughts.

This is stupid. This is crazy. I’ll never make it to LA. They’ll want to see a real ID. They’ll want to talk to my parents.

I should go back inside. I should talk to Dad. I should give this up.

But that photo of Natalia haunts my mind. I’m looking forward to meeting you.

I cannot give that up. Even if they send me away, I have to at least try.

I mentally go over my checklist.

Note to parents: check. I left it in the kitchen. They both have the day off tomorrow and after the double shifts they’ve been working, they won’t be in a hurry to get up. I repeat the message in my mind:

Dear Mom and Dad,

By the time you read this, I will have left the state. Please don’t worry. I will return by mid July. I have a tremendous opportunity to work in the film industry. I’ve been cast in a small role in a movie. I unfortunately had to lie about my age to be permitted to work (there are very strict laws regarding minors working in movies, and I had to tell them I was eighteen to get the part).

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t have allowed me to go had you known the truth. Please know that I am safe and will be coming home as soon as filming wraps up. This is a huge break for me, something that may result in much greater things. This is a legitimate film, though a small one, which was why I was able to get my foot in the door. Please forgive me for doing this. You’ve always told me I was smart and talented. And you told me that I need to make my own opportunities. That’s exactly what I’m doing.

I’m shutting down my social media and my phone. You will not hear from me for five or six weeks. I know you’ll worry, but you’ll have to trust me. I’ll be fine.

Your son,

Shannon

It’s a nasty thing to do, and I know it. Mom and Dad will spend the next month tearing at their hair, wondering where I am, waiting by the phone.

And that’s exactly why I’m going off the grid. The first phone call from them, the first email, I’ll break down. I’d talk to them. Spill my guts. Let them convince me to come back.

I have to do this on my own.

Delete social media: check

I did that earlier, before wiping my real laptop and hiding it.

Are you sure you want to delete your social media account? YES/CANCEL

Really sure? YES/CANCEL

Really, REALLY sure? YES/CANCEL

Please type I REALLY WANT TO DELETE MY SOCIAL MEDIA in this box:

Your social media is about to be permanently deleted. Would you like to make one last post where you huffily complain about the distractions and pitfalls of online activities and make yourself the center of attention, as if you’re abdicating the throne of England? YES/CANCEL

That last one wasn’t real.

I admit, it didn’t come easy, but who cares? Once my show airs, I can resurrect it all. From now on, I’ll follow Natalia Jenkins’s directions, only posting what she wants me to post, only blogging what the show wants me to blog. I can do this.

Turn off phone: check

It’s powered down. I consider leaving it at home, but I might need it for emergencies. It stays off otherwise. I know they can track your location through your phone in extreme cases, such as a kid running away. Nope. I may drop my family a postcard, but I won’t be talking on the phone.

This summer, Shannon Ferguson is the property of Becoming. I’m going to do this.

The show sent me an e-ticket for my flight. The problem at hand is actually getting to the airport. Every cabbie in the city knows my father. I have no choice but to hike the five miles to the nearest bus stop.

It’s now or never. I can delay this no further.

Look...they’ve gone and put trash in the recycle bin again.

How many times do I have to ask them? Is it really so hard? I busy myself moving fast food wrappers and chicken bones into the correct receptacle.

And then I realize I’m not alone.

“Shannon?”

I freeze. It’s Chris. She’s snuck up on me from behind the house. It’s easy to smell where she’s been, the odor of beer hits me from two feet away. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her sneaking in late...well, early.

“Hey.”

She laughs at me, as usual. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

I gesture to the garbage cans. “Just, um, taking out some trash.”

“In the middle of the night? Weirdo.” She shakes her head and moves to the door.

But then she stops and looks at me again. “Uh, why the backpack?”

Jesus, Chris, for the first time ever you notice something about me? “Just putting some stuff in the shed.”

She nods, but doesn’t go anywhere. She just stares.

“What stuff? Shannon, what are you up to?”

“Leave me alone,” I growl.

More silence. I worry our conversation will wake up a neighbor, or worse, my parents. My sister, unfortunately, wants to talk.

“You’re heading somewhere. Where are you going?”

She’s going to blow this. My loudmouth drunken sister is going to ruin everything for me, even before I begin. She’s going to wake up my parents. She’s going to grab me by the collar and drag me into the house. I think it’s this idea that spurs me to action.

I stop toward her. For the first time in years she backs away.

“Chris, listen. This is none of your business. Go inside. I’ve covered for you enough times, now you do it for me.”

I think I see her look at the door. But she doesn’t move. “Just tell me where you’re going.”

“If I do, will you promise to leave me alone?”

“No.”

I glance at my watch. I don’t have time for this. “Look. I have...an opportunity. A chance to be in a movie. It’s the real thing. But I can’t tell Mom and Dad about it, because they won’t let me go. I have to leave, like now. So for once in your life, will you mind your own business? For once in my life will you leave me the hell alone?”

Her bleary eyes widen. “Movie? What are you talking about? Shannon, I don’t think—”

“Forget it. I’m leaving. Do me a favor and don’t snitch on me until morning.” I turn and head down the street. I’m determined not to look back, but of course I do.

Chris stands in the carport, staring after me, watching me go.

If all goes according to plan, that’s the last she’ll see of me for a few weeks.

*

You’d think the contest people could have sent me first class. I know, I know, I should be thankful for what I have. This is my first time in an airplane, and I’m flying for free.

But I’m supposed to be living Natalia Jenkins’s lifestyle, and well...she never flies coach. And I’m sure she never ends up stuck in the middle between a hyperactive eight-year-old and an old man with bladder issues who still insisted on the window seat.

I stand in the terminal and shake myself like a dog. Concentrate, Shannon. You’re about to meet Natalia Freakin’ Jenkins.

Well, probably not right now. There’s no way she’d come to the airport, not without her entourage of bodyguards and handlers. My instructions say someone from the show will meet me at baggage claim.

I have no baggage to claim, everything I took with me fit in my carry on. I duck into the bathroom to check and see if I’ve magically grown more handsome, then take the escalator down to the claim area.

There is a line of drivers near the exit. They each carry signs indicating their contact’s last name. I eagerly scan for a Ferguson.

There! At the end of the line a Black woman holds up a sign with my name on it. Unlike the rest of the disheveled, middle-aged drivers, she’s young and well-dressed. Despite probably only being in her early twenties, she wears a navy business suit. Her hair hangs down her back in long braids. She’s quite pretty, but kind of severe as well. She reminds me of a teacher, the interesting kind, but one who you don’t dare cross.

This is it. I find myself wishing that Mom could have come. She would have been so impressed by all this. She would have insisted on taking a picture of the driver. Of the sign. Of all of us together. Embarrassed the hell out of me.

Too bad she won’t get that chance.

I walk up to the woman and smile. She takes one look at me...and looks away.

I guess she thinks I’m coming on to her or something. I clear my throat.

“Hi. I’m Shannon Ferguson.”

She looks back at me. For a moment, she just stares. And then her eyes go wide. Really wide. She whips out her phone and checks something. Then she looks back at me. She does not look happy.

I had been expecting a warm greeting, a congratulations, maybe a question about my flight. But this...she looks terrified. Something is very wrong.

“You’re not Shannon Ferguson!”

I try to smile, but her panic is contagious. Does this have something to do with me exaggerating my age? No, something is really upsetting her.

“Yes. I’m Shannon. I got a letter saying I’d been selected to appear on Becoming.”

For a second, she looks so angry that I’m seriously afraid she’s going to hit me.

“You’re not Shannon! You can’t be!”

I’m getting a little annoyed. “Why not?”

“Because Shannon Ferguson is a girl!”

Chapter Four

This...this is some kind of joke, right? Some kind of hazing? They must be secretly filming me now. In a second the cameraman will jump out from behind a pillar and we’ll all have a good laugh.

But this woman...she’s not smiling. Not even a little bit. She’s looking at me with cold contempt. I’m getting off to a bad start, I feel.

“Um...a girl?” I say. It was supposed to come out all jokingly, but there is fear in my voice.

For a second, I think she’s going to lunge at me. She doesn’t make a fist or anything, but her dark eyes almost seem to glow red. I’m thankful we’re in a public place.

“Follow me,” she hisses after a minute.

“What did you mean by—”

“Don’t speak.”

She storms out into the parking lot, not checking to see if I’m following. I stand there, dumbfounded.

Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Did I check the wrong box on my application or something? Was this a behind-the-scenes screw up?

Hopefully, Natalia and I can sort this out soon. Clutching my backpack, I follow my contact out into the parking garage.

I’m surprised to see her standing in front of a limousine. It’s a long, white, illegally-parked vehicle, with the logo for Becoming on the door. She leans into the driver’s window. As I approach, she yanks open the passenger door and climbs inside.

Unsure of what to do, I follow her. She doesn’t move over to let me in. Instead, that intense, cold stare.

“I should just leave you here,” she says, and I can tell she’s really considering it.

Enough is enough. I throw myself into the car, forcing her to scoot over. The partition between our area and the driver is up. Good.

It’s time this woman explained some things.

“Look...what’s your name?”

“Mila.” No last name, no explanation of who she is or why she expected me to be a woman.

“Mila, I don’t know where things got confused, but I was contacted by the show months ago. I’m Shannon. If someone told you I was a girl, it’s just some kind of mix up.”

She doesn’t answer. She just pulls out her phone and cues up a video. Instead of handing it to me, she shoves it in my face.

I recognize the clip. It’s my video essay, the film that won me this contest. I never noticed how close I was to the camera, you can see nothing but my face.

Why is she showing me this? I continue to watch my speech, waiting for some kind of explanation.

My sister has always been the pretty one. The one my parents really like...

I don’t fit in. Everyone at school...they think I’m a geek.

I never get a good part in the school productions. I’m not good looking.

I wish I was one of the ‘beautiful people’...

And suddenly, things click into place. The poor quality of the video. The grainy sound. My longish hair. My androgynous name. Some of the comments I made on the tape.

Whoever judged this thinks I’m a girl.

Natalia Jenkins thinks I’m a girl.

I look at Mila with a sick smile.

“It was a mistake.”

She retrieves her phone. “Yeah. That makes me feel so much better.”

The enormity of my situation slowly seeps in. Everyone on this show is expecting a girl. When they realize the truth, it’s going to take more than just changing a form to correct things.

What if they don’t want to film me anymore?

Why do things never work out for me?

“What do we do?” I burst out.

Mila just shakes her head. “You go back to Iowa. I’ll try to undo the damage you’ve caused.”

I’m suddenly angry. This is supposed to be my moment! My big break! The thing I’ve been waiting for all my life. I’m not going to let it pass by just because I don’t have a prominent jaw and my name’s not Butch.

“What is your problem?” I snap. “I’m the one who’s getting screwed out of this, not you!”

If I expect her to apologize, I’m sadly mistaken. But she doesn’t yell, either. She just smiles. It’s a very disturbing, very hateful smile.

“Shannon, honey, I’m a junior producer with Becoming. I’ve worked for that since I got out of college two years ago. Two years of fetching coffee and running errands. Two years of ass kissing and ‘great idea, boss!’ Two years of hell, and I’m finally allowed to be in charge of one stupid episode of one stupid show. And let me tell you, some people work ten years to get an opportunity like that.”

I totally understand where she’s coming from. Opportunity. The same reason I just ran away from home.

Mila pauses, and suddenly looks very tired. “And I completely screw it up. They wanted to go with some hot surfer chick from Hawaii. But no, I had to do my own thing. I wanted the ugly girl. I had all these big plans to make her into a swan. I thought it would be something original. Something people would like. Something fun. My big chance to shine.”

She turns to me and half smiles. “Guess I’ll be fetching coffee again next week.”

I pounce on that smile. It’s the first sign of civility she’s shown me, and I need to get her on my side if we’re going to work through this.

“Maybe if you just explain to everyone that it was a simple misunderstanding...”

“HA!” The scowl is back. “That’s a good one. Hey, Ms. Jenkins, remember that nerdy girl that you were supposed to make into a star? Remember how you told me it was a bad idea, but I swore the viewers would eat it up? Well...funny thing, she has a dick! That won’t mess things up, will it?”

I’m getting tired of her acting like my gender is somehow a bad thing. Or my fault.

“Isn’t it illegal to hire someone based on their sex?” I ask. “If your boss makes a big deal about this, you could threaten to...to...” My words whither up. The expression on Mila’s face tells me how well she thinks threats against her boss would go over.

“Didn’t you think it was strange that we chose a guy to shadow Natalia?”

I didn’t think it was strange at all. Natalia’s always been such a big proponent of gender equality. “You’ve done it before. That show with the girl who worked with that player from the Spurs.”

“Well, this was supposed to be different. I was going to turn you into a clone of Natalia. Same hair, same clothes, same everything.”

That’s not really what I had in mind when I imagined spending a month with my hero.

Mila shakes her head. “This was going to be my big break. If this episode went well, they’d put me in charge of other things. I could be producing my own show in a season or two. Now...I’m screwed. My career is over, thanks to you.”

And that does it. This was not my fault. And Mila isn’t the only one who’s missing an opportunity here.

“Well, what about me?”

Her brown eyes become huge. Again, I worry she’s going to clock me. Instead, she leaves, slamming the door in my face. A moment later, I hear her get into the front of the car with the driver. The engine revs. We start moving.

I’m in a limousine. In Los Angeles. I’m about to become the star of a TV show.

Except that’s not going to happen now. Because everyone thinks I’m a woman. I’m stuck a thousand miles away from home, and I just destroyed the life of the only person who might be able to help me.

Way to go, Shannon.

*

We drive for an hour. We stop a couple of times, but no one tells me to get out, and I don’t risk it. I’m afraid they’ll abandon me somewhere.

What am I going to do? Mila’s right, there’s no way the show will go on. I’ll have to go back home to Des Moines. If I’m lucky, the show will pay for my return ticket.

And then what? By now, my parents will realize I’m gone (if Chris hasn’t already ratted me out). They’ll want to know where I’ve been. What if they find out the truth? What if they realize the reason I got kicked off the show?

What if Chris finds out I was mistaken for her sister? I’d hear about that for the rest of my life. She’ll never drop it. Eighty years from now, I’ll be lying on my deathbed and she’ll remind me.

Maybe I shouldn’t go home. I could start a new life here in L.A.

The car has stopped. Someone knocks at my window. It’s Mila. She motions me to get out. Having no other choice, I obey.

I’m surprised to see we’re parked in an alley behind a hotel. Mila drags me toward a rear entrance that is propped open with a rock.

She gestures me to follow her. Wordlessly, we enter the building and take an elevator to the top floor. My mind is racing. Maybe things aren’t as bleak as they seem. Maybe she’s worked things out with her supervisor. I want to ask, but I’m afraid to broach the subject.

She stops before one of the rooms and opens it with a keycard. I have to say, my breath is kind of taken away. This place is huge! I mean, like almost as big as my house, huge. A bed bigger than my room. Fancy sheets. Flowers on the dresser. In fact, there’s a whole gift basket. I look at the card.

Dear Shannon,

I’m so looking forward to some seriously fun times with you! Stay sweet, girlfriend, I’ll meet you soon.

Natalia.

That kind of takes the wind out of my sails. But when I look at Mila, she’s grinning.

“I think I found a solution to our problems.”

Suddenly, things don’t seem so glum. Maybe she called Natalia and she understood. Or she got me transferred to another episode or something. I look at her hopefully.

She goes to a closet. She pulls something out.

“Put this on, Shannon.”

It’s a dress.

Chapter Five

A dress. Not fancy or risqué in any way, but it’s certainly nothing a man would wear. Long sleeved and ankle length, but it’s still a dress.

What the hell insane plan does Mila have?

She starts walking toward me. “We did a little shopping for you beforehand. Had to estimate your size, but I think it’ll fit. Just step into the bathroom and put this on. Look, I bought you some hose too. We’ll get your shoes later...”

She’s blocking the only door. I step backward.

“Mila? I’m not wearing that. It won’t fool anyone.”

Her grin spreads. “But it will, Shannon. We never expected you to be a good-looking girl. With that longish hair, your nasally voice, a little padding...yes...”

I gently reach out and place my hand on a heavy lamp. “You’re talking crazy. No one’s going to buy that.”

She’s almost in front of me. She holds the dress out, like I’m sure mental health officials would brandish a straitjacket. “I’ll make it work. When I get through with you, you’ll look the part.”

Yikes! As she takes another step forward I leap onto the bed, jump, and land behind her. I rush for the door and don’t stop until I’m almost in the hall.

Mila turns, but doesn’t chase me.

“Look,” I stammer. “You’re clearly upset. But I want no part of this. If you could just forward me my ticket home, I’ll be on my way.”

She lays the clothes on the bed. My heart soars when she takes out her phone. But then my guts knot when she plays my stupid video submission again. I wince at how whiny I sound.

My sister is the pretty one...

She stops the playback. “Shannon, how would you like it if I put this online? Showed it to everyone who watches Becoming? Forwarded it to your school? And let everyone know that we thought you were a girl?”

Her grin is evil.

I feel faint. I know she’s telling the truth. She’ll make sure that everyone in my world knows I got hired as an actress on a TV show. And it’s not just Chris I’m worried about right now. It’s my father. The people at school who always called me a weirdo. Natalia.

How can anyone be so cruel?

I guess that’s what lights a fire in me.

I march back into the hotel room, slamming the door behind me. I don’t break eye contact as I stride toward Mila, stopping when we’re so close that our noses almost touch. She steps back, her smile gone.

“Do it,” I hiss. “Go on. And go to hell. This wasn’t my fault. I hope they fire you.”

I expect a snappy comeback, an insult, a slap. But it never comes. And after a couple of seconds, Mila lowers her eyes. When the silence continues, I head for the door.

“I want a ticket home by tomorrow, or I’m going to raise a stink with your bosses.” I’m already trying to figure out where to spend the night and how to explain my absence to my family.

“Shannon, I’m sorry.”

I pause with my hand on the knob. I should go. I shouldn’t listen.

But I turn around anyway.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have threatened you. I got desperate and scared. I promise, that tape will never see the light of day.” Her head is still pointed downward, but her eyes look up at me, supplicating.

She’s faking. She has to be. Just an actress playing a role, trying to get what she wants. But I don’t leave.

“Mila, I’m sorry things are so screwed up, but I’m never going to pass as a girl. You said yourself, it’d never work.”

She sits on the bed and pats the blanket beside her. Warily, I sit, the dress still spread out between us.

“I don’t expect you to do the show. You’re right, we couldn’t pull that off. But we won’t start filming for a couple of weeks. If I could just introduce you to my bosses and to Ms. Jenkins, let them meet you and see how charming you are...” She toys with a braid. “And then, right before we’re scheduled to start taping, we’ll say your mother had an unexpected health crisis and you had to go home. An unforeseen tragedy.”

This doesn’t make any sense. “Why not just say my mom got sick today? Why all the theatrics?”

For a second, she looks annoyed. “I promised everyone a sweet, innocent, plug ugly country girl. If I don’t deliver, it’s going to be like telling your teacher that your dog ate your assignment. I have to let them know that me casting you wasn’t a stupid mistake.”

Even though it was? I glance down at the dress. “They’ll never buy it. And why should I, anyway? I’m sorry this happened to you, but not that sorry.”

She picks up the dress sleeve and absently strokes it. “I’m not going to waste your time whining about how after years of film school and ass-busting work, this is my first and probably last shot at a promotion. And I can’t promise you much in return, I’m not important enough to do you any favors. Yet. But if I don’t blow this, there’s a chance I can start getting ahead in the industry. And maybe in two or three years, I’ll be important enough to start introducing you around to casting directors.”

That does it. “Two or three years? Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going home.” I should stand up, but I don’t.

Mila smirks. “You’re such a farm boy. You think you’re just going to step off the bus one day and be cast the next, don’t you? You know how many guys who are taller, more talented, and a hell of a lot better looking than you are fighting to get cast in the latest McDonald’s commercial?”

So now she thinks I’m a dumb hick? “I know it’s not going to be easy.”

“No, Shannon, it’s not. But there’s a chance I might make it in this business. And if I do, I’d owe you the favor to end all favors. Not just once, but forever. I’d do whatever it takes to get your foot in the door.”

I’m about to object, but she continues.

“Maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe you want to go home and explain to your friends and family why you’re not going to be on TV after all. And twenty years from now, when you get off on the late shift, and your back is aching and you look in the mirror and wonder where your hair went and where that gut came from, you can think back to the time you had a chance—a real, honest to God chance—to make it in television, and you turned it down because it was too hard.”

I don’t like to admit how much she’s rattled me. How much I fear turning into my parents, working a thankless job in a boring town, never having done anything to make myself different from my classmates or my sister.

But it’s still not worth it.

Mila lays her hand on mine. I’m kind of shocked. Not that this is an intimate gesture on her part, but the feel of her fingers wrapped around mine is somewhat nice.

“Just let me dress you up. One time. If you don’t think it’ll work, I’ll find you a return ticket.”

I look down at the bland garment. It’s just a piece of clothing. Just a costume. No different from anything else an actor would have to wear.

“Okay. But only in this room. And I doubt you can make me into a convincing girl.”

We both stand. Mila smiles, and the old, frightening confidence is back. “You don’t realize how motivated I am, Shannon. Get in the bathroom.”

Chapter Six

Ever since I was about ten years old, I’d imagined the day of my arrival in Los Angeles. The sun on my face, the wind in my hair, suitcase in hand, ready to take this town by storm. It was going to be glorious.

It is not glorious. It’s hot. It’s smoggy. I’m stuck in the shotgun seat of Mila’s rusted hulk of a car. We’re trapped in gridlock traffic. Either the air conditioning is broken or Mila won’t turn it on.

I don’t ask her. Every time I make a sound, she turns and glares at me, like I’m a Band-Aid she found floating in a swimming pool.

Oh, and I’m wearing a dress. Did I mention that? All yesterday Mila spent dressing me up in clothes that must have been donated to the local goodwill by some Amish woman who found them to be too boring. Probably part of her original plan to make me look like an ugly country girl.

Now I’m used to being in costume. It’s all part of an actor’s life. And hell, more than one Hollywood star had to do the drag thing in a film or two. But as I sit here slowly roasting this funeral shroud, I’m aware of what a drastically wrong turn my life has taken.

I can’t take it anymore. I break the silence.

“So…thanks for driving.”

Mila’s eyes don’t leave the windshield. “We were supposed to have the limo. But I figure the fewer people who see you, the better.”

I can’t disagree. I glance at my reflection in the visor mirror. I’m wearing more makeup than Ronald McDonald after an acne outbreak. I could have given Mila some tips: I’ve worked the green room more than once. But she just slathered it on like drywall spackle. She either was unused to making over someone with a lighter skin tone, or simply didn’t care. I’m wearing so much mascara, my eyes keep sticking shut when I blink.

I refused to let her cut my hair. It’s tied back in a sloppy ponytail.

“So how long have you—”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t talk to me, Shannon.”

I look at my window instead. Traffic is crawling. Next to me, a taxi inches by.

I think of my father. He’d be at work right now.

Only, he’s probably not. I’ve been missing for two days. He and Mom will be frantic. Still, they don’t know the details so they won’t know where to find me.

I had kind of planned to contact home by now. To send a text or a letter to let them know I’d arrived safely and was okay.

Yes, to rub it in. To let them know I did this, and I did this without anyone’s help.

Instead, I’ve kept my phone turned off. I do not dare look at it. Mom’s probably messaged me a thousand times, desperate to know where I am. Frightened not knowing where her son is or if he’s safe.

But I can’t talk to her. Can’t even text her. Because if I do, I’ll break down. I’ll tell them all I made a bad decision and need money to come home.

Silly Shannon. Thought he could just fly off to Hollywood and become a star. Poor kid. Barely lasted two days before we had to wire him money for bus fare.

We all make mistakes.

No. Despite Mila’s doomsaying, I don’t believe all is lost. If I can just talk to Natalia. Get her alone and let her know how I got into this crazy situation. She’d understand. I mean, the girl got her start playing Chippy the Chirpy Chipmunk on PBS. She knows the sacrifices we make. She’ll help me get on Becoming as myself. I just have to play this exactly right.

I’m not going home with my tail between my legs. Not yet.

“Hey, wake up.”

I realize we’ve pulled off the highway. We’re turning into the gate of a fenced in lot. Behind it, rise the towering offices of NBS studios.

Mila looks at me, and for the first time since we met, she’s not staring at me with utter contempt.

“We’re here. And no matter what happens, you’ve already made it a lot further than most people.”

As we pull up to the security kiosk, I feel just slightly better.

*

The place is big. And I’m not talking big like Des Moines International Airport. It’s big like…

Okay, I’ve never been in a building larger than that. But this place is huge. The lobby is all glass and steel and escalators and modernistic sculptures. I pause a moment to take it all in.

“Wow, you really are from the backwoods, aren’t you?” Mila stands there with her arms folded, smirking.

I’m done. I’m so through with her attitude. I turn and look her in the face.

“Listen, Mila. I’m not the one who screwed this up. I’m not the one whose job’s on the line. But I am the one who looks like an idiot at the moment.”

Mila glances around the crowded lobby. “Shannon, your voice…”

“No, you’re going to listen to me. I think this is a ridiculous idea. I think we should come clean. I’m willing to go along with this for now. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you stand here and insult me. We’ve both got a lot to lose and the next time you forget that I’m not your personal little, um, uh, abuse doll, then I’m going home. Do I make myself clear? Do I?”

I’m suddenly aware that a lot of people are watching. I hear some guy laugh and say something about a chick fight. I shoot the gawkers a look and they disperse. But when I turn back to Mila, she’s smiling at me. Really smiling.

“That was perfect, Shannon.”

I return the smile, surprised, though I’m not sure what she’s talking about. “What was perfect?”

“Your voice. That perfect, bitchy, nasally, white girl whine. Sometimes your voice gets a little too low and I worry someone is going to read you. But that ‘wah, wah, Daddy won’t let me drive the BMW’ mode…no one will ever think you’re a man. Heck, I don’t know why we even bothered with the dress. Now move it.”

She breezes past the security desk without a look back. Meekly, I follow.

*

We ride two elevators. Pass through several security checkpoints. I get a funny look when a guard goes through my purse and realizes there’s nothing inside it. Corridor after corridor. The tile gives way to carpet. Then more expensive carpet.

Mila talks as we walk. “We’re going to be meeting with Dennis Avery, the producer of Becoming. I don’t think he’ll catch on. I promised him an ugly dog, and by God, I’m delivering.”

Was that an insult? Maybe she meant it as a compliment, that I make an unattractive woman.

I’m guessing insult, though.

We pause before an imposing, unlabelled door. “Okay, Shannon. Let me do all the talking. If Mr. Avery asks you anything, be brief. You’re nervous, shy, and thrilled to be here. If you can bring it up naturally, mention that your mother is sick, but doing well. A little foreshadowing when she’s hospitalized in a couple of days and you have to rush home to be with her.”

I don’t like thinking about my mother in the hospital. She can’t even afford that foot surgery. It’s not something people should joke about.

“Mila, can’t we just talk to Natalia and tell her the truth?”

Mila is glancing at her phone. “Talk to who?”

“Natalia.” She stares at me blankly. “Natalia Jenkins? The actress I’m going to shadow?”

Again the blank look. But then Mila smiles. And laughs.

“My God, Shannon, are you for real?”

I don’t get the joke. “What?”

She just shakes her head. “Just call up Natalia Jenkins. Yeah.”

“But the show…”

Mila just rolls her eyes and knocks.

There’s no answer, but after a moment she opens the door.

I was expecting some sort of cavernous office to match the rest of the building. Something with lots of windows and a wet bar. But Mr. Avery’s office is small and nearly empty. And dark.

The man himself sits behind a cluttered desk, examining some papers. He’s an unremarkable lump of a guy, slightly overweight, with an open collar and loosened tie. He makes no indication that he’s noticed us.

Mila, her confidence absent for the first time, slowly steps toward the desk, motioning for me to follow. She moves so gingerly, I wonder if we should present our hands for him to sniff, to let him know we’re friendly.

“Mr. Avery, sir?”

His head rises. He gives no reaction to the two of us standing here. No annoyance, impatience, or even recognition.

“Sir, this is Shannon Ferguson. Our selection for the Natalia Jenkins segment.”

Mila places her fingers between my shoulder blades and gently propels me forward. Mr. Avery tilts his head, just slightly, and continues to stare. He’s inspecting me.

Does he know? Does he suspect? Did Mila really think an ill-fitting dress and too much makeup would fool a TV producer?

He turns to Mila and raises an eyebrow. I wait for him to ask if this is some sort of a joke. But then he smiles.

“So, Miss Ferguson, how are you liking Los Angeles? Is Mila taking good care of you?”

I open my mouth, but Mila interrupts. “We’ve been having a blast. Shannon is really enjoying living the good life. She can’t wait to meet Natalia. Isn’t that right?”

I nod.

Again, Mr. Avery looks at me. Again, the eyebrow. “Well, we look forward to working with you. Is there anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable?”

I almost blurt everything out. About how this is all just a stupid misunderstanding, I’m really a guy, and that I’m sure Natalia will understand once we explain things to her.

I swallow. I’m sweating.

“Miss Ferguson?”

“My…my mother is very sick.”

“Oookay!” says Mila, taking me by the arm. “Shannon, if you’ll excuse us for a moment, Mr. Avery and I have to discuss a couple of things. Why don’t you go to the lounge and grab a cup of coffee? Just down the hall, I’ll meet you there in a jiffy.”

She’s smiling so beautifully I know she’s faking. I barely keep it together as I hurry out the door.

*

I sit in the harsh fluorescent glow of the break room, staring at the steaming mug of coffee that sits untouched in front of me. Just a few days ago, I thought I would soon be introducing myself to the world. That people back home would see me on TV and recognize me. That my parents would beam when the neighbors called to talk about my episode of Becoming. That this was the start of my real life.

Now, all I have left is the vague hope that I can explain all this to Natalia. Or at the very least, Mila will be good as her word and find me industry work when all this is over.

All I ever wanted was top billing, a star on the walk of fame, and my own production company by the time I was thirty. Is that really so much to ask?

I should just go back to the hotel, wash off this makeup, and call home.

My thoughts are interrupted by a loud clattering. I look up to see a guy staring forlornly at a spilled rack of coffee pods at his feet. He smiles at me, embarrassed.

“One of those days.” He shakes his head, as if it’s pointless to even try to excuse himself. He’s young, probably about twenty-one. He’s skinny in that awkward way, with a completely disheveled appearance, from his half-tucked shirt to his badly combed hair.

I clear my throat, trying to make my voice sound breathy and feminine (but not whiney). “I can relate.”

“Yeah. Well, mine started ten years ago, but I think I’m due for a rally.” He shrugs and begins picking up the mess. Wearily, I get up to help him.

“So are you the new intern?” he asks, as he accidentally kicks a pod under the counter.

I shake my head. “I’m…” My God, I’m actually ashamed now. “I’m going to be on Becoming. The Natalia Jenkins episode.”

“Oh, hey!” He breaks into a broad grin. “Mila’s project! I’m glad to see they didn’t go with that Hawaiian ditz.”

At this point, I kind of wish they had. “Well, I wish you’d tell Mila that. I think she’s disappointed in me.”

He laughs, causing several of the pods he’s holding to tumble to the floor. Giving up, he tosses the rest on the countertop.

“Listen, I know Mila can be a little abrasive, but she’s one of the smartest people here.” He glances over his shoulder. “That’s not saying much, but really, that girl’s going places. You’re lucky to be working with her.”

I think my expression gives away my feelings on that theory. He takes a step closer. And then he puts his hand on my arm.

Puts his hand on my arm. And leaves it there.

“Look…I know how hard she can be to deal with sometimes. But you have to understand, she’s only twenty-four.”

Your hand is on my arm.

“It’s not easy to get ahead when you’re a young, African-American woman. You know how people can be, right?”

Get your hand off my arm.

“When you’re done with the show, you two are going to be like sisters.” He finally removes his hand. “Trust me.”

“Yeah.”

His phone buzzes and he looks at the screen with a grim expression. “I have to run. I guess I’ll see you around. My name’s Michael.”

“Shannon.”

He grins, as if we’ve really connected, and leaves.

Ew. Nice enough guy, but don’t touch the merchandise.

Must just be a handsy guy. No chance he was getting his jollies from touching me.

Mila returns a few minutes later. She snaps her fingers and points.

I follow.

Chapter Seven

I’m just going to text my parents. Let them know I’m okay. I’m not going to tell them where I am or what I’m doing.

I’m not going to ask to come home.

I sit in my hotel room. My makeup is washed off and I’m back to my old clothes. Phone in hand, I’m trying to drum up the courage to turn it on.

It would be so easy to give up. To just tell them I screwed up, fell for some online casting scam or something, and ask for them to wire me a ticket. They wouldn’t even have to pay for it. I could sell my laptop and some other things to pay them back.

They’d understand.

Just bite the bullet, Shannon. You’re going to be going home in a few days anyway. Might as well salvage some dignity.

But I stop myself. I can’t quit. Not yet. Maybe Mila was telling me the truth. That Michael guy seemed to think highly of her. Maybe in a couple of years she’ll give me a call, offering me a real job as payback.

And if I went home now, my parents will want to know exactly where I’ve been. Hell, they’ve probably called the police by now. The cops would demand to know who I was with. And it would all come out. Humiliating for me, and bad publicity for the show. They’d make sure I was never cast in anything again.

But my biggest hope is that I can get Natalia alone. Just talk to her for a few minutes and let her know how I wound up in this horrible situation.

She’d understand. Last year she bailed on a movie when the filming location’s state passed that discriminatory bathroom law. She’s always been an advocate of gender nonconforming people.

She’ll put Mila and Mr. Avery in their place and let me do the show as myself.

Just one more week. Until I meet Natalia face to face. I can hold out for one more week.

But I need to text my parents. I have to let them know I’m not dead. I owe them that.

As soon as my phone powers up, I get alerts of over 100 unread texts. Mostly from my father. I’m a little surprised. He has a phone he needs for work,[1] but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him actually text anyone before.

I make sure I’m not logged onto the hotel’s traceable wifi and compose a message.

Mom and dad, I’m sorry if I scared you. I have a legitimate offer to be in a movie. They needed someone who was over 18.

I realize how ominous that last part sounds, so I delete it.

I worried that you wouldn’t let me do this on my own, and I know you can’t miss that much work to come with me. I assure you that I’m fine. This could be a huge break for me. I’ll write you in about a week. I love you.

I hit ‘send’.

Before I can turn my phone off, I have an incoming call. My mother.

I can picture my mom scrabbling over her phone, desperately trying to connect the call. Knowing, after days of uncertainty, that her son was okay. Eager to hear his voice.

I can’t ignore this. Just a quick phone call. Just to let her know I’m fine. To let her know I’m thinking of her. I answer.

“Mom?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

It’s not my mother. It’s Chris. She doesn’t give me time to reply.

“Do you have any idea how pissed off everyone is, you little shit?”

Okay, maybe I’d misjudged my family’s response. Maybe they weren’t worried about me. Maybe this was all just a big pain in the ass for them.

“Mom and Dad are mad at me?”

She practically screams into her phone. “No, asshole, they’re mad at me! I didn’t stop you from leaving. I waited until they found that note of yours. And they were so upset, I let it slip that I saw you sneaking out and you looked like you knew what you were doing. Big damn mistake. Do you have any idea how god damn angry they are at me now? How many times I’ve had to explain why I didn’t stop you? Do you have any idea of the shit you’ve caused?”

So I guess I was wrong about how upset everyone would be. Thinking people would be relieved to hear from me. That maybe my own sister would ask if I was okay and tell me she missed me.

I think of a thousand times I wound up with my face ground into the living room carpet, Chris pinning me down with her knees, while my dad just laughed.

“Chris, tell everyone I’m fine. This is my big break. Don’t look for me, you won’t find me. I’ll be back some time in July.”

“Don’t you—”

I hang up. Then I shut the phone down.

I’m on my own.

*

Two days later, Mila and I are riding in the back of the studio’s limo. The partition is up so the driver can’t hear anything we say, though Mila has been on her phone the whole time.

I can see my reflection in the glass. It’s kind of an improvement. Mila sent over another outfit yesterday. A skirt and a long sleeved blousy thing. They fit better than that hideous dress. I spent a lot of the day practicing with a makeup kit she provided. It was a lot different than stage makeup, but the concept is the same. Emphasize and conceal. Foundation, some eye shadow, a little lipstick.

A pair of clip-on earrings. Longish hair failing free.

Add it all up and you get one ugly ass, awkward girl. Someone you won’t look twice at. Thank God.

I realize Mila’s call has ended and she’s smirking at me.

“Did you stuff your top?”

I glance away, embarrassed. Yes. In an episode I’d like to forget, I bought an extra large bra from a nearby plus-size store. It’s now crammed with hotel washcloths and cutting into my sides.

“You did! Goodness, you’re stacked.”

Well what the hell was I supposed to do? That thing I wore the other day was heavy enough to hide my figure, but now…I don’t want to talk about it.

Time to change the subject. “So tell me the plan.”

Mila’s still staring at my chest. “Good thing this is only for today. That left one’s shaped like the Pentagon.”

I cross my arms. “Just tell me what we’re doing.”

“You’re supposed to meet with Mr. Avery and the director. You’re going to come in all sobby and upset. Your poor mother just took a turn for the worse and you have to go home right away. Really lay it on like you did in your video. I’ve already booked your ticket home for the day after tomorrow. I’ll call that Hawaiian bimbo, and with any luck, we all get out of this unscathed.”

“Whee.”

Arms still folded, I look out the window.

“Hey, what’s your problem?”

Just that this was supposed to be the greatest summer of my life, and it ended before it began. But not without a little abuse and public humiliation first.

I’m not even going to meet Natalia Jenkins.

“Hey, look at me.”

I shouldn’t, but I obey. To my surprise, Mila actually looks sympathetic.

“You’re pretty disappointed, aren’t you? This was a big deal to you, wasn’t it?”

I consider arguing, but only nod. I wanted this so bad.

“Hey, it happens in this business. It happens a lot. And if you want to be an actor, you’re going to have to get used to it. You’re eighteen, right?”

Um, don’t go there. “Right.”

“Well, you’re still young. There’s still time.”

Easy for her to say. “You’re not that much older than me, and you’re already working on a show.”

She laughs. A surprisingly pleasant laugh. I’m kind of struck by how pretty she is, now that I’m not entirely terrified of her. Curvy figure. Long braided hair. Dark, dark eyes.

“Shannon, I fought and fought to get where I am. I did this through hard work and kicking ass. And I never once sat down and whined about how hard and unfair things were.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “You’re a liar.”

She takes this with good grace. “Okay, yeah. There were times I’m sure I was almost as bitchy as you. But this is just a setback for both of us. I don’t plan to give up.”

I’m a little buoyed by this. “Well, don’t forget about me.”

She glances at her lap, then back up at me. “Look, we have an office in Burbank that does an internship thing every summer. Next spring, why don’t you send in an application? I can pretty much guarantee you’ll be accepted.”

I want to hug her, until I remember she’s the one who took Becoming away from me. “Yes. That would be great. Thanks.”

“This is no plush job. You’d be fetching coffee, making copies, and any other menial thing they can think of. But you’d meet people and make connections. It’s a start.”

Not much of a start, but it is something. “Yeah. Mila, I’m sorry this didn’t work out.”

“Baby steps, kid. Now hop to it, we’re here.”

*

Just before we arrive at the conference room, we run into Michael. He’s rushing down the hall, carrying so many boxes of donuts that he has to steady the stack with his chin. He stops short when he sees us.

“Oh, hey Shannon. Hi…Mila.” He’s really smiling.

Mila returns the grin. “Hey, cutie. You been working out?”

He chuckles, almost unbalancing the boxes. “Not hardly. Hey, I heard they really liked the pitch you made on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, keep your fingers crossed. And keep that shirt on. A girl can only control herself so much.”

Mila’s certainly a lot friendlier with guys who aren’t me.

Michael gulps and laughs nervously. “I’ll see you around, Mila. Shannon.” He departs down the hall.

Mila shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“So are you two…”

“What?” She snorts. “God, no. He just likes the attention. You know how it is with nerdy guys, you flirt with them a little and…”

She trails off, looking at me strangely. She then rapidly shakes her head and presses the heel of her hand to her forehead.

“C’mon, Shannon, they’re waiting. Just like we rehearsed.”

We’d gone over it in the parking lot. As soon as we entered the meeting, I was going to break down. My poor mother, who’d been doing so well, had just had a stroke. Mila was arranging for me to fly home. Sadly, I’d have to back out of doing the show, but Mila already had my replacement lined up. Mila’s so great, so understanding, she’s handling this situation so well. You would be lucky to have someone like her on your team.

I work up a few tears, mostly by thinking about how humiliating it’s going to be to fly home tomorrow and try to explain where I’ve been. I’ll leave out the crossdressing, of course. I follow Mila into the conference room.

The place is full. I recognize Mr. Avery. There are about a dozen other men and women seated around the conference table. Some are in suits, but most are dressed casually in slacks or jeans. All conversation stops when we enter. Everyone stares at Mila and me.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Avery breaks it. “Ah, Miss Ferguson. Glad to have you with us. Can we offer you a pastry or a bottle of water?”

I stand there gaping like a newly caught fish. I kind of thought Mila would be taking the lead here, and now I’m too flustered to even answer the refreshment question. I knew I should have taken that improv class.

Mila clears her throat. “Um, there’s something we need to discuss—”

“Yes, yes,” says Mrs. Avery, glancing down at a binder. “I got your email last night. I think we have the schedule all sorted out. Miss Ferguson, would you take a seat please.”

A young woman in a pantsuit takes me by the arm and leads me to a chair. Mila scurries down beside me. The doors close.

“Ma’am, could you look this way for a moment?”

I turn and am shocked to see a movie camera facing me. A guy with a backward baseball cap stands behind it. “Just need to take a couple of shots, to help me know how to make the camera fall in love with you. Give me a smile.”

I force a nervous grin. “Great. Turn to your left.”

I turn. Mila is glaring at me. Time to speak up. “Excuse me, I have something I need to say…”

“If you don’t mind, Shannon, we’re in a bit of a time crunch.” The man who spoke, a guy with a long hipster beard and flannel shirt winks at me. “We need to get a lot of things nailed down today. Mila can help you sort out any questions you have after.”

Mr. Avery claps him on the back. “Shannon, I’d like you to meet the director of your segment, Harvey Lawrence.”

His face is unfamiliar, but I instantly recognize the name. “You directed that short film about the Sentinel Islanders! That was amazing work.”

This is evidently the right thing to say. Mr. Lawrence beams. “Good job finding this one, Mila. She’s a keeper.”

Mila tries to speak again. “Yes, about that—”

“All right,” says Mr. Avery. “Down to business. I have a 2:00 tee time…I mean, an important meeting.”

Everyone laughs at the boss’s joke, even Mila.

The pantsuited woman passes me a folder. “Let’s go over our schedule. Tomorrow, you’re going to be meeting Natalia Jenkins. She’s invited you to come to her home for lunch. She’s cooking, and believe me, she’s good at it.”

Natalia Jenkins has invited me to her home. She wants to make me lunch.

“If there’s time, she’d like to take you horseback riding. Did you know she has stables on her property?”

She’s spearheaded equine rescue efforts all throughout California. She owns three rescue horses, Snap, Crackle, and Pop.

“Let’s see, then on Tuesday, you’ll be going to the Los Angeles Zoo. Miss Jenkins sponsored the park’s new chimpanzee habitat, and you’ll be helping her with some publicity shots. You’re not afraid to get up close and personal with some animal friends, are you? Mila, see that she brings some boots.”

I’d get to actually meet the chimps? Childish, but that sounds like a lot of fun.

Mila tries to get her attention. “Actually, there’s a kind of a problem.”

The cameraman interrupts. “Shannon, tilt your chin up just a smidge. Great.”The woman continues. “On Thursday, weather permitting, we’re going to drive out to the Griffith Observatory and hike the trail. It’s a bit of a schlep, but the view from the top is amazing.”

I know. I’ve seen pictures. Before I arrived in Los Angeles, I’d planned to go there on my own if I could. And now Natalia wants to go with me.

“And for the rest of the time here, you’ll be on the set of Darkness in the Daytime. You’re going to be with Ms. Jenkins for nearly a month, learning from her, helping her, becoming her! And not just Ms. Jenkins. You won’t believe who else they’ve cast—”

“Excuse me!” Mila snaps, interrupting me daydream of being on the set with Natalia. The room falls silent. “I hate to interrupt, but Shannon has something important she needs to say.” She stares at me pointedly.

Oh. Yeah. Reality. No one here realizes Shannon Ferguson is a boy, and he is most certainly not invited to lunch, to the zoo, or to the movie set. In fact, he’d be invited right off the premises if they knew who he really was. So it’s time to leave my dreams behind. Forever.

I stand.

Goodbye, Natalia. It could have been beautiful.

Everyone is staring at me. Most of them look annoyed; it’s not my place to address the assembly. But if I hear about one more exciting thing I’m not going to get to do, I may cry.

“I…” No, let the tears come. It’ll help. “I received a call from my mother this morning. I mean, about my mother. I mean…she’s been kind of sick lately and—”

“Hope I’m not interrupting!” The doors fly open and a personality flutters in, followed by its owner.

It’s Natalia Jenkins herself. America’s longtime crush. Everybody’s favorite girl next door. The Hollywood queen who looks like your prom date and dresses like the checkout girl at your local supermarket. Voted ‘Most Beautiful Woman’ by both Hollywood Insider and The ACLU Newsletter.

And she’s not ten feet away from me.

Everyone stands. The cameraman nearly topples over as he zooms in on her.

“I was in the building,” she continues, in that distinctive Brooklyn twang that launched the career of the SNL actress who imitates her. “I heard our contest winner was in the house and wanted to say hi!”

She’s coming toward me. Smiling. She’s even more beautiful up close. I can see the slightly crooked teeth that she refuses to have fixed. The generous nose. The laughing eyes. Everything that makes her so normal and flawed and perfect.

“Hi there, you must be Shannon!” She extends her hand. “I’m Natalia, and I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Numbly, I reach out. I touch her hand. I shake it.

“Shannon, you look a little overwhelmed. Is everything okay?”

Natalia Jenkins is concerned about me.

The director answers for me. “I think our contest winner is feeling a little homesick. Missing her mother.”

And then Natalia Jenkins puts her arm around me. The same arm that’s embraced Chad Herrigton, Luis Ruiz, and Chico the baby polar bear, is draped around my shoulder.

“Oh, Shannon, I know exactly how you feel. When I first left New York I went to sleep crying nearly every night, missing my parents and my pop pop. You’re kind of feeling out of sorts, like nothing is how you thought it was going to be, am I right?”

You don’t know the half of it. I nod, numbly.

“Well Shannon, I think you’d be crazy if you didn’t feel that way. But let me tell you, we’re going to have the time of our lives this month. I’m going to make sure you have the most fun ever! Maybe it feels like you don’t have any friends in California, but you do have one. Me. I’m your friend now.”

Natalia Jenkins is my friend.

“Now are you going to give this a try? Be the actress I know you can be?”

There’s a loud noise as someone bangs their fist on the table. Without looking, I know it was Mila.

And now is the time when I quit. When I tell my new friend that it’s not nerves that are upsetting me, but that my poor, ill mother is on death’s door and I must rush home to be at her sickbed. That I cannot help Natalia with her movie or her good works or her horses. That this is the one and only time I’ll be with my idol. I have to help my mom.

Except my mom isn’t sick. She’s as healthy as a forty-year-old pack a day smoker can expect to be. And apparently she’s angry at me.

My whole family is always irritated with me. None of them ever offered to take me hiking or do volunteer work. I’ve never had a friend who was worried when I was sad.

“Shannon?” prompts Natalia and Mila at the same time.

I smile. I straighten my back. I look Natalia in the eye.

“I’m really looking forward to working with you, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Natalia!”

She pulls me into a brief hug. It almost shields me from the look of pure, animal rage I see on Mila’s face.

*

Miss Jenkins—Natalia—leaves immediately, and the meeting breaks up soon after. I follow Mila out to the parking garage. Neither of us speak. I can tell she has something to say, but wants us to be alone.

When we’re in the parking structure, she turns to me. I expect screaming, but she’s quiet. And smiling. It’s terrifying.

“Mila…”

“Do not speak. Shannon, I thought we had an agreement. In fact, I know we did. So would you mind telling me what was going through your head? Do you mind telling me why you decided to screw me, yourself, and the entire show?”

How can I explain what I don’t understand myself? “Mila, I was kind of star struck. All the things you were planning, all the nice things she said. I sort of forgot myself.”

Mila’s eye twitches. I’ve never seen that happen in real life. “And what are we supposed to do when filming starts? You can’t just march in and announce that you had a sex change over the weekend!”

“Well…maybe we won’t have to.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. After a pause, she speaks. “Don’t even.”

“Hear me out. I mean, no one suspects the true state of things. So why not just keep up the illusion? You’d get to run the show the way you planned and I’d get to be on it.”

She just stares. She’s gone pale, for a Black person.

“I’m an actor. I can pull this off. She’ll never suspect, and neither will the viewers. And then, maybe in a few years, we can tell the world how I pulled off the role of a lifetime…or not,” I amend, when I see the look on her face.

Mila blinks hard, walks a few paces, and then comes back to me.

“Wow. I knew you were stupid, Shannon. Even when I first watched your video, I knew you didn’t have a lot going on upstairs. But this…wow. I mean, you think being a woman is all about the dress and makeup, don’t you? Just powder your nose, speak in a higher register, and voila, right?”

I’ve studied enough acting methods to know this is far from the case. “Mila, c’mon—”

“Shut up! Thanks to your little performance in there, I guess we’re committed. You want to play the girl’s part, well you got it. And I’m going to make sure you succeed. Because it’s my life hanging on the line there. The first time anyone suspects you have a dick in that skirt, neither of us will ever work again. You’re going to turn into a punch line. Every time someone googles your name, the first hundred results will be about how you like to wear dresses and pretend to be a farm girl. How’d you like that to come up at every audition and job interview for the rest of your life?”

The thought chills me. I’m already regretting my rash decision. It’s only my friend Natalia’s support that keeps me from panicking.

“No one will know the truth.”

“No, they won’t, Shannon. Because I’m going to make sure they don’t. Because I’m going to train you. Welcome to female boot camp, bitch. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to look like a woman, talk like a woman, and act like a woman. Kiss your balls goodbye, you won’t be needing them any time soon. Now get your ass back to the hotel, I need to think.”

Her plans upset me, obviously. “Mila?”

“Go. Now.”

“How…how do I get back?” I have no car and no money.

She looks at me with a purely hateful expression. “You’re such a smart girl, you figure it out.”

She walks off, leaving me alone in the dimly lit garage.

Chapter Eight

“I don’t care how badly they hurt you.”

I sit alone in my hotel room, back in my male clothes, watching Cherokee Moon, the film that propelled Natalia to the national spotlight.

“I don’t care what you’ve gone through, or what you’ve lost.”

I can pretty much recite the dialogue from memory. I’m using the movie to try to forget how screwed I am.

“All I care about is here. Now. You. Me.”

When Natalia looked me in the eye at the studio and called me her friend, I could believe that anything was possible. But back here, alone, I doubt it.

I’m going to be found out. If not through my own stupid fault, then Mila’s going to rat me out, purely for spite. She gave me such an easy out. Why didn’t I take it?

“It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be impossible. But darling, is anything really impossible?”

And even if by some miracle, I did pull this off, what then? They’d air the episode. Everyone would see me, and it’s not like I could pretend that was a different Shannon Ferguson, who happened to look a lot like me.

God, everyone would see it. My friends…

Not that I have any, other than Natalia.

My family…

But do I really care what they’ll think? Do I really want to stick around and hear Chris make fun of me for the rest of my life?

“What counts is the here. And the now.”

There’s only one option. I have to tell Natalia the truth. I’ll let her know how I became trapped in this role. She’ll either help me escape or help me pass as a girl for the next month.

I bet she understands. She knows how these shows work. She’ll tell me what to do.

“Just me. And You. That’s all.”

She’s my friend, after all. She said so herself.

She’ll make this right.

*

The storefront is discrete. I’m thankful for that. Mila and I stand outside the beauty salon the next morning.

“I researched this place myself,” she tells me. “They’re supposed to be very good.”

Well, that is kind of a comfort. I mean, when you’re looking for a beautician specializing in male to female transformation, you don’t want to wind up with an amateur. But I’m not excited.

“Mila, what did you tell them when you made this appointment?”

She looks at me with almost sympathy. “That my friend, Shannon, is interested in presenting as female. That they need a new look, and some help with makeup and hair. Don’t worry, they won’t ask you any personal questions.”

I still make no move to enter. “But won’t they think that I’m…you know.”

“Transgender? Yes, they probably will. I imagine most of their clients are at least questioning their gender identity.”

I feel I need to make a stand. “But I’m not! I mean, I have no problem with transgender people. I totally understand their struggle. But—”

“Oh, you do, do you?” mocks Mila. “I’m sure they’re all breathing a sigh of relief that you approve of them and totally get them. Have you written a press release yet? I bet PFLAG and the Trevor Project are dying to know that the struggle is over.”

Did I ever really think I might have been friends with this woman? “Mila, I’m just saying I don’t want to go in there under false pretenses.” Somehow, I need for everyone to know that I’m not dressing like a female because I enjoy it.

Mila shrugs. “Here’s what I know, Shannon. Unlike you, the camera does not lie. And I don’t want to have to explain to Mr. Avery why the sweet little country girl I promised him has five o’clock shadow. Though I doubt that will be an issue with you, Peaches.”

I resist the urge to rub my mostly hairless cheeks.

“Look,” she continues. “You can tell them the truth, as long as you don’t mention the show’s name.”

I’m suspicious. “Really?”

“Sure. Just tell the beauticians that you landed a role on a TV show, but you have to dress as a woman in order to do it. And that the studio isn’t helping you with this, you have to do it on your own. That’s totally believable. They won’t think you’re just some guy who likes to wear panties but won’t admit it.”

God, I hate that smirk. “Do you have to make everything hard for me?”

“Oh, dear, am I not making things easy for you? I forgot that’s why I was placed on this earth, to serve Shannon Ferguson. Didn’t your great-grandfather own my great-grandfather?”

It’s obvious she’s not going to lay off. “Are you coming in with me?”

“I have some shopping to do. I’ll meet you when they’re done."

I wish Natalia was here. I move toward the door.

“Shannon?”

I turn.

“Remember: it’s just acting. You can make this as hard or as easy as you like.”

*

I’m not sure what I expected. The lobby is dimly lit and paneled. A sign hangs over the receptionist’s desk: This is a safe space.

Somehow, that makes me feel a little better. No one’s going to laugh.

I approach the slender brunette behind the desk. “Um…reservation for Shannon Ferguson?”

She smiles at me. I check out her jawline and adam’s apple. Then I’m instantly ashamed for doing that.

“Shannon? We have you down with Rochelle. She’ll be out in a moment. Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

No, too late for that. I can’t sit in the comfy chairs or read the fashion magazines. I end up pacing the floor. The receptionist, bless her, doesn’t say anything, but I think I’m making her nervous.

Then again, I can’t be the first uncomfortable guy to come here.

“Shannon? Would you like to come with me?”

I turn to see the woman who must be Rochelle. She’s around fifty, buxom, with dyed auburn hair, excessive makeup and jewelry, and a friendly smile. I’d call her attractive. I’d call her stylish.

And I’d call her a man.

I know that’s not the correct thing to say. I know gender isn’t a state of body, but a state of mind. I know outward appearances have nothing to do with how one identifies (believe me).

But I can also tell that Rochelle wasn’t assigned female at birth. Her hands are too big. Her voice is too deep. Her jaw is too square. She chose to be a woman.

And strangely, that’s kind of a comfort. At least she obviously knows what she’s doing.

I follow her back through the doors and into a private room. It’s small, and aside from a sink, nearly every bit is filled with tables covered in makeup kits and mirrors.

It kind of reminds me of the green room behind the auditorium at my school. The place I spent hours helping the beautiful people get ready for their roles, as I sat in the back waiting for my turn to give my two lines as ‘farmer’ or ‘policeman.’

Rochelle indicates that I should sit. She settles herself in a chair opposite me, and crosses her legs. They’re covered in black hose, and whatever her gender, they’ve very nice. She places her chin on her knuckles and regards me. I wonder what she’s planning. I wonder if she dresses like this all the time, or just at work.

“Shannon, how old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” I lie.

She looks at me, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that she knows I’m not telling her the truth.

“We’ll go with that. Honey, I don’t know why your friend brought you to me. And you don’t owe me any explanations. But I want you to know, you can tell me anything. And whatever you say, it won’t leave this room.”

I tried out for a reality show and I got accepted, but somehow they thought I was a girl, and so Mila was going to have me dress up as a woman a couple of times until I could bow out, but then I met my idol, Natalia Jenkins, and she said she wanted to be my friend and I kind of panicked and said I’d do the show, but she’s so nice I think if she knew the truth she’d help me, and my family is all pissed off at me for leaving home and now I have to come to you to give me a makeover.

“Thank you, Rochelle.”

Her smile broadens. She leans toward me. “So…what are we going to do today?”

*

I’m back there for two hours. Rochelle is a patient teacher. By the time we’re done, I have a good idea on how to hide what few whiskers I have, how to apply women’s makeup (as opposed to stage makeup), and how to paint my nails. She instructed me on how to shave my legs and armpits tonight.

But Rochelle isn’t just there as a life coach.

She shaped my eyebrows. They’re thin now, feminine. If I end up running back to Iowa, I guess I’m going to have to shave them off.

Same with my head. Rochelle gave me a haircut. A cute little bob, kind of like Natalia’s.

And she pierced my ears.

I stare at my reflection in the harsh light of the mirror.

I’m still ugly. I’m still awkward. I’m still dressed in my male clothes.

But I don’t look like a man.

Even with Mila’s never lying cameras, I don’t think anyone’s going to figure things out.

Rochelle stands behind me with a smile on her crimson lips. “Sweetie, you look great.”

I can’t stop staring at my reflection. I look like my own unattractive twin sister. “Thanks. For everything.”

“I enjoyed it. It’s fun working with younger clients. What I wouldn’t give to be your age again.”

I turn away from the mirror. “You look fine,” I say, and I mean it.

She flips her hair, which I’ve since realized is a wig. “I appreciate the sentiment, but that’s not what I meant. Let’s just say I wish I’d told the world about Rochelle when I was your age. You’re doing the right thing, being true to yourself now.”

She looks wistful. I wish I could offer her some encouraging words, but all I want to do is tell her that I’ve always been true to myself, and this Shannon, the one who’s dolled up in the mirror, is a lie.

“Thank you, Rochelle. I hope I can come back again. I think I’ll need your advice.”

“Any time, sugar.”

*

Mila is waiting in the lounge. I’m horrified to see that she’s carrying several bags from various clothing stores. I don’t think they’re for her.

She looks at me critically when I join her.

“Huh,” she says, after a moment.

Wordlessly, I follow her out of the shop.

Chapter Nine

Mila plays chauffeur again, driving me out to Natalia’s house on the day I’m officially supposed to meet her. Despite the nosedive my life has taken recently, I’m pretty excited about this.

Becoming does each introductory episode the same way. It’s always filmed at the celebrity’s home. And there’s always some sort of surprise waiting for the winner.

The kid who was shadowing pitcher Johnny Epstein was suddenly pulled into a softball game with Johnny and a bunch of retired Reds players. The girl who followed diva Chantal Stephens was treated to a makeover at an exclusive spa. And in the episode with death metal legend Ace Cooper, Ace pretended to be so out of it that he didn’t know why there was a camera crew in his living room.

Maybe he wasn’t pretending. Just say no, kids.

Now I already know what the surprise is (homemade lunch and horseback riding), but I’m still excited. In less than an hour, I’ll be knocking on Natalia’s door. And she’ll let me in. Because we’re friends. Natalia and Shannon…

“What the hell are you grinning about?”

As usual, Mila drags me screaming back to reality. She’s smirking at me from the driver’s seat. I stop daydreaming and adjust my skirt.

“Will you stop playing with your clothes already?” gripes Mila.

“Sorry, this is all kind of new to me.” It’s true. This skirt is shorter, it barely covers my knees. The breeze on my newly shaved legs makes it feel like I’m wearing nothing below the waist. My blouse buttons the wrong way. My new earrings irritate my skin. My shorter hair feels weird.

Worst of all is the mastectomy bra that Mila bought for me. It has realistic inserts. They’re supposed to look and feel like the real things. I wouldn’t know, not even from second hand experience.

“Look, honey, just act natural. Breathy voice. Don’t manspread. Stop messing with your bra straps. You’ll be fine.”

Yes, I will be fine. Because as soon as I get Natalia alone, I’m going to tell her my secret. And then she’ll help me plan the best course of action.

I’ll just have to catch her alone. Five minutes. That’s all I need.

We quickly leave the crowded city and move out to the country. Growing up in suburban Des Moines, where people live and die by the greenness of their lawns, the lack of greenery in L.A. had been making me edgy. It was nice to get out to the sun drenched hills of California.

Soon, we pass through the first of several security gates, each manned by a more and more official looking uniform. Mila’s I.D. and license plates are checked. I sit in terror, waiting for them to ask for my identification, but they never do, not even when they make Mila get out of the car while they radio someone. It’s not hard to see why they single her out. I’ll have a talk with Natalia about that, after I fix my own problems.

I recognize Natalia’s house from a magazine spread. Sort of. In the photos, her estate was nothing but solar panels and composting gardens. In real life, there’s a lot of parking lots and outbuildings that were cropped out of the article. We quickly pass through the final security checkpoint. This is it. My first (of many) TV appearance.

I’m a little disappointed when Mila doesn’t park in the large circle drive out front, but pulls around to a crowded lot in the back. I can’t tell if all the cars here belong to Natalia or people involved in the shoot, or what. I guess we need to do some sort of preparation before we ring the doorbell. Wait for the cameramen to set up.

Mila exits the car and I follow. To my surprise, she approaches a rear entrance, says something into an intercom, and enters when the door opens. She holds it open for me as an afterthought.

This is it. Today I’ll officially begin my friendship with Natalia Jenkins. Who knows what this could lead to? A break in the industry, a role in one of her movies, or…

I’m probably flattering myself. But Natalia is only twenty. And she once said that Staff Sergeant D’Angelo Jackson, that soldier whose face was maimed in Iraq, was the most beautiful man she’d ever met.

Of course the sergeant wasn’t wearing a padded bra and a skirt when he met her.

We enter a large staging room, where about a dozen people mill about. I recognize Mr. Lawrence, the director, and that same cameraman. And…Natalia.

She’s sitting in a makeup chair, reading a magazine, a towel around her head.

Why is she here? This isn’t how the show works, we’re supposed to meet at her front door. Of course, we’ve already met, back at the studio. Maybe they’re trying something different?

Mr. Lawrence corners Mila. No one else seems to notice that I’m here.

Maybe now’s my chance. Maybe I can ask Natalia if we can talk in private for a moment. Then I can tell her the truth. She can let me know if we should continue with the farce or demand that I participate in the show as the real me. I saw how everyone reacted to her at the studio. If she wants it, she’ll get it.

Timidly, still trying to get used to walking in a skirt, I approach Natalia. She doesn’t look up from her magazine, even when I clear my throat.

“Natalia?”

Her head rises. Her eyes focus on me.

She does not look happy. She does not look welcoming.

I’ve made a mistake. Maybe we’re not supposed to talk until the cameras are rolling. I’ve gone and blown the introduction scene! I’m such an idiot! I feel like I’ve walked into a surprise party half an hour early.

Fortunately, Mila saves me by grabbing my arm and dragging me away.

“You need to pay attention, Shannon.”

Mr. Lawrence hands me a piece of paper. “This is the script for today.”

I must have misheard. “Script?”

“Try to follow it closely, but you don’t have to repeat every word exactly. Just act natural.”

But…this makes no sense. This isn’t a scripted show. It’s supposed to be all spontaneous, real life.

“Wait…I don’t understand.”

Mr. Lawrence turns to Mila. “Can she handle this?” he asks, not whispering.

Mila playfully punches my arm. “Just a little stage fright. I’ll talk to her.”

“Hey Harvey!” shouts Natalia from across the room, with a giggle. “Get your butt over here!”

With a big smile, Mr. Lawrence leaves us.

I turn to Mila, confused. “But Becoming is ‘life as it happens,’” I say, quoting the show’s tagline. “Why would we need a script?”

Mila looks at me blankly for a second, then bursts into a peal of laughter. “OMG! Are you for real? Tell me you’re not serious, Shannon.”

“I…” Oh God. Have I really just been naïve?

“You’re not joking, are you? You really thought…oh, that’s too funny. But hey, it’s people like you who have kept us on the air all this time.”

She’s messing with me. That’s it. Okay, I guess it was dumb of me to think that everything was the first take and that none of these episodes had a little behind the scenes nudges from the director. But I don’t enjoy this peek behind the curtain. I look at the script.

NATALIA: (squeals in welcome)

GIRL: Miss Jenkins, it’s a pleasure to…

NATALIA (interrupting): Now none of this Miss Jenkins crap! Call me Natalia.

GIRL: (Laughs nervously)

NATALIA (takes girl by the hand): C’mon in! I hope you’re hungry.

Okay, this is a lot less unscripted than I expected. But this is just the opening scene. My episode will be an hour long. This part is probably only a few minutes of actual on screen time.

Mila tugs at my arm. “C’mon. Almost show time.”

We walk past Natalia and Mr. Lawrence, who don’t look at us, and into a large, gleaming kitchen. Two stagehands are arranging food on some plates, while another mixes something green in a blender.

Mila nods absently at the preparations. “Remember, they put a lacquer on the food so it shows up better on the camera, so don’t actually eat any of it. You can try that health shake if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Natalia’s special macrobiotic recipe. I glance back to see the crewmember pour a bottle of lime Gatorade into the mix.

I’m ushered out the front door. The cameras are already set up, outside and inside the house. Mr. Lawrence soon joins us.

“Got that script memorized, Shannon? Great. We’re on in five.”

So is it all fake? Did I sell out my manhood, my family, and my future so I could play an empty-headed dingbat for a scripted reality show?

Has this summer somehow become even more disappointing? Have I ruined my life over nothing?

Mr. Lawrence instructs me to stand on the porch, which is almost as large as my living room at home. This is the final countdown.

“Ring the bell when I say go.”

All I have to do is take off my shirt and I’ll be on a plane home tonight.

I’d be that simple.

Mila is watching me. And for a moment, I think she knows what I’m considering. Realizes that she shouldn’t have mocked me. That she laughed at me when I needed a pep talk.

But I won’t do that. Natalia Jenkins is my idol and inspiration. She’s done so much good in this world. And I’m not going to give up a chance to work with her, not yet.

“Action!”

I press the bell, which I don’t think is connected to anything. Natalia bursts out the door, all smiles and giggles.

She looks so sincere.

“Miss Jenkins, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

*

It takes two hours to shoot about twenty minutes of real time events. Nothing but Natalia opening the door, inviting me to breakfast, and some seriously scripted banter. I also noticed the camera was on Natalia about ninety percent of the time. Not super surprising, the audience wouldn’t be tuning in to watch me. Still, it would have been nice to not be moved around like a prop.

We’re now in Natalia’s stables. At least, they look like stables from the outside. Inside, they appear to be a storage building for the grounds crew. While we’re preparing to ride, Natalia tells me all about her horse rescue efforts and the three mares she saved from abusive environments. She tells me this over and over again, facing a different camera each time.

There are a couple of horses outside the stables, but their handler calls them Scotty and Chester.

Not that I get to ride either of them. They make a big deal about how I foolishly wore a skirt to the shoot and would have to ride sidesaddle, but Natalia kindly loans me some riding pants. Embarrassingly, they’re too long. Everyone laughs as I slip getting into the stirrup and fall on my butt. They laugh each time I slip, over and over again, from different camera angles. By the time they’ve got all their shots, I’m getting kind of good at pratfalling.

I ask Mr. Lawrence if we’re actually going to get to ride the horses. He says they have plenty of footage of Natalia. If they need shots of me for some reason, they can use a body double.

And suddenly, it’s all over. Everything is packed up. Even the horses are loaded onto a trailer. Everyone is attending to their own business.

Except Natalia and me. I notice her slip off behind the stables and no one follows her. This is my chance to talk to her alone. To tell her the truth. To ask her for advice.

I quickly make sure Mila’s not watching me and I duck behind the building.

Natalia is looking at her phone. And she’s smoking.

I don’t know why this surprises me. All those PSAs she recorded for the Healthy Schools Initiative, but whatever. I almost laugh at the cliché of sneaking off for a smoke behind the barn.

She looks up and frowns. My words fail me.

“Yeah?” she asks, clearly not relishing my company.

“I…I just wanted to say…”

She makes a hurry up motion.

“I wanted to tell you…”

Her phone makes a noise. She looks at it and begins texting.

“I wanted to tell you how grateful I am to be working with you.”

She nods, distractedly. “You too, Sharon. Shannon.”

“Goodbye…Ms. Jenkins.”

Chapter Ten

I purposely sit in the back of Mila’s car on the drive back to the city. None of it was genuine. Just another scripted reality show, more slurry for the masses. I can’t believe I thought it was real. I can’t believe I thought Natalia was real.

It’s time to cut my losses. I’ll track down Rochelle, have her shave my head and do something with my eyebrows. I have enough money for that, and for a ride to the airport. My parents will buy me a ticket home. Hell, I don’t deserve a plane ride. I’ll go Greyhound.

Mila doesn’t try to talk to me. When we get to the hotel, she doesn’t drop me off at the curb, but parks. She swivels in her seat and faces me.

“Kind of hard, that first dose of reality, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer. She makes me feel like a chump who bought into the hype. Of course, that’s what I am, I guess.

Mila keeps talking. “I remember the first time it really hit me. It was last year. I had just started and they had me working with a certain actress…I’m sure you’d recognize her. And, well, one night I get this call to come to her hotel room. And when I get there…ah, I’m boring you.”

Actually, I’d been listening intently and Mila knows it. “Go on.”

“How about I tell you the rest over dinner?”

Dinner? Why is she being so nice to me all of a sudden? I’m not sure how I should answer.

“C’mon,” she insists. “I know you had a bad day, but the worst is over. At least for me. You’re doing the show and no one suspects. Let’s celebrate a little.”

I look down at my blouse. I really have no desire to go out like this. “Maybe some other night.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. C’mon, there’s a restaurant in the hotel, right? We’ll go there. Have a drink with me. I’ve got some good stories. Or maybe you don’t want to hear who I caught in the hot tub with Mr. Lawrence. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t Mrs. Lawrence.”

“How can I say no to that?”

Actually, it’s not the gossip that entices me. It’s that I worry Mila suspects I’m going to run off. Which is probably why she wants to keep me in her sights. Well, I’m hungry and I’m not in the mood to try to ditch her. I’ll wait until her guard is down.

She holds the car door open for me. As I walk beside her, she stops me with a touch on my arm.

“Put one foot in front of the other.”

I’m not sure if this is life advice, or what.

“I mean, directly in front of the other one,” she clarifies. “You walk like a guy. Watch me.”

She trots up and down the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Like any good student of the theater, I observe her. She’s right. Her feet don’t move side by side, but one in front of the other.

“Now you.”

“Mila, I’m tired.”

“Do you want to be an actress or not?”

“An actress? No.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. Now walk.”

With a whiney sigh, I obey.

“C’mon, head up. Chest out. Show off the goods. Oh, don’t give me that look, I paid for those knockers. There, you got it! Work it, girl!”

I can’t help it. I laugh.

“Can we go in already?”

*

I’ve been living off room service sandwiches for the past few days, so it’s nice to eat out, my varnished breakfast notwithstanding. The hotel restaurant is kind of a ritzy place, and I’m very aware that I’m still wearing Natalia’s too long riding pants.

The place is crowded. I hear the maitre d quote a half hour wait. Mila pulls me aside.

“Lesson number two. Men like to impress women. Go flirt with that guy, get us the next available table.”

“Um…hell no.”

“C’mon, Shannon. It’s one of the perks of the sisterhood. Bat those big cow eyes. Pout those liver lips. Maybe don’t talk too much.”

I’m pretty sure she’s not serious. “Let me put it this way: hell no.”

She shakes her head. “You need me to show you how it’s done? Fine. Watch and learn, kid.”

Mila checks her makeup in her mirror, fixes her hair and adjusts her clothes. Again, I’m kind of struck at how cute she is, in a frightening and intimidating way. She sashays over to the desk. The person manning it, a broad shouldered guy in his twenties, looks up.

“Hey, big guy. Table for two please. And my friend made me promise not to tell you this, but she says she’s hankering for some beefsteak, and I don’t think she meant the Kansas City strip.”

Mila waves at me. I want to run into traffic.

The guy gives me a tolerant smile. “Twenty minutes, maybe a half hour.”

Mila leans in. I can’t see her face, but I can picture her warm smile and friendly eyes as she examines his name tag. “Ah, Ben, we’re kind of in a rush. Do you think you could…” She reaches over and touches his arm. “Damn, boy, do you work out?”

Ben smiles wanly at the same stupid line she used on Michael. “A little.”

“A little, he says. You got a license for those guns?”

He shrugs. “Well, my husband and I like to lift together.”

There’s a long pause. Mila stands there, I think because she doesn’t want to see me smirking at her.

“Half an hour, you said?”

*

It takes us twenty minutes to get a table. Then right when Mila’s name is called, she tells me she has to step out.

“I’ll be back in a bit, Shannon. Go ahead and order without me. Just bill it to the room, NBS is covering the tab.”

I’m more than a little annoyed. “Coming here was your idea. I’ll just eat in the room.”

Mila cocks her head. “It’s just dinner. Were you this insecure in Iowa?”

“I didn’t have boobs in Iowa.”

She shakes her head. “Get used to it. Look, I’ll only be gone ten minutes. Just chill, okay?”

And she’s gone. Once again, I’m alone.

“Miss?”

Dinner alone. Then back to my hotel room, alone.

“Miss?”

My family is probably having dinner right now. Mom or dad might be at work, but one of them would be home with Chris, eating and asking about her day. Maybe speculating about where I am.

Or maybe not.

“Miss!”

I suddenly realize that the waiter is speaking to me. I’ll have to get used to that. I plaster on a fake smile and follow him.

I order the cobb salad. Not because it’s low in calories and I’m watching my girlish figure. And not because I think it would be more fitting with my character.

It’s because I cannot bring myself to spend more than $30 on a meal. I just cannot. I know the network is paying. I know I could order the t-bone and probably some fancy wine and no one would bat an eye.

But here’s the thing. My family does not eat out. I mean, we’ll grab McDonalds every now and then, or go to Applebee’s for Mom’s birthday, but these restaurants with tablecloths and fifteen dollar appetizers are just not something we do. Ever.

So I pick at my food and think about my options. The sane choice, of course, is to hop on a bus and go home. The thing is, the idea feels a lot less attractive than it did an hour ago.

I’m angry. There was no call for Natalia to be that rude and dismissive of me. Maybe she was having an off day or something, but she could have taken the time to talk to me.

It’s kind of funny, but acting like a girl is just a role, after all. I mean, kind of a long term one, but still. Imagine what would happen if I actually went through the whole show like this and then told the world what had happened after the episode aired? Talk about your publicity! Talk about your method acting.

I could never do that of course. Not without Natalia’s help. I’d been depending on that. But still, I could probably count on a few auditions afterward if I was really willing to go the distance. Really make female Shannon memorable. Someone who stole the spotlight. Someone who even outshone Natalia Jenkins who never even smiled at me off camera.

It’s an impossible scenario. I’ll slip up, somehow. Mila’s confidence aside, I’ll screw this up. Or if I revealed myself afterwards, the show would sue me. And of course, I’d have a hard time convincing people that I spent the summer living as a woman for pure character development.

The dream has died. Natalia rammed that home today. I’ll call home after Mila…

There she is. I see her out in the lobby, just as I’m looking at the check. Only she’s not coming to join me. She’s headed for the hotel’s front door, pulling her suitcase. She must be checking out.

Except she’s not staying here.

That’s my suitcase she has.

That’s my suitcase!

I think I accidentally add an extra zero to the tip line as I scrawl my signature on the check, then dash out of the restaurant.

Mila is at the front curb. The valet has brought her car around and I catch her just as she slams her trunk shut, my suitcase inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I bellow.

“Watch the voice, Shannon. You almost sounded like a man there.”

There are people hanging around so I can’t just wrestle the keys out of her hand. “Are you throwing me out of my room or something?”

She laughs. “God, no. It’s prepaid, I told you that. And meals are on us, order all the room service you want. You can charge some delivery food to the room, too.”

I shake my head to clear it. “Then what in the holy hell are you doing with my bag?”

She glances at her car in surprise as if she hadn’t realized I’d want an explanation. “Well, it occurred to me that a fussy girl like you might decide to bail on us. So I liberated your clothes and things.”

I’m nearly quaking. “And things?”

“Your ID, your phone, your wallet…well, everything, really. I’ll have them shipped to you when all this is over.”

Breathe, Shannon, breathe.

“Mila, this isn’t okay.”

She’s not even listening. “Call it a security measure on my part. I don’t want you calling mommy and daddy to come get you. I don’t want you hopping on a plane. You did good today, back at the ranch. And you’re going to keep it up for the rest of the month.”

“I’ll call home collect. They’ll wire me money to come home.”

“How will you claim it with no ID?”

I’m starting to panic. “I’ll get it replaced. People lose them all the time.”

“Yeah, have fun dealing with the DMV. You might as well finish the shooting. It’ll be quicker.”

“I’ll—”

She just smirks. “Look, I guess if you really wanted to, you could get home. Go back to Shitball Iowa with that haircut and your pierced ears and some Salvation Army clothes and try to pretend like none of this happened. But I’m going to make it hard for you. I made sure the hotel cut off your wifi and you have no privileges in the business center. No credit at the hotel shops. No cash, unless you want to try panhandling wearing Ms. Jenkins’s pants. I’m not going to tell Mr. Avery that we have to retool the entire episode because the contestant I begged for bailed in the middle of the shoot.”

“But…”

“No. I gave you an out. All you had to do was pretend your mother was sick. But you got all doe eyed over Ms. Jenkins. Tell me, Shannon, how’s that working out for you?”

I open my mouth, but I have nothing to say. She’s right. Heartless bitch or not, I brought this on myself.

Mila half smiles and takes out her keys. “I have to go. Just remember, I don’t have to be your enemy.”

Cowed and miserable, I still have to argue that point. “I’ll never be your friend.”

She opens the car door, then pauses to smile at me. “At last we agree on something.”

Chapter Eleven

I spend two hours in the bathroom the following morning. Legs, smoothly shaved. Face, shaved twice. Eyebrows newly plucked. Through trial and error (and a lot of hairspray), I manage to recreate the hairstyle Rochelle made for me. I retouch my nails.

Then, wrapped in a towel, I paint my face. Foundation. Blush. Line the eyes. Fluff the lashes. I try on several shades of lipstick. I wipe everything off and begin again. This is not like theater makeup, not by a long shot. But with a lot of practice, I think I get it right. Or less wrong.

I slide into my bra. I try on several outfits from the wardrobe Mila has left. Since we’re going to the zoo, I go with some slacks, a sleeveless sweater, and the boots I was warned to wear. I grab my purse and look at myself in the mirror.

Average looking. Too much of a brow, too much of a jaw, and no figure at all.

But that’s a woman staring back at me. At least that’s what the world will think.

The room phone rings. The car the studio sent around is waiting for me.

Mila is going to play it like that, huh? Fine. She wins. I’m in for the long haul.

But I’m not going to do it on Mila’s terms. I’m not going to be her little puppet who obeys from fear. And I’m not going to bow and scrape before the great Natalia Jenkins, drooling at the chance to be in her shadow.

I’m an actor. This is a role. And I’m going to blow everyone away.

And when the show airs, I’ll have proven myself. Mila will pay me back. I’ll see that she does. And if she won’t play ball, I can come out to Mr. Avery and Mr. Lawrence. Even Natalia. Show them what a great actor I am, and how I went the extra mile to make their show a success. They’ll all owe me if they expect me to keep my mouth shut.

Maybe they’ll be pissed off. Maybe I’ll never work in Hollywood again. Maybe this is career suicide.

But maybe not. Maybe I can show everyone that I can do anything, fill any role, handle any script. And keep a secret.

I’m going to make the most of this.

They say all publicity is good publicity.

I’m going to find out.

Stopping a moment to adjust my tits, I head for the door.

*

The studio car takes me to a staff-only entrance to the Los Angeles Zoo. I’m instructed to enter a sort of office building, far from the public area. I find our staging area. Natalia isn’t visible at the moment, but I see Mr. Lawrence and other familiar crew members.

And I see Mila.

I’m not going to avoid her. I trot right over.

One foot in front of the other, just like she instructed.

“Hey, Shannon.” She holds up two Starbucks cups. “I didn’t know what you liked. Regular or decaf?”

I just stare at her. She robs my hotel room and now she’s bringing me drinks? No.

“There’s, um, hot chocolate if you like…”

I walk right past her, toward the director.

“Mr. Lawrence? Good morning! So what’s in store for us today?”

*

The shoot goes predictably. Natalia arrives about ten seconds before we start shooting, dressed like she’s about to go clubbing rather than take care of animals. Zoo employees, who spend their days shoveling animal crap and getting bitten and scratched, fall all over themselves to make her comfortable, to show her this or that. I follow along, imitating the great one.

One foot in front of the other.

But today, I am not a prop. The episode may be titled Becoming: Natalia Jenkins, but Shannon Ferguson is there too. Natalia makes faces at the gorilla through the glass. I pay attention to the zookeeper’s instructions and look away from the ape as a sign of respect. The gorilla places its palm on the glass and I follow suit. I’m sure Natalia would have loved to have been in that shot.

Natalia brushes the water buffalo for as long as it takes to get a good shot. I listen to the handler’s instructions and help him clean its teeth. It sneezes on me, covering me in buffalo boogers. But it’s kind of hilarious and is captured on camera.

I just laugh. I’m versatile. I can work under difficult conditions.

Natalia cuddles the adorable baby koala. I listen to the zookeeper, who’d been repeatedly ignored by Natalia, discuss habitat loss. Ask a few questions. Make a few points of my own.

I’m not here to look good. I’m here to help. To learn. I’m not just a pretty face (obviously).

It’s all going to end up on the cutting room floor. No one cares about Shannon Ferguson, not when Natalia Jenkins is in the room. But when they edit me out, they’ll be losing quality footage. And maybe more of me will stay in the finished product.

And then it happens. Right when we’re packing up to leave.

Natalia is sitting in a chair in some manager’s office, recording a spiel for the World Wildlife Fund. Half the crew has gone home. The door behind her opens. In comes a zoo employee, a young skinny dude with a lazy eye. He’s carrying a four-foot-long rat snake.

Natalia doesn’t notice. I glance over at Mr. Lawrence to see how he reacts to this intrusion. He nods to the man and gestures at Natalia. He’s planned this in advance.

The snake handler sneaks up behind Natalia. And without warning drops the serpent around her shoulders.

“So log on to wwf.org to….YAAAAAAAAA!”

That was not a stunned scream, or a hammy scream. That is the scream of someone who is very afraid of snakes.

“Get it off me! Get it off me!” Natalia, her eyes almost as huge as her screaming mouth, leaps from her chair. She’s gesticulating and flailing so wildly the zoo guy can’t get near her. We all glance at each other, waiting for someone to do something.

“GET IT OFF ME!” Real tears. The snake, frightened, has coiled itself around her arms and is hissing. This does not calm her.

She’s going pale. She wobbles.

I leap to my feet. I grab her by the shoulders.

“Natalia, don’t move. Look at me. Look at me!”

She focuses her wide, terror-filled blue eyes on me. I think she wants to cry, but is too scared.

I carefully reach out and snag the snake under its head. With my other hand, I unwind it from her arms and neck. It coils around my own arm. I release its head and it just kind of hangs there.

Natalia collapses into the chair, hyperventilating. Not everyone does well around snakes, and I can’t believe Mr. Lawrence would think a prank like this was funny.

Mr. Lawrence, in fact, does not look amused. “What the hell were you thinking?” he bellows at the snake guy.

“But you told me—”

“Get him the hell out of here. Now!”

A crewmember grabs the hapless zoo employee by the arm and hustles him out the door. I hope he doesn’t lose his job over this.

Natalia has come back to herself. She turns to the cameraman. “Get rid of it. All of it. I mean it.”

“Do you want to try the commercial again?”

She angrily shakes her head. Staggering to her feet, she rushes from the room, supported by her makeup artist.

And with the focus gone, everyone turns their attention to me, standing in the middle of the floor, holding the now docile animal.

“Um, they’re really nothing to be afraid of. It’s a rat snake. They’re not poisonous, they don’t bite unless they’re provoked.” As if on cue, the snake slithers up my arms and seems to look curiously at my face.

I think back to my 4-H training. “Rat snakes are really very helpful. Like the name says, they feed on rats and mice and other vermin.”

“How do you know so much about snakes, Shannon?” asks Mr. Lawrence.

“Oh, you learn a thing or two about nature in Iowa. Plus my sister loves to catch them and drop them down my shirt.” I notice that the camera is trained on me. “Hi, Chris!”

A woman in zoo khakis enters with a canvas bag. I unwind the snake and place it inside. Not sure if the camera is still rolling, I still can’t resist hamming it up a bit. “To learn more about our reptile friends, visit the Los Angeles Zoo today!”

The cameraman gives me a thumbs up. Mr. Lawrence smiles. “Good work, Shannon. Thanks for helping out. Very cool in a crisis.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As I head out to the car, I smile. And that, ladies and gentleman, is how to grab an audience. Even if Natalia Jenkins is in the room.

*

Mila catches me before I leave the zoo. She holds something out to me. A purse.

I’ve only been a woman for a week, but even I can tell it’s a battered, secondhand thing. Is this some kind of peace offering?

She flips it open before thrusting it into my hands. Inside are my cell phone and wallet.

“I’m sorry, Shannon. I went too far. That wasn’t right.”

Wow. This may be the first time she’s ever shown genuine regret. And I know, after everything she’s forced me through, it’s the only time she’s ever apologized to me.

I take the purse and walk away.

“You did good back there,” she calls after me.

I turn.

“With the snake,” she continues. “I told Mr. Lawrence that wasn’t a good idea, but he thought it would be funny. Something cute for the outtakes reel.”

I shrug and keep walking.

“Hey! I’m trying to be nice here.”

I whirl. “Good for you, Mila.”

She quickly closes the distance between us. “What do you want from me, huh? I’m trying to tell you that you handled yourself well today. You really stepped up.”

Where was this encouragement a few days ago, when I really needed it? “Thanks,” I snap. “Though I’ve been stepping up all week, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Her eyes take on the familiar hardness. “It’s not all about you, Shannon. I’ve fought and wrecked myself to get where I am. You’re just…” She trails off.

“I’m just what?” We’re standing close now. Less than a foot apart.

She looks like she’s about to backtrack, then changes her mind. “This is just a vacation for you, but it’s my career.”

I take a step back, trying to calm down. “A vacation? No, Mila, this was my shot! My break! My one chance! And now, thanks to your screw up, I have to go back home and not even tell anyone I was on TV.”

She smirks. “You know what you look like to me, Shannon? A rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste. You’re not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you? What’s your father do? Is he a farmer?”

I’m shocked. “Wow.”

“Truth hurt?”

“No, it’s just that you stole that from Silence of the Lambs. I mean, like word for word.”

She opens her mouth, but doesn’t say anything. She didn’t expect me to catch that. I take the advantage.

“And I guess I’m not the only one trying to escape their past. How about you? Did you grow up here in Los Angeles, Mila? Did you have to keep your head down and your eyes open on the way to school? How many classmates wound up as chalk outlines? How many neighborhood boys went to the lockup? And you, you just dreamed of that other world.”

She cocks her head. “And you stole that from ‘Requiem for a Player’.”

Damn. “I’m not wrong, though, am I?”

She laughs. “You got me, Shannon. Poor little Black girl, trying to make it in the rich people’s world. But let me tell you something. I’m your only ally here, so stop acting like you don’t need me. You do.”

While I try to think of a comeback, a car honks at us. As I turn to get out of the road, I realize a limousine is pulling up next to us. And not one of the generic ones the studio owns. This is sleek and well cared for. The passenger window rolls down and Natalia Jenkins sticks her head out.

“Hey, Iowa! Good show today. Where did you learn to handle snakes like that?”

I return her smile. “My cousins live in the country. Kind of second nature to me.”

“Well thanks for having my back. Harvey Lawrence just thinks he’s so funny, so edgy. I’ll see you at the next shoot. We’re going to have fun!”

I wave as her car pulls away. Then, with a subtle nod and cruel smile to Mila, I go off to find my own ride.

Chapter Twelve

When I return to my hotel room, there’s a message from Mr. Avery waiting for me at the front desk:

Looks like rain tomorrow, so we’re going to have to put the kibosh on the trip to the Observatory, at least for a while. We’ll start filming again on Monday, Mila will have the details. Take some time to do some sightseeing or something.

I’m disappointed about not being able to go on that hike. But more than that, I’m disappointed by the prospect of a day and a half on my own.

Even with my wallet back, I have less than a hundred dollars in cash, and that’s going to have to last me all month. If I hadn’t smarted off to Mila, she might have floated me a loan. Too late for that now.

I try to power up my phone to see if anything is going on in the neighborhood, but it’s dead and I don’t have the charger. And either Mila still has it or housekeeping accidentally threw it away, because it’s not here. Probably for the best.

So…thirty-six hours of TV it is. Here in Los Angeles. City of Angels. City of dreams.

This is my first time west of the Rockies. And I’m just going to sit around a hotel room.

Not that I can go out. Mila still has my boy clothes. And I can’t very well be seen coming and going as myself anyway. Nope, I’m just going to take it easy here in my room. See what’s on the tube. Practice my stage presence

Half an hour later, I’m walking out of the lobby. I’m still in girl mode and then some. Mila left me mostly skirts and blouses and dresses. I mean, women wear jeans and t-shirts, right? I guess she didn’t want my disguise to fail.

So now I’m all dolled up like I’m ready to hit the nightclubs. But I don’t care. I can’t sit alone in that room with my thoughts.

Just a cup of coffee or two. A magazine. A couple of hours of people watching. No one will notice me. I deserve this.

I find a little hole-in-the-wall place. An indie coffee shop.

We didn’t have these in my little slice of suburban hell in Des Moines, at least not near where I live. In my house, coffee was something you drank in the morning, not in the afternoon, and if you wanted to go out for some, there was a place where you could get an Egg McMuffin at the same time.

I brace myself, then stride through the door. The aroma of coffee beans overwhelms me. The tables are small. The chairs are mismatched. A cat dozes in the corner. About a dozen customers talk, read, and work on laptops. Though no one is playing, a small stage contains microphone stands and speakers.

I approach the counter with false confidence. I’m about to order a black coffee when I realize I’m not here with Chris or my father and I can order a damn mocha latte if I want. And I do want.

There’s a stand filled with random coffee table books. I grab a photography journal, sit on a well worn loveseat, and sip my drink.

It’s cozy in here. My drink is sweet and filling. And if I started coming here every couple of nights, I’m guessing that I could meet people and make friends. Get a job somewhere. Find some roommates and live here full time.

This is the life I’ve dreamed of for years.

I cross my legs and glance down at my smooth calves and sensible shoes.

There’s just one tiny catch.

*

Today we start filming Darkness in the Daytime. Well, Natalia starts filming. I get the impression they’ve actually already started. But I get to watch. And maybe participate a little.

The studio car drives me to the soundstage where I’m met by a guard who leads me inside. I have to admit, I glance around for any faces I might have seen on the big screen.

When I’m led into the green room, I’m a little surprised at how small it is, compared to our past locations. Then I realize that this is the work space for Becoming. The prep area for the movie would obviously be much larger.

Mr. Lawrence sits at a table with Mila. They’re going through some papers and I’m pleased to see he seems annoyed with Mila. They look up when I walk in.

Mr. Lawrence frowns at me and my smile dies on my lips. “You’re lucky they didn’t start without you.”

I swallow the ‘what?’ on my lips and respond with a more feminine ‘I’m sorry?’

“I needed to talk to you this morning, but you weren’t answering your cell. You can’t really afford to do that, Shannon, we’re on a schedule.”

He’s not happy, and I can’t really explain why I’m avoiding talking to my parents. “I’m terribly sorry. I left that phone at home. The contract says I’m to stay away from social media while I’m here and I wanted to avoid the temptation.”

For a second I think he’s going to get angry, but suddenly he laughs. “Are you hearing this, Mila? Shannon, you may be the first kid who actually read that contract, let alone tried to follow the rules! It’s nice to know you can listen to directions. I knew you’d be easy to work with. Mila, can you believe this girl?”

Mila stares at me icily. “A real peach, this one.”

Mr. Lawrence shakes his head. “Go pick her up a disposable one. Actually, buy her one of those new Cyborgs. And tell publicity, let them figure out how to place it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Shannon, we can’t send the car for you anymore, so take a taxi or an Uber, okay? Just charge it to your NBS card.”

I look at him, not understanding. He whirls on Mila.

“You did get her a company charge card, right?”

She swallows. “I wasn’t aware that—”

“Damn it, Mila, this is your responsibility. Just give her yours for now.”

I think Mila is about to object, but stops herself. She opens her purse and pulls out a charge card with the studio’s name on it.

“You can use that for meals and such, too. But don’t go buying a bunch of souvenirs though, they do monitor it. Try to limit it to, say, $200 a day.”

I swallow. That’s about half of what my mother earns in an entire week.

Mr. Lawrence has already returned to his papers. “Mila, go tell Aaron I need to see him. And grab me another coffee while you’re up.”

With angry dignity, Mila walks to the door, not glancing at me. But Mr. Lawrence isn’t through.

“Shannon, can she get anything for you?”

I know I should decline, but I can’t resist. “Yes please. Coffee, half caf. Two sugars.”

Mila’s smiles at me as she leaves, but her knuckles are clenching white. I feel a little guilty, but not much. And I’ll have to remember not to drink that coffee, which I’m sure will be liberally seasoned with Mila’s spit.

*

Despite Mr. Lawrence’s sense of urgency, Natalia doesn’t show up until half an hour later.

Everyone stands when she walks in, as if she’s a religious figure or royalty. Which, I suppose she is. She immediately heads for the coffee urn. Three crewmembers rush to fetch her a drink.

I wonder what it’s like. To be in your early twenties and to have your face on the cover of every magazine. To have millions of dollars. To have fans groveling at your feet. To be the fantasy of every teenage guy in the US.

To have a teenage guy pretend to be a teenage girl just to work with you.

I approach Mr. Lawrence. “Do you have today’s script?”

“No script today. You’re going to go through makeup with Natalia.”

“And then?”

“That’s all. The big movie makeup routine. Smile a lot. Maybe giggle. Let me hear you giggle.”

I giggle.

“Just smile. Look, Shannon, you’re obviously a talented young lady, but remember, every girl in America would love to be in your shoes. It’s okay to act a little awestruck.”

Kiss ass. Got it.

Natalia throws her cup in the trash. “So are we doing this today, or what?”

Everyone jumps to attention. Natalia nods at me, but doesn’t smile.

*

Natalia and I sit side by side in makeup chairs, wearing identical white bathrobes. Changing clothes had been kind of harrowing for me. I think I offended the female wardrobe person when I asked her to leave the room when I put it on, but I couldn’t very well have her seeing me topless. I have the robe cinched up tighter than a straitjacket.

Though I’ve worn makeup for my previous two appearances, I’m supposed to act like this is all new to me. I ponder asking Natalia for advice, but although she’s laying back less than two feet from me, I know better than to speak to her without permission.

The cameras fire up. Mr. Lawrence shouts ‘action.’ Like flipping a switch, Natalia’s face goes from sullen and annoyed to bubbly and friendly.

And I turn on my Iowa hick persona. We’re both actors, after all. And we do it well.

An older woman named Madge does our makeup. I act like it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me since River City got ‘lectricity.

I’m worried when Madge uses wipes to remove the cosmetics that I put on that morning. Will anyone read me?

Foolish me, the camera stays pointed at Natalia. My own makeup is kind of an afterthought.

I’m reminded of my sophomore year production of Little Abner. I killed in the audition for Senator Phogbound, but the role went to Derek Hinds, a basketball player who decided he wanted to be in the musical. I ended up working as the prompter, feeding him the lines he was too busy to memorize.

I had them memorized.

When we’re finished, the camera finally points to me for more than five seconds. It’s because Natalia has her arm around my shoulder, our cheeks pressed together.

“Sisters!” she giggles. I can tell she’s giving me the rabbit ears.

I smile and smile and smile.

And then it’s over.

Natalia leaves without a goodbye. Mr. Lawrence tells me they’re done with me for the day, but to help myself from the craft services table.

And that’s it. As I head to the changing room, I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Madge, the makeup artist.

“Shannon, is it? May I have a word?”

“Um, okay.”

Madge looks around the room, but we’re alone now. I’m getting nervous, what does she want?

“I know it’s not any of my business,” she begins.

Oh shit.

“And if I’m overstepping myself, just tell me. But when I was doing your makeup, well, I couldn’t help but notice something.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. She knows. She read me. Why wouldn’t she? She’s like Rochelle, skilled in covering things up and creating illusions.

“Maybe you know what I’m talking about?”

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to be blackmailing me or wanting to out me. But then why mention it? I’m too flummoxed to answer. She continues, shyly.

“Shannon, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of girls have a bit of a problem with facial hair. And honestly, if I hadn’t been so close, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Wow. Years of shaving when I didn’t need to, scanning my skin with my mom’s magnifying mirror, that humiliating time Chris caught me drawing on a mustache with an eyebrow pencil, and nothing. But the first time I don’t want whiskers, someone notices.

“Like I said, it’s none of my business. But I heard you talking about how you wanted to be an actress. It’s a detail like that that can cost you a role. Just some friendly advice, you might want to invest in a waxing kit or visit an electrologist.”

I breathe an internal sigh of relief that I haven’t been figured out. “Um, thank you. Yes. I’ll do that.”

Madge tilts her head. “You have such a, um, distinct face. I just want you to have every advantage.”

*

I change back into my skirt (and am disgusted with how second nature that’s becoming). As I try to figure out the way out of the studio, I spot Michael, the goofy intern.

When he recognizes me he waves.

“Shannon! How did it go?”

It is actually nice to have someone talk to me.

“Not bad. They did my makeup today.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Looks good.”

I’d actually washed off the stage makeup and reapplied my cosmetics, but I don’t tell him this.

“So are you going to watch the filming?” he asks.

“Filming?”

“Darkness in the Daytime,” he says, excitedly. “They’re doing the coffee shop scene today. C’mon.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I follow him down several corridors, then stand behind him as he shows his ID and leads me on to a sound stage. Even though I know what’s coming, I’m still a little overwhelmed. The lights, the microphones, all the behind the scenes hustle, fully visible in front of the little stage set to look like a cozy, New York City coffee shop.

Michael leads me to the back of the room, to some seats behind the cameras and crewmembers. I’m surprised to see Mr. Lawrence and Mila back here with us observers. Of course, this isn’t Becoming. It’s a movie and they’re not officially involved.

“Pretty, impressive, huh?” asks Michael. “Did you know that shots like this aren’t usually filmed in real restaurants?”

“I did know that, actually.”

“Now this isn’t the beginning of the film. More toward the middle. You see, they don’t film movies in chronological order.”

Wow. “Yeah, I know.”

“They’re going to try to shoot all the scenes here at once. It’s a lot easier this way.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Now you see over there? That’s a boom mic…”

Fortunately, shooting begins before he explains what the boxy things with the lenses are. The scene, which probably only represents four minutes of actual screen time, is mostly of Natalia’s character having an upset phone call in the coffee shop. We watch quietly as she distractedly orders her drink while reacting to a text message.

I’m not focusing on her, but on the actress playing the barista. She has two lines. She’ll stand here all day, unnoticed, and it’s entirely possible her bit will be cut.

How many people did this woman have to beat to land a role in a Natalia Jenkins movie? To have her name in the credits? To be listed in the IMDB in the Darkness in the Daytime entry? Will this be her one time on screen? Will she constantly pop this movie in for her guests to show them how she was in a real life movie once?

Would she jump at the chance to trail Natalia Jenkins for a month? Even if it meant dressing as a man?

Whenever there’s a break in shooting, Michael ramps up his monologue about filmmaking. I can’t say I blame him, if I worked here, I’d want to impress people with my insider knowledge. Of course he hadn’t told me a thing I don’t already know.

I glance over at Mr. Lawrence and Mila, who are leaning against the back wall, watching something on his device.

“Hey, Michael?” I interrupt. “What do you know about Mila?” If I’m going to be sparring with her for a month, I need to know as much as I can about my rival.

Michael’s face breaks into a big, dopey grin. “Well, she’s worked here for about a year. Youngest assistant producer in the studio’s history. Full scholarship to UCLA film school. Her senior project was a documentary on the lives of—” He suddenly stops talking, realizing that he’s giving me more information than I probably want. “Her favorite color is lilac, her birthday is February 3rd, and she knows how to let a guy down easy.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, but…doesn’t she strike you as kind of…harsh, sometimes?”

To my surprise, he doesn’t argue. “Sure. But you have to be, in this business. And besides…” He looks over at Mila, then back to me. “Her background is kind of different from yours and mine, if you know what I mean. I think she’s trying to prove that she got this job on her own. No special considerations.”

Makes sense, I suppose, but it doesn’t make me feel any warmer. I didn’t exactly grow up in the lap of luxury.

“So how about you, Shannon? Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, not much to know. I’m from Iowa, my father is a cabbie, and I’ve always wanted to work on stage.”

“Have you been in anything before?”

I roll my eyes. “Not a lot of opportunity in Des Moines. I almost landed the role of Hamlet in a community theater production last summer, but they went with someone manlier.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You wanted to play Hamlet?”

Damn it. “No! I mean, I…” Shit.

“That’s great! I think it’s wonderful you’d stretch yourself as an actress like that.”

Whew. “Thanks.”

“You know, men used to play all the women’s parts in Shakespeare’s time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Real women weren’t allowed to be on stage, you see.”

“Yes, I know, Michael.”

His phone buzzes. “Geez. Gotta go. You can stay here if you like. Just don’t leave while they’re shooting.”

“Bye, Michael.”

“Any noise out here gets recorded, you see.”

“Thanks.”

I hang around for a while, but seeing the same scene over and over gets tedious, even starring the great Natalia Jenkins. I wait for a lull in the filming and grab my purse.

As I go to leave, I happen to glance at the back wall.

Mr. Lawrence is speaking to Mila. And even from a distance, I can tell it’s not kind. He’s waving some kind of file and jabbing his finger at her face.

Mila just stands there, unsmiling, not reacting.

Mr. Lawrence slams the file on the ground. Papers fly everywhere. He storms off.

Silently, Mila stoops to gather the papers.

I almost, almost walk over to help her, before stopping. Not out of pettiness, I just don’t think she’d appreciate my presence at the moment.

So Mila isn’t a walk on water, do no wrong goddess in the eyes of Mr. Lawrence.

I wish I could say the image of Mila down on her knees, rushing to pick up Mr. Lawrence’s papers gives me a good warm feeling of triumph.

But it doesn’t. Not really.

Chapter Thirteen

It was a mistake to come here. From the street the bar looked quiet and isolated. I thought it would be a good place to sit and relax and avoid the hotel room.

Instead it’s loud and crowded, but not so crowded that people didn’t notice when I walked in. The man at the door stared at me. I had a choice between darting out into the street, or strolling in like I actually wanted to be in this sweaty hole. I strolled in.

I thought maybe they’d kick me out when I ordered a beer, but they served me, no problem. I remember reading that male to female transgender people tend to look older than they really are. Maybe that effect was working for me as well.

Except now I’m alone at a tiny table, sipping my beer and contemplating the incredibly odd turn my life has taken. On the bright side, I’m living in Los Angeles. I’m hobnobbing with celebrities and making real connections in the TV and movie business.

On the down side, I cannot possibly put any of those connections to work, ever. And I’m starting to get shoulder pains from these ridiculous boobs Mila bought me. She couldn’t have let me be flat chested?

I toy with a coaster and try to take a mental inventory. Honestly, can I blame all my problems on my gender bending? I mean, say I had been accepted on Becoming as a male. Natalia would still be stuck up and distant. And if they’d placed me with a male celebrity, wouldn’t things be pretty much the same? Would any big star be impressed by Shannon Ferguson?

A group of raucous girls at the booth next to me interrupt my thoughts. They’re playing some kind of electronic trivia game against other tables, and are laughing and having the time of their lives. Probably college students. All young, all pretty. I’d love to talk to them. I know the answers to some of the questions they’ve been debating. But what’s the point of trying to make friends as a girl?

If I were here as a boy—I mean, a man—would things be any different? Say I was sitting here in all my masculine glory. Would I have the courage to go introduce myself? To brag a little about being in a TV show?

No, of course not. I’d just sit here and stare at them until they got uncomfortable and changed tables. And if I did swallow enough liquid courage to actually approach them and offer to buy them a drink, they’d just roll their eyes and laugh.

It’s the school cafeteria all over again. I’m not destined to sit with the popular kids. And no amount of makeup or clothes or theater experience is ever going to change that.

I take a gulp of beer. I’d leave right now, but this drink wasn’t cheap and I have approximately five dollars left in the bottle.

The trivia girls are loud. I can’t help but overhear.

“Sherona! Stop looking at your phone! They’ll disqualify us.”

“Okay, okay. What was the question again?”

“What does it mean when someone gets an EGOT?”

Oh, too easy.

“EGOT? What the hell’s that?”

“Maybe it’s a French word. E-go.”

Jesus.

“I think she’s right. Hey, isn’t that kind of a French food?”

“You’re thinking of escargot. Maybe it’s like an expression, you know?”

C’mon, how can you not know this?

“No, I’m sure it’s a kind of food. Put that down. A French appetizer.”

I can stay silent no longer. I turn to the girls.

“It’s an acronym. Someone who's won an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony.”

The girls stare at me like I’ve grown another head.

What the hell was I thinking, jumping in like that? They couldn’t care less what I think. Even if I happen to be right.

Humiliated, I hunch over my beer.

Thirty seconds later, I’ve been pulled over to their booth. I’m now the team captain.

*

We come in dead last. Despite my knowledge of entertainment questions, none of us know anything about sports or old music. But that doesn’t seem to bother my three companions. They look to me for confirmation after every question and don’t seem to mind when I blow it.

Now we’re sharing a pitcher of margaritas and exchanging life stories. I was right, they’re all college students, members of the same sorority.

“So what about you, Shannon?” asks Sherona, a petite, short-haired brunette whose nose crinkles in the most adorable way when she laughs. “You’re not from L.A., are you?”

“No, Iowa. I’m in town to…” Dare I mention it? “To film an episode of Becoming.”

“Get out! I love that show! Who are you shadowing?”

“Natalia Jenkins.” I say it all casual like. Me and Natalia. We go way back.

I’m barraged with questions.

“What’s she like?”

“Is she that pretty in person?”

“Is she nice? Or is that just an act?”

I smile. “She’s super sweet. She took me horseback riding and we went to the zoo together.”

The girls squeal. Sherona squeezes my hand.

“Okay, picture time!” We all scrunch together and smile at Sherona’s phone. It’s only after she snaps a photo do I have second thoughts. I mean, what if someone sees this and recognizes me?

Then again, what possible friends would we have in common?

The party breaks up around midnight. Sherona holds my arm as we walk toward the door. I can almost squint my eyes and pretend I’m not wearing breasts and that we’re on a date.

“Shannon, are you free this Saturday? We’re doing karaoke!”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“C’mon. I won’t take no for an answer. We’ll meet here at eight o’clock.”

“I’ll try to make it.”

The girls all wave as they climb into a taxi. I watch them go.

I finally made it to the popular kids’ table.

*

The next day at the studio, Natalia’s leading man is on the set. It’s James Gunderson, irrepressible bad boy, and widely regarded as the worst autograph giver in Hollywood. He stops and says hi to me. I’m filmed as I pretend to fangirl all over him.

All I can think of is how bad my chest itches. It’s these stupid falsies. They get sweaty and gross and I so want to scratch. I need to scratch. How is it women never scratch? How do they never fart or belch or pick their teeth or have eye boogers or any of the other biological functions that come so naturally to us?

I want to rip off this stupid bra. I want to tear off this blouse and pull out these earrings and run shirtless through the studio proclaiming that I am a man.

“Here.”

Mila jams something into my stomach. It’s a brand spanking new Cyborg 6000 phone. The kind that goes for $1,500, and that’s without this sleek silver case emblazoned with the NBS logo and my name.

“Keep that with you,” she says, already walking away. “Publicity is going to want to take a few shots of you using it.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, already playing with it. I never thought I’d own anything this nice, at least not until my first movie deal. I guess this is why I got up early today to shave my armpits. There are rewards.

The director of Darkness in the Daytime calls for quiet on the set. I settle into my chair. We’re still using the coffee shop set, though now it’s for one of the final scenes in the movie. The big, last minute reconciliation scene between Natalia’s character and James’s.

It does not go well. I can’t tell if Natalia is exhausted or hungover or just plain doesn’t like the guy, but her delivery is flat. She flubs her lines. She barks at the extras. After over an hour, they’ve yet to film a usable take.

James, I have to admit, gives his lines flawlessly. I’d almost believe he really was trying to convince his platonic college roommate that what happened last week wasn’t a mistake and that if she was going to spend a semester in China, then by God, he was coming with her.

He laughs nervously every time Natalia blows a scene. I can tell the director, who is as big as Orson Wells in more ways than one, is getting frustrated.

After another half hour, things finally gel. Natalia turns on her charm. Turns on the tears. Hits every line. The relief in the room is palpable.

Then, right when we’re in the home stretch, right when she’s giving the second to last line, someone’s cell phone rings. Loudly. A full volume blast of ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’

It’s my phone. Everyone, including some of the most powerful people in Hollywood, glare at me as I fumble to turn it off.

It’s one of those moments where you feel too stupid to apologize and those you’ve angered are too pissed off to even say anything. But everyone is frowning.

Except for Mila, who smiles and waves her own phone at me.

*

After three increasingly miserable hours, they call it a day. Natalia lets out a loud groan and begins to march off stage, ignoring an extra who tries to talk to her.

Mr. Lawrence stops her before she can leave.

“Miss Jenkins, we do need to do a couple of shots for Becoming. If you don’t mind.” He quickly adds.

Natalia looks over at me and winces. “Do we have to do this shit today?”

Quite frankly, I’d just as soon pass as well. I’ve sweated through my clothes and I really have to pee. But Mr. Lawrence gestures for me to join them.

Natalia barely looks at me. “James!” she barks. “This is Shannon from Iowa. Run lines with her or something for a couple of minutes, would you?” She then sits down on a barstool and begins texting.

James looks almost embarrassed. “So how do you like the big city, young lady?” he asks as Mr. Lawrence sets up the shot.

“Oh, it’s wonderful.” And how’s your probation going? Finished your community service yet?

Mr. Lawrence puts his hand on my shoulder. I know better than to squirm away.

“Okay, kids, let’s give Shannon a chance to do some real acting. How about that last line?

James’ll give his little spiel and then Shannon, you say ‘no’.”

One word? I hope they have a teleprompter or something.

“You got that Shannon?”

“Yes.”

“No. You say ‘no.’”

“Right.”

I thought James would just be reading his speech, but no, he decides to put his all into it. Which means, just like with Natalia, he’s gripping me by the upper arms. Kind of roughly, actually. With each point he makes, he shakes me like a rag doll. Our foreheads almost collide once.

Not that I’m phoning it in. I only get one word. Fine, I’m going to make it count. I put on my best I know I shouldn’t be in love with this man but he’s made me feel things I never thought I could, experience feelings I never thought were possible, and how can I move across the globe knowing that I may be giving up on the best thing that ever happened to me since my high school boyfriend was tragically killed on prom night? expression. I’ve read the script.

James leans toward me, still shaking me around to the point of motion sickness.

“Rainflower, look at me! I’m dying here! Is that what you want?”

He leans in closer.

“You’re destroying me. Destroying what makes me a man!”

Closer still. I can feel his breath on my face.

“Rainflower, answer me! Do you want me out of your life?”

Closer still. Way too close. His voice drops to a whisper.

“Do you want me to—”

“NO!” Before I can stop myself, I shove him away with both hands.

He’s not expecting this and he kind of stumbles. Everyone, including Natalia, is looking at me in shock.

James does that nervous laugh thing, though he looks a little hurt. “What? Do I have bad breath or something?”

Well, I can tell you’re up to two packs a day, but that’s not it.

“No! It’s just…”

Everyone is staring. And I’m already on thin ice about the phone thing.

“It’s just that I read the script. Um, your character is sort of…well, he’s sort of a jerk. He kind of plays with her. I mean, would she just take him back after a two minute speech?”

I brace myself, waiting for Mr. Lawrence or Mila to yell at me. But James breaks into a huge smile. “You know, I thought the same thing. Seriously, what the hell kind of guy breaks up with a woman while she’s in the shower?”

I sign internally. “I know, right? I just thought, well, you know…”

“She’d make him beg!” finishes James. “I mean, not beg, but kind of let him squirm a little. You know, maybe this scene isn’t right. Natalia, I could tell you weren’t into it. What do you think?”

Natalia is still sitting on the barstool. She looks at us with a smile. “I think Iowa here has a good future in screenwriting.”

I smile and shyly bow my head. I’m not really pretending to be bashful at this point.

James claps his hands. “Great. Let’s talk it over at the next production meeting. Shannon, it was a pleasure.” He shakes my hand. He and Natalia walk out together. Mr. Lawrence shoots me a thumbs up as he leaves as well. I stand there beaming, long after they’re gone.

“You want some advice?” Mila has joined me and is looking at me in that disapproving way. I’m not going to let her get to me.

“If it’s about turning off my phone, I’m way ahead of you.”

“I’m serious. You’re making a big mistake.”

There’s something in her tone that makes me listen. “How do you mean?”

“Well, you really impressed everyone today, with your ad libbing. I think James was amazed by a girl who wasn’t all gaga about him. Mr. Lawrence says you’re the best guest we’ve ever had on the show. And I’ve heard other people talking about you. They think you’re doing great.”

“And my big mistake is…?”

Mila glances over her shoulder at the emptying studio. “Ms. Jenkins. You can’t be making enemies like that.”

I blink in confusion. “Making enemies? The woman has barely spoken two words to me off camera.”

Again, the nervous glance. “That’s not what I mean. Look, Shannon, Natalia is used to being the center of attention. Ever since she was seventeen. And as long as you act all worshipful and awestruck, she’s going to be your best friend. But once you start looking good around her, impressing her costars and putting a little attention on yourself, she won’t like it. She’s done it before. Gotten actresses cut from a production because other people noticed them. One word from her and they got the axe.”

I try not to show how flummoxed I am. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not actually getting paid, so I guess she can’t have me fired.”

“Would you be serious, Shannon? Just toe the line, okay? Do what they ask, nothing more. You don’t want to make anyone jealous.”

“Well…” I look at my growing nails. “Someone is jealous.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all, Mila.” I smile. I smile wide.

She shakes her head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And Shannon? Use that charge card. You can’t keep showing up in those same two outfits.”

I watch her go. Mila was just being paranoid, right? I mean, I know Natalia is self-absorbed, but I’m so beneath her notice, I seriously doubt she’d care that I made a suggestion. Heck, I only went off script because I was afraid James was going to plant a big wet one on me.

One thing she was right about, I do need some new clothes. Too bad I know jack squat about women’s fashions. And I have no one who can advise me.

Unless…

*

“Rochelle, thank you again for all your help.” We’re walking down the street toward my hotel, both of us staggering under the weight of several clothing bags.

“Sweetie, it’s my pleasure. I always wanted a daughter that I could take shopping.”

“Are you sure I can’t pay you?” I was surprised when she offered to help me pick out some new clothes without accepting money for her time.

“Shannon, I’m having fun. And I didn’t exactly do this for free.” She pats a bag. I’d paid for more than one flashy outfit in Rochelle’s size.

We’d hit a half dozen stores, mostly small places and consignment shops. They all seemed to know Rochelle there. Everyone noticed my flamboyant companion. No one looked twice at me.

We stop in front of my hotel. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Rochelle.”

She winks. “It’s my pleasure to help out such a sweet young lady.”

I kind of take offense at that. “You know I’m not a lady. I’m just trying this out.”

She cocks a pencil thin eyebrow. “You spent over six hundred dollars just to try things out?”

I grimace. That’s way over my daily allowance, but when you look at it on a weekly basis, I’m still way under budget. And what right does she have to psychoanalyze me?

She raises a manicured hand before I can object. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. None of my business.”

I shrug. “Well…I have my reasons. But it’s too bad you don’t have a daughter. She’d be a lucky girl.”

Rochelle shoulders her bag and looks at me in a strange way. “Good night, Shannon. Call me if you need any more help.” She begins to walk, but pauses.

“And for the record, I do have a daughter. I guess I meant that I wish that I had a daughter who would let me take her shopping. Or accept my phone calls.”

I sadly watch her walk off into the night, head held high, her gait perfectly feminine.

Chapter Fourteen

I reread the instructions on the waxing kit. After solution begins to gel, grip and pull in one quick motion.

I look at my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror. The pink blob under my nose looks like I have some weird fungus. But I remember Madge the makeup artist’s warning about my visible whiskers.

Grip and pull.

Grip and pull.

Grip and…

I didn’t cry at my grandfather’s funeral. I didn’t cry when I learned the producers of this show thought I was a girl. I didn’t even cry when Old Yeller died.

I’m crying now.

I go fetal with the unexpected pain. Tears run down my nose onto my raw upper lip. I swear to God that if I ever get married, I will never, ever complain about my wife taking too long in the bathroom.

And just when I think I’m going to black out, my phone buzzes.

Someone’s calling me on my new device. Who the hell has this number? Shakily, I look at the screen.

It’s Mila. She must have programmed her number in. She even included a selfie, a photo of her smiling and flipping me the bird.

Warily, I answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Shannon. Mr. Lawrence just called me.”

I tentatively poke at my lip, which brings fresh waves of pain. “What did he want?”

“He said…hey, are you okay? Are you crying?”

I make an effort to control my breathing. “No. Just doing some aerobics. Out of breath.”

“Um…okay. Anyway, Mr. Lawrence said they won’t need you for the next few days.”

I freeze. “Did I really offend Miss Jenkins?”

Mila laughs. “No, I mean they’re postponing filming the movie. Miss Jenkins has a bad cough.”

A cough. She can’t work because of a cough. Okay, sure, you obviously can’t make a movie when the star is hacking all over the place. But I remember my father’s frequent bouts with bronchitis. And how he’d still leave for work at five in the morning because you can’t take a doctor’s note to the grocery store.

“Shannon? You there?”

I sigh. “Yeah.”

A long pause. “I’ll call you when we figure out what’s going on. So the weekend’s all yours.”

More dead time. Great. “Yeah. Thanks.”

We’re both quiet, but neither of us hang up. Then we both speak at the same time.

“Shannon…”

“Mila…”

“You go first.”

Feeling like an idiot, I say it anyway. “Mila, you want to grab a coffee or catch a movie or something? I mean, while we’re waiting for the filming to start again?”

I’m really swallowing my pride here, but she’s literally my only contact. I know she’ll laugh at the idea, but at least I’ll get credit for trying to mend fences.

To my surprise, she sounds genuinely regretful. “Sorry, Shannon. I’m going out of town.”

“That’s fine. Take care.”

Again, we don’t hang up.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay there? I could text you some…I dunno. Stuff to do in that neighborhood. A community calendar or something.”

No, I don’t need her to arrange a playdate for me. “No, I’m fine. I’ll just catch up on…I’m fine.”

Another pause. “I really am leaving town tomorrow.”

“Have fun. Call me when you hear anything.”

I hang up.

So now what? Two, three days of waiting? I know how these things go. The delays could last weeks. Last until the school year starts again. Last until Becoming cancels my episode.

And me, here alone with my one remaining lip and a credit card that I’m sure they’d accept at the bus terminal. Not to mention any men’s clothing store.

But I know I’m in too deep to stop now. Production will resume and they’ll finish my episode.

And it’s Friday night. I do have an invitation to sing karaoke.

*

I’m disappointed to see that the bar is more crowded than the last time I was here. A lot more crowded. I guess it’s because of the weekend. A line now snakes around the corner. I hope there’s no cover charge. I wish I had this phone when I met Sherona so I could call her now and ask where I’m supposed to find her. Or if we could meet somewhere quieter instead.

I finally make it to the front of the line. The girls in front of me are not asked to show ID, much to my relief. I move to follow them.

“Hold it.” The doorman is holding up a palm.

I’m confused. Maybe there is some sort of a cover.

“Is there a problem?”

He shakes his head. “We’re full tonight. Why don’t you come back, maybe Monday. Three-for-two margaritas.”

I’m trying to process this when another group of girls squeeze by me. I’m momentarily distracted by their tight tops and short skirts. Maybe we could all find something to do when they realize they’re not letting anyone else in.

He lets them in.

Just like that. There’s like four of them. So why couldn’t I…

And then it hits me. The club isn’t full, but it is crowded. And the doorman wants to make sure that they fill the place with the right kind of people. Guys who want to spend money, and girls who will bring the guys in.

And I am neither.

I shuffle off to the side. And I got all dressed up too. This new sweater and these cute boots Rochelle picked out for me.

POWER TOOLS!

SPORTS!

BEER!

I shake my head and force my way upstream, out through the waiting crowd. I’m trying not to be offended. I’m really trying.

“Shannon! You made it!”

It’s Sherona. She bursts out of nowhere, accompanied by two other girls, not the same ones from the other night. I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from Sherona’s cropped top. Very cropped.

Sherona grabs me in a hug. “I was hoping you’d come! C’mon!”

She takes me by the hand and whisks me inside. The doorman doesn’t stop me.

We all manage to cram around a little table and order a pitcher of daiquiris. Someone passes us the book of karaoke songs.

“Ooh, they have ‘Lullaby of New York!’ Shannon, will you sing that with me? Would you mind doing the guy’s part?”

Would I mind. Ah, Sherona, I may not have the face for Broadway, I sure as hell got the pipes. Be prepared to be blown away.

The club is crowded and noisy. We’re all pushed together. Sherona keeps touching my hand. It’s loud enough that she has to practically push her lips to my ear for me to hear her.

I’m so enjoying this. Not the physical closeness, but just being part of the group. These cool, attractive women want to hang out with me. That would not have happened to me in boy mode. And you know what? I’m good with that. Now I can relax. I won’t waste time trying to impress them. I can just have fun. Sing. Drink. Hang out.

I’m finally making friends.

This is awesome.

“Hello, ladies.”

Two guys have walked up behind me. I didn’t notice them coming, but I could sure smell their body spray. They’re overly dressed, frat rat types. They both carry a drink in each hand.

The first passes his drink to one of Sherona’s friends. And the second…passes one to Sherona.

Everyone (else) smiles. The girls scoot over to make room for the intruders. I’m shunted away from Sherona, and kind of away from the table as well. I can’t reach my drink.

Okay, fine. It’s a free country. I sit there, irritated, as conversation blooms around me. After repeatedly shouting for people to repeat themselves, I give up. Another guy joins our table. Three guys. Three girls. And Shannon, none of the above.

One of Sherona’s friend’s name is called, and she walks to the stage for her turn at the microphone. As everyone claps and cheers, I reclaim my place at the table. The guy I’m now sitting next to gives me a fake smile.

“Hey, Shannon,” says Sherona. “Tell everyone why you’re in L.A.!”

I’m about to modestly wave off her question and make her worm it out of me. Then I realize that no one here is actually interested and I have about two seconds to keep their attention.

“I’m filming a TV series with Natalia Jenkins.” I decline to mention what sort of a TV series.

This catches the group’s interest. “Get out!” says one of the dudes. “Is she that smoking hot in real life?”

I guess I could be catty and imply she looks much worse in person, but I decline. “Even prettier close up.”

“So what’s she like?”

It’s all an act. She’s completely fake. “She’s about the sweetest person you ever met.” Ahem. “The other day we were on the set. It was between takes and—”

“Sherona!” barks the MC. “Sherona and, um, partner! Come on up and show us what you’ve got!”

Ah, time for our song. This is going to be great. Just wish I had my pitch pipe here, but I guess that doesn’t matter.

And then I realize Sherona is already halfway to the stage. With the new guy.

His friends bark and whoop as he mutilates his half of the duet. Mutilates! God, this was my audition song for the musical my sophomore year. I didn’t get the part, but still.

Everyone at the table takes their turn at the microphone. Except me. No one notices I don’t get a turn. And I don’t try to sign up for one.

Fortunately, Karaoke ends after about an hour. I’ve managed to dig in with my elbows and knees to hold on to a place at the table. Finally I can maybe talk to Sherona again.

“C’mon,” says her stalker. “Let’s dance.”

I’m not a good dancer. Even I don’t kid myself about that. I hope—I pray—that Sherona will turn him down. Or that no one else will join them.

Everyone gets up to dance. And that’s my cue. It’s time for me to leave. I’ll grab Sherona’s phone number and get out of here.

“Hey, um…Shannon, right? Could you watch our purses?”

“Actually…”

“Thanks!”

I don’t know what annoys me more, the fact that I’m now stuck here alone at this table, or that everyone assumed I wouldn’t want to dance.

I drink my daiquiri, alone. And a couple of other people’s. I’m not used to alcohol, and I begin to feel tired and sad. If no one comes back and checks on me before this next song finishes, I’m going to go home. I’ll leave their purses to the wolves.

I sit through three more songs.

I’m reminded of the one school dance my father badgered me into attending. I didn’t dance that night either.

And then, just when I really am totally probably going to leave on my own, Sherona returns to the table. Much to my shock, she takes me by the hand and pulls me away with her.

I’m so stunned and delighted that I don’t realize where she’s taking me until it’s too late.

The women’s room.

Since I became a girl, I’d been using the women’s bathroom at the studio when I needed to, but it was such a cramped and sterile place, I never thought much of it. This, however, is a nightclub bathroom. A dozen women stand in front of the mirrors, applying makeup and adjusting their hair. I do my best to act natural.

Sherona points to the front of her top, which is stained with some sort of liquid. “Asshole spilled his beer all over me. Jesus.”

She dabs at her shirt futilely. I’d really like to help her with that.

“God, Shannon, he didn’t even apologize. Men suck.”

Despite my shaved legs and earrings, I feel I have to defend my sex. “Well, not all men are jerks.”

She braces against the sink with both hands. “Could have fooled me. I’m getting sick of this. Sick of the bars and the assholes and getting groped. It’s really getting old.”

I hand her another paper towel. “Maybe you should try something new.” Believe me, I’m an expert on that.

She sighs. “Everyone else wants to come here, and it’s fun, I guess. But all the guys are the same. They just want one thing. You know what it’s like.”

“Sherona, you’re not going to meet a nice guy at a place like this.” Well, you already have, but you don’t know that.

She finally turns and looks at me. “I’m not, am I? Geez, I’m so tired of the pricks here. What I wouldn’t give to meet someone…I dunno. Funny. Sensitive.”

I glance down at my manicured fingers. “Guys like that are out there.”

“Yeah. It’s a nice thought. Find some musician or writer or painter or something. Someone not obsessed with his hair and my chest. Ah, a girl can dream.”

I almost break down. I swear, I almost announce that I’m really the sensitive, artistic man she’s been looking for. My only excuse is that I’ve been drinking and apparently I’m the overshare type of drunk.

But then Sherona turns back to the mirror, frowns, and removes her top. As she wrings it out over the sink, wearing only her bra, I realize that the gender reveal moment has passed. I stand there, contemplating Sherona’s tramp stamp and the constellations of freckles on her shoulders. Then I realize what I’m doing and quickly turn away. No need to add to the transphobic panic about guys in dresses leering at women in the bathroom.

Sherona replaces her top and we return to the club. We immediately run into her ‘date.’

“Hey, we’re all going to drive out to Freeworld. C’mon.”

It’s not a request. And for all of Sherona’s hoping for a Prince Charming, she chooses to leave with this toad.

“C’mon, Shannon,” she says. “Have you ever been?”

The dude-bro interrupts me before I can answer. “Ah, the thing is my car’s kind of filled up. I don’t know if we have room for…” He smiles at me with such smarmy false sincerity. And it makes me really angry. None of his friends want to sleep with me, so there’s no point in me coming.

I glance at Sherona, wondering if maybe she’ll stand up for me.

“We could call you a ride. You could meet us there.” She almost sounds like she sincerely wants me to come. Almost.

I slap on my best smile, the one even the people in the cheap seats can see. “I’m kind of wiped out, Sherona. Give me your number, we’ll get together some other time.”

Her date’s relief is pretty obvious. And honestly, so is Sherona’s.

I walk them out. And they all talk and laugh as they cram into what’s-his-name’s car and speed off.

Sherona waves at me.

I stand in front of the club.

Funny, when I was male, I was used to people not wanting to hang out. Everyone thought I was weird. Nerdy. Pretentious.

I guess they were right.

But tonight, I only failed on one front.

I’m not pretty. I’m not sexy.

It doesn’t matter to me that I don’t make an attractive woman.

Seems to matter to everyone else, though.

Chapter Fifteen

I sleep in the next day. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Just laying here under these thick hotel sheets, in this warm bed, no school, no Chris, no auditions…

Someone is in the room with me. I don’t hear them. I don’t feel them. But as I open my eyes, I have a horrible sense that someone is standing next to my bed.

Warily, I turn. A dark, grinning face stares down at me.

“God, you scream like a girl,” says Mila a minute later, when I’ve finally calmed down enough to speak.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I snap, between gasps for air. “You ever hear of knocking?”

“Meh.”

She’s sitting on the edge of my bed. I’m still under the covers, but I’m suddenly very aware that I have nothing on but a pair of panties. I pull the sheet up to my chin.

“I thought you were leaving town.”

“My plans fell through. Now get up.”

“Huh?”

She claps her hands. “C’mon. Go make yourself pretty.”

“Huh?”

“Wow, Shannon, you’re even less articulate than usual. Get dressed. We’re going out.”

*

“Jesus, Shannon, don’t do that.”

It’s a beautiful, sunny day. Mila and I are sitting at a sidewalk café, watching the people go by and enjoying cups of gelato. A far cry from the Des Moines Dairy Queen.

“Do what?”

“Sit with your legs wide open. If you’re going to wear a skirt, you have to keep the gates shut. Cross your legs.”

Dutifully, I follow Mila’s direction. She nods approvingly.

“You know, you have very nice legs, Shannon.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She’s staring, unashamedly. “I’m serious. Very shapely. We ought to get you some Daisy Dukes. You’ll drive the guys nuts.”

“Yeah.”

It’s been like this all day. Mila drove me all over the city. We took in a Hollywood museum, did some shopping, went out to lunch, and now here we sit, just relaxing.

On the other hand, she has never stopped with her digs, her backhanded compliments, and her implications that I’d make a better woman than a man.

Hanging out with Mila is like having a pet bear cub. Fun, until they unexpectedly turn on you.

“You ever think about dressing like this after the show’s over? I bet you’d turn the boys’ heads back in Cowpie, Iowa.

I attempt to change the subject. “So what was up with you this weekend? Where were you supposed to go?”

She waves a hand. “Eh, same old BS. Didn’t want to hang out at home, so I called up the only guy I know who wouldn’t try to feel me up. The boys aren’t exactly looking in my direction when you’re around.”

I remember what happened at the club last night and I laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, what you said about guys. You see, I was out with some friends last night. We were at this dance club and—”

Mila looks confused. “What are you talking about? What friends?”

“Just a girl I met the other day. And she’s cute, but fat lot of good that does me, right? So these guys come up to our table, and it’s like I don’t exist. I mean, I obviously am not there to get hit on, but it was like I wasn’t even talking. The whole night. So stop feeding me this crap about boys—”

“You went out?” asks Mila again, as if she’s having trouble grasping the concept.

“Well, I didn’t want to sit in the hotel all weekend.”

She’s looking so dumbfounded, I figure I’ve done something wrong. “Look, I was careful. Rochelle took me shopping for new clothes the other day, just like you suggested. And I even waxed my lip. Hurt like a bitch. I think I was still sobbing when you called me.”

Why in God’s name does Mila look so riled up? “That’s why you were crying? Because you waxed your stupid face?”

“Well…yeah. I don’t know if you’ve ever done anything like that, but it hurts.”

Mila whips out her phone and begins furiously staring at the screen.

“What the hell’s your problem?”

She sneers at me. “Nothing. I was just going to see my mother for the first time in like two months, but now I’m here with you instead.”

I’m getting really tired of her acting like every problem in her life is my fault. Next she’s going to blame me for climate change. “Well, I’m sorry you’re so bored. If your plans fell through…”

I pause. Wait a minute.

“Your plans didn’t get canceled, did they, Mila?”

She scowls at me.

“You called them off!”

“Shut up, Shannon.” She looks back down at her phone.

“You thought I was really crying on the phone! You were worried about me!”

“Shut. Your. Trap.”

A smile spreads over my face. “You were afraid I was sad and alone and came here to keep me company!”

She slams her palm onto the table. “I was afraid you were about to panic and run back home to Assdump. Didn’t realize you were out making time with the boys.”

I should feel guilty, but I don’t. “You thought I was lonely. You wanted to make sure I was okay. Mila, that’s about the sweetest thing I ever heard.” I make my voice extra saccharine because I can tell it annoys her.

She stares at me. Good thing looks can’t actually kill. “I won’t see my mother until the fall now.”

I rein it in. “I’m sorry. Where does she live?”

“Fresno. She works all the time. We both do. It’s been hard for us to get together since I left college.”

This is kind of a rare glimpse into Mila’s personal life. “What’s she like?”

Mila shrugs. “I don’t want to get into it.” She pauses. “How about your family?”

Now it’s my turn to be sullen. “My father’s a cabbie. My mom works in a plastics factory. We don’t have a lot in common.” I feel a little guilty about how ungrateful I sound.

“You mentioned your sister. In your video, you said she fought with you all the time.”

That seems so long ago. “Chris. She’s a year older than me. Really athletic. Likes to pummel the crap out of me. Always calling me a sissy and a girly man.” I glance down at my fake boobs, smooth legs, and painted nails. “All in my head, right?”

Mila looks at me intently. “Have you talked to them? Told them what’s going on?”

Ever since I got this new phone, I’d been tempted to resurrect my social media pages, my email, anything, just to see the messages I’m sure they’ve sent me. Maybe they’re angry. Maybe they’re scared. I don’t know.

And I won’t know. Because if I start communicating with home, everything’s going to come out. I’ve gone this far. I have to finish what I started.

“My family and I…we don’t talk a lot anymore.”

She nods. “Shannon…look. I was kind of desperate when I asked you to play a girl.”

“Asked? Don’t you mean ‘forced’?”

She ignores that. “And you’ve done well. I mean, you really stepped up. I admit it, I’m impressed. And barring disaster, I think we’re going to pull this off.”

Her confidence buoys me. “Hey, thanks.”

“But when the episode airs, well, what are you going to do? I mean, we never say last names on the show, and with all your makeup and everything, I don’t think anyone is going to recognize you. So are you going to tell anyone? Let your friends know that was really you?” She asks this casually, but I can tell she desperately wants to know.

I’ve been playing that question over in my head for the past week. A couple of days ago, I would have liked to make Mila squirm. Threaten her, even blackmail her. But I think we’ll both be better off if we’re on the same side.

“I’m going to tell people I was working on a film that got canceled. That I just ran off to Hollywood on a whim, but it didn’t work out. Lots of people do it.”

Mila waves her hand in a circle, encouraging me to continue. She has no idea that I’m only seventeen and this explanation won’t be enough for them.

“And if I do get found out, I’ll be sure to tell everyone that no one on Becoming had any idea, Including the great Mila Nevins, who had absolutely nothing to do with this and always thought I was a woman.”

She gives me a rare smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it. If you need someone to vouch for where you were, I can print up some paperwork, make it look like you really did have a small part in some canceled production. It happens every day.”

It’s time to be serious. “Mila, I want to put all this behind me as much as you do. But…don’t forget about me when all this is over. Something tells me you are going to be a force to be reckoned with someday. Just remember what we both went through this summer, okay?”

She hits me with a full on, genuine smile. “If we pull this off, this won’t be the last time we work together. I promise.”

*

Mila drives me back to the hotel and walks me to the door. Before we go in, she touches my arm.

“Shannon, I’ve dealt with a lot of guests on Becoming. And all of them were self-absorbed, white privileged, whiney, prima-donnas.” She squeezes my shoulder. “To be honest, when I first met you, that’s what I thought.”

I stand there, listening, waiting for her to go on. She stays silent. Finally, I have to prompt.

“And…?”

“Oh, there’s nothing else.” She turns and walks back toward her car. “Filming starts again on Monday,” she calls over her shoulder. “Be there by nine.”

I watch her leave. Arrogant, bossy, manipulative, and rude.

But I bet she wouldn’t have ditched me at a club for some guy.

Chapter Sixteen

I have to admit, it’s kind of a great feeling to just stride onto the set of a major motion picture production with nobody stopping me. Sure, I’m nothing more than a contestant on a stupid reality show, but so what? As crew members and minor actors nod hello to me, I can almost pretend that this is my movie. That I’m going to be the star.

Yeah, Shannon Ferguson, lead actress. Oh well.

They’re filming an outdoor scene today. I find Mila sitting with the people from Becoming. I take the seat next to her and hand her a coffee.

“Didn’t know how you take it, so it’s black. You know, to match your—”

“Shannon!”

“Your heart.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but takes the coffee. Drinks out of it, too. Brave woman.

James, the leading man, strolls by. He stops to talk to us.

“Hi, Mila. Hey, Shannon, I talked to the writers and they liked your idea for the end scene. I don’t know if they’re actually going to change anything, but good on ya. You got any other suggestions?”

Boy, do I. The more I study the script, the more I realize how the director is wasting the potential of these two talented actors. But I also remember that Mila warned me about overstepping myself around Natalia.

“No, I’ll just leave it to the pros.”

James winks at me, nods to Mila, and heads to the set.

Yet another A-list actor who will probably remember my face next week. Well, remember girl Shannon’s face.

Just before the director calls ‘action’, Mila speaks to me without turning her head.

“Don’t worry, Shannon. Your day will come.”

*

The filming goes well this time. It’s a trite scene of romantic misunderstanding, but both Natalia and James film every scene with comedic precision, and most of the spectators laugh through the numerous retakes.

I have a suggestion or two, but keep them to myself.

The successful shoot puts Natalia in a good mood. She doesn’t even complain when Mr. Lawrence reminds her of her obligations to Becoming. We film a few minutes talking to the sound guys, with Natalia and I singing a brief duet into a microphone. I don’t bother to tone down my skills, I’m sure my voice will be removed in the final edit.

Mila has already left for the day, but Mr. Lawrence is mumbling over his laptop. I approach him to find about our schedule.

“Hang on, Shannon. This goddamn thing won’t load.”

I glance over his shoulder. I immediately see what’s wrong.

“I think I see your problem.”

He doesn’t respond, but keeps clicking on the error message, causing it to repeat itself.

“Sir? My own laptop does this all the time. You just need to—”

“I don’t have time for this shit. Michael? Where the hell is Michael!”

I plow onward. “It’s an outdated plug-in. You have to manually—”

“Michael! Get your ass over here!”

The young intern is front and center. “Sir?”

“Take this piece of crap to the tech department. And I want it back today.”

I try one last time. “Mr. Lawrence? If you’d just let me—”

Michael leans over and clicks on the same override icon I’d been trying to draw his attention to. The video clip immediately loads.

“Abracadabra!” says Michael with a grin.

Mr. Lawrence shakes his head and smiles. “You kids. Good work, Michael.”

Michael is still beaming after Mr. Lawrence leaves.

“He was using an outdated plug-in,” he informs me.

“You don’t say.”

“When that happens, you have to click that little override icon, up by the URL.”

“Really.”

He nods. “I’m not half bad with computers. If you ever have a problem, give me a ring.”

“Yes, Michael. I’ll be sure to do that.”

He nods, with the beatific grin of tech support. “Hey, you headed home? I’m catching a ride with K’shawn and I think you’re on our way.”

“In one of those auto-mobiles?”

The sarcasm is lost on him. “Huh?”

“Nothing. Yeah, sure.”

*

K’shawn is an intern in another department and just as noodley as Michael. As we head down the freeway, the two argue about science fiction novels and fantasy movies. What nerds.

Too bad I’m so annoyed with Michael. These are my kind of guys.

About a mile from my exit there’s a thump and the car starts shaking. K’shawn pulls over.

It’s a blowout. Driver’s front tire. Right on the nearly shoulderless highway, facing traffic. In the front seat, Michael and K’shawn groan and slide out the passenger door.

Here’s where all the lessons from my father will come back to haunt me. He wouldn’t let me drive until I could prove I could change a tire.

This is going to be miserable. It’s hot, it’s dirty, and I’m so not dressed for this. I put my hand on the door.

Wait.

I hear the two guys banging around in the trunk, cursing and struggling with tools.

I slide out of the car. I smooth my skirt. I perch on the guardrail.

It takes them forty minutes to change the tire. By the time they’re finished, their knuckles are bloody, their clothes are filthy, and they’re drenched in sweat.

Not once did they suggest I help them. Not once did they shoot me a dirty look for just sitting there. They both repeatedly apologized to me, assuring me that everything was under control and we’d be on our way in a couple of minutes.

I didn’t bother to tell Michael that if he’d lower the jack a couple of cranks, it’d be a lot easier to remove the lug nuts.

As we drive off, I lean into the back seat, enjoying the air conditioning.

There are drawbacks to being treated like a woman.

This is not one of them.

Chapter Seventeen

“God, Shannon,” Natalia gushes. “You have such dainty little feet. I’m totally jelly!”

We’re at a Natalia’s favorite manicurist, getting mani-pedis. This is the third time today someone has complimented my feet or legs. I’m beginning to wonder if Mila was being serious when she joked about how good I looked in a skirt.

Of course the cameras are rolling and this is captured. In a few months, America will hear about Shannon’s sexy legs. I pray Mila’s right and no one makes a connection between TV Shannon and Iowa Shannon. If I should later join the NFL or become a Navy Seal, I’d still forever be known as Miss Long Legs.

I smile weakly at Natalia, wondering if maybe I’m going down a path I’ll never be able to veer from.

“Oh, Shannon, you need to try this mango-chutney facial scrub from Lady Olivia. It’s the brand used in most salons, but it’s available in the beauty aisle of your local Wal-Mart or Target!”

That’s another thing. When I sent my video in to Natalia, it wasn’t so I could sit in a beauty parlor having my nails done and shilling for the show’s sponsors. I thought Natalia and I would be fixing meals at the soup kitchen or washing puppies at the humane society.

I try to ignore the tiny voice that reminds me that Des Moines has soup kitchens and animal shelters as well, and I’ve never set foot inside any of them. Always meant to. Always talked about it.

Sighing, I rub on some of the facial scrub. Natalia is right, it really does open the pores.

Jesus, I might as well sign up for breast implants after this.

I try to make myself feel manly by watching the younger manicurists. They’re all Vietnamese, I think, and react to Natalia the same way everyone else does: with breathless awe and quiet obedience.

Across the room, I notice Michael trying to flirt with one of the desk staff. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the girl isn’t reacting. Either there’s a language barrier, or he’s explaining to her what nail polish is.

I replace the cucumbers over my eyes. When all this is over, I’m going to have to do some serious reflecting on what I’m going to do with my life. And not just acting-wise.

I could go back home and really get into volunteer work. Maybe use my experiences here to raise awareness about the struggles of gender fluid people. Be an advocate for the cause.

“Ms. Ferguson?” comes an obsequious voice at my elbow. “Your chai tea is ready.”

Or maybe I could just become a man of leisure. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy at least some of this.

My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash and a yelp. I remove the vegetables from my lids and reveal a scene of utter chaos. In the ten seconds I had my eyes covered, Michael somehow managed to collide with the drinks girl, knocking a tray of beverages all over the place. Tea, mineral water, and smoothies splatter the floor of the salon…as well as Mr. Lawrence’s pants.

Michael is frozen like a deer in the headlights, as everyone stares at him. Mr. Lawrence just stands there. For a brief second, I think he’s just going to laugh this off.

He hits Michael.

Not with his fist, but with the flat of his palm. Just a smack upside the head. Almost cartoonish.

I guess I’m the only one who notices Michael grit his teeth in pain.

“You stupid shit.” He hits him again.

“Sir, I—”

Mr. Lawrence jabs him in the chest with a finger. Michael backs up, nearly losing his balance on the spilled drinks.

“I’m done with you, Michael. Every damn week another screw up. Do you have any idea how many people would take your job over like that?” He snaps his fingers in Michael’s face. “Do you?”

“Sir…” Michael’s eyes are wide.

“I’m through. I don’t know why we keep you here.”

I glance around wondering if anyone is going to leap to Michael’s aid. The salon workers pointedly don’t look in his direction. The TV crewmembers, who Michael had been joking around with an hour earlier, just watch. Natalia is looking at her phone, not playing attention.

“You listening to me, Michael? Give me one good reason not to kick your ass out of here.”

I’m suddenly reminded of my many encounters with my sister. Give me one good reason not to kick your ass, Shannon.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m standing between Mr. Lawrence and Michael. They both take an involuntary step back in surprise.

“Mr. Lawrence?” I begin, with a timidity that isn’t the result of my acting skills. “It was an accident.”

Mr. Lawrence doesn’t smile. I swallow and continue. “We all know Michael’s a great guy. I mean we’ve all had our clumsy moments, right?” No one shouts out in agreement. Especially not Mr. Lawrence.

“Could you just cut him a break? He’s very sorry.” I glance over at Michael, but he doesn’t take my cue to apologize. He just stares at me.

Mr. Lawrence glares, and for a moment I worry that we’re both going to be kicked off the show. I have to call in the big guns.

“Miss Jenkins? You know what it’s like to be all thumbs, right?” Natalia is always going on about how klutzy she is, at least during interviews.

Natalia looks up, as if aware of what’s going on for the first time. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Cut the dude a break, Harvey.”

Mr. Lawrence glowers at me for another couple of seconds, and I fear I’ve made an enemy. But he turns to Michael. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

Michael doesn’t have to be asked twice. He hauls ass out of the salon.

At the door, he pauses and looks back at me.

He doesn’t smile. In fact, he looks almost as angry at me as Mr. Lawrence did.

*

It’s not until I run into Mila outside that I realize my blunder. She’s standing by Natalia’s limo, sheaves of papers spread all over the hood.

“Shannon.” She nods without looking up from her work. “Who shoved the bug up Michael’s ass?”

Hell if I know. “What do you mean?”

“He stormed off all pissy. Didn’t even hit on me, so I know something’s up.”

I check to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “Mr. Lawrence got in his face. I think he might have fired Michael if Natalia and I hadn’t stepped in. Well, mostly Natalia, I guess.”

Mila suddenly looks up. “Oh, Shannon.” Her expression is not one of admiration. Once again, I feel like I’ve screwed up in some way that everyone noticed but me.

“What?”

“Shannon, honey, you don’t look like much of a man, but you still think like one. You didn’t do Michael any favors back there.”

This angers me. “What the hell, Mila? Mr. Lawrence was hitting him! Actually smacking him around! I was supposed to just let that go?”

“Um…yeah. Michael’s a big boy with big boy responsibilities. Is it fair that Mr. Lawrence does shit like that? No. But Michael puts up with it because it’s part of the job.”

“Well he wasn’t about to have a job anymore!”

Mila shakes her head. “That ‘give me one good reason not to kick your ass out the door’ spiel? He does that every week. And tomorrow he’ll forget all about it. We all just let it ride. Michael didn’t need help from anyone, especially not…” she trails off.

“Not what? No, seriously, what are you saying?”

Mila looks like she wishes she hadn’t spoken, but she nods and continues. “A woman. There’s not a man alive who wants a woman to rescue him.”

I sputter over my words, trying to think of a counterargument to her ridiculous statement. She just talks over me.

“Shannon, Mr. Lawrence was just showing that he was the caveman with the biggest, um, club. And Michael was proving that he was tough enough not to run away or beg. This has been going on for thousands of years. But the last thing any man wants is for a girl to protect him. Ever.”

“But…I wasn’t….but…”

Mila talks over me. “Think about when you used to be a boy, or whatever. I’m sure you had your share of ass whoopings. And did you ever wish some girl would step in to help?”

I remember the time my mother complained to Owen Finley’s mother about how mean he was to me on the way to school. Or that time Chris caught Mark McGoering knocking me around, and she kicked his ass (and then kicked mine for the hell of it). Having my sister stand up for me certainly didn’t improve my social standing.

“But…”

Mila begins gathering up her papers. “Don’t sweat it, Shannon. You’re still getting used to things. It’s okay. Just apologize to Michael when you see him tomorrow.”

That does it. “Apologize? I didn’t do anything wrong and you expect me to apologize? What the hell is that?”

Mila just picks up her papers and grins. “Womanhood.”

*

The next day we have a production meeting. I sit in the break room and stew.

Apologize. Right. Mila may know everything about TV and Hollywood and being a woman, but she doesn’t know what it’s like to be a guy. Michael usually stops in here in the morning. We’ll laugh about what happened yesterday—if he even remembers.

Michael shows up a couple of minutes later, indelicately trying to tuck his shirt into his pants. He freezes when he sees me sitting at a table. For a moment I think he’s going to turn around and leave. Instead, he just frowns and heads for the coffee machine.

I groan internally. So Mila was right. He’ll still work for Mr. Lawrence who roughed him up, but he’s all bent out of shape because I stood up for him.

Am I really going to apologize for that? Oh, Michael, I’m so very sorry for intruding on your man business. It’s so confusing for little ol’ me. I didn’t mean to step out of line. Will you ever forgive me?

Yeah. Hell no.

Someone left a mess around the coffee pot and Michael is cleaning it up. I only have a minute before he leaves. And why not just let him go? What do I care if his manly pride is bruised?

Except I do kind of care. I do kind of see Mila’s point about guys wanting to stand up for themselves. Plus Michael, annoying as he is, has gone out of his way to be friendly to me. I can’t really say that about anyone else.

He’s pouring his drink. If I’m going to say something, it has to be now. But I’m not going to say I’m sorry. So how do I make things normal again?

I flash back to my parents. They don’t fight, not a lot. But sometimes Dad’ll get into a mood. How does mom deal with him then?

By ignoring his attitude. Just pretending she doesn’t notice that he’s angry.

I remember one winter, Mom turned into our driveway too fast, lost control on the ice, and broke a headlight and our mailbox. Dad was seething, he’d warned her about the ice that morning. And what does my mom do? She starts dinner, chatting with the family about her day, asking Dad about work, and blowing off any comments about the damage to the car. By the time we sat down to eat, my father’s arguments had kind of deflated.

Worth a shot.

“Hey, Michael, toss me one of those breakfast bars, would you? Are there any apple left?”

He pauses, looking somewhat surprised, before sliding me the snack.

I keep talking before he can leave. “These are okay. They used to sell Nature’s Goodness back at my school. Tasted like sawdust. You ever had those?”

He shakes his head. His frown has thawed a degree or so.

“Now Strudlemeister, those are great…hey, what’s the hurry? Sit with me a second.”

He glances at the door and I think he’s going to just leave. Instead, he pulls up a seat across from me. He doesn’t smile or try to explain anything to me, so I can tell he’s still mad.

How the hell do you soothe the male ego? I try to remember a relevant experience. What guy do I know who gets easily offended and pissy all the time?

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished chrome of the fridge.

Oh. Right. So how did Chris react when she realized she’d pushed me too far?

Geez, Shannon, I was just kidding. Lighten up.

How was I supposed to know that was a school project? It’s not like you can’t glue it back together.

Oh, don’t start bitching at me, Shannon. You’re not the only one who had a bad day.

I smile at Michael, but not warmly. “So Mila says you’re pissed at me.”

He shrugs. “No. Well. The thing is, Shannon, you kind of—”

“Stood up for you when Mr. Lawrence was being a prick?” I say that a little too loudly and we both immediately glance at the door.

“I didn’t need your help. I didn’t need—”

I stir my half empty coffee cup. “I’m sure you didn’t. But here’s the thing. You’re the only nice guy around here, and I didn’t appreciate your boss knocking you around.”

Michael tries to say something, but I plow on. “And unlike you, Mr. Lawrence can’t fire me. So maybe I overstepped myself. I dunno. But I’m not sorry I said something. I always stand up for my friends. And I do consider you a friend, Michael.”

He gapes at me for a moment. And then he smiles. I can tell he’s fighting it, so I smile back and he can’t help it.

“I consider you a friend too, Shannon. Just next time—”

Nope. I stand and pat him on the shoulder. “Good. I’ll see you at the meeting. Oh, and Mila was worried about you. Why don’t you go talk to her, let her know you’re doing okay.”

I smile once more and walk out of the room, my head held high. I’m really kind of getting the knack of this female business.

One foot in front of the other.

Chapter Eighteen

I’ve been smiling intently for so long, I feel like my makeup is going to crack. Under the guise of shooting a Darkness in the Daytime scene, Natalia casually mentions these amazing new whitening strips that she wants me to try. Again and again. My teeth are so bleached that they’ll probably stay this white after I’m dead.

Thankfully, Mr. Lawrence decides we’ve done enough and I instantly become invisible in Natalia’s eyes. I gather my things and Mila and I head down to the cafeteria.

We eat together after every shoot. I’m not sure why exactly we started doing this, or whose idea it was. I don’t complain.

Mila regards me critically from across the small table. “My, Shannon, that’s certainly an interesting outfit you chose today. Very…brave.”

I take a bite of my pasta salad. “Thanks, Mila. I’d leave it for you when I go home, but I think it may be a little tight on you.”

Mila grins. “Damn, Shannon, you’re really getting the hang of being a woman. You’ve got catty bitchiness down cold.”

“Well, I had a great teacher.”

While I’m proud that I’m finally able to hold my own with Mila, there’s something that’s been bothering me. I’m not sure how to broach the subject.

“So are you doing anything this weekend, Mila?”

She lets out a long sigh. “No, thank goodness. This girl is going to go home, change into her jammies and eat ice cream in front of the TV for two days. Haven’t had time to do that in months.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you’d go out and see your mother. Is she busy?” I still feel guilty about blowing her family reunion earlier.

Mila’s eyes narrow. “Why do you want to know?”

Geez, defensive much? “I dunno. Just wondering. Thought it would be nice to get to know each other a little better.”

“Nah, I’m good.” We eat in silence for a bit, before she lets out another dramatic sigh.

“Fine, Shannon. Pleeeease tell me about yourself. What did you do for fun back in Skidmark, Iowa?”

“Forget I said anything.”

“I usually do. But seriously, what do you have planned for your days off? Gonna hit the clubs again? Drive the boys wild?”

“I said forget it!” That comes out way louder than I intend.

To my surprise, Mila doesn’t look offended. “Hey, I was just messing with you.”

I grip my fork. It’s time to bring up what’s been bothering me. “Mila…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about the show. I mean, even if no one figures out who I really am, I’ll still know. And that’s something I’m going to think about for the rest of my life. I mean…” How can I express this?

“You mean,” finishes Mila. “That you passed yourself off as a woman, both on screen and off, and that tears your fragile little male ego apart. You were so good at playing a woman, you worry that you’re less than a man.”

“No! That’s not it at all!”

“Well, what then?”

Pause. “Okay, that is it. Stop smirking! Look, I guess I don’t care what strangers think. But my sister…she always called me a sissy. Always called me a weirdo.”

“You are weird.”

“Not like this.” I gesture to my outfit, my falsies, my shaved legs. “And, well, what about…you know…dating? I mean, I had enough trouble meeting women before I started dressing like one.”

Mila cocks her head. “Shannon, have you ever had a girlfriend?”

I briefly consider lying. “No.”

“Look, it sounds like your sister has issues of her own. And as for girls…if they have a problem with this, forget ‘em. You don’t need someone that narrow-minded. Besides, no one is ever going to find out.”

“Wish I had your confidence. When it comes to girls, I don’t really have…any experience. At all.”

Mila laughs. “Shannon, you have a lot to offer a woman. I’m sure. I mean, there’s got to be something about you that some girl, somewhere would find…I dunno, acceptable. You have great teeth, play that up. Not to mention your fashion sense. Find a stocky woman and you can double your wardrobe.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Would you date a guy who dressed like a woman for a TV show?”

“No.” Her answer is so emphatic, I know there’s no punch line coming.

“Too much to take?” I asked, a little dejectedly.

“Nope. I just don’t date. Men are assholes. All of them. Present company included.”

“I can never tell if you’re joking, Mila.”

She spears a cherry tomato on her fork and crushes it between her teeth. “I rarely joke.”

“But all men? C’mon, we’re not all that way.”

“Honey, there are very few exceptions. Very few.”

Someone approaches our table. “Hey Shannon. Hi, Mila!”

“Hi, Michael.” I lean toward Mila. “Case in point.”

She shrugs. “Granted.”

Michael dances from foot to foot, clearly hoping we’ll invite him to sit down and explain something. When we don’t, he pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and looks at Mila.

“So this radio station had this call-in contest. I identified the theme song to Get Smart and I won two tickets to the Kingston Jazz Fusion show.”

Mila cocks her head. “What radio station?”

Just a flash of panic on Michael’s face, but he soldiers on. “I’m not much into jazz myself, but I think you said something about liking it.”

She shrugs.

“So…well, I’d hate for these to go to waste. You want to come with me?”

I pretend to be interested in the stray croutons on my plate.

“Sorry, Michael, Mr. Lawrence gave me a shit ton of work. I’m going to be at the office all weekend.”

I remember her planned date with Ben and Jerry, but don’t mention it.

“Anything I can help with?” asks Michael, determinedly. “Maybe if I give you a hand…”

“No. Thanks though.” She stands up, collects her tray, and leaves. Michael watches her leave. After a moment, he collapses into her chair and stares dejectedly at the envelope in his hand.

“I don’t stand a chance, do I, Shannon?”

I’m shocked at the blunt question. Before I can prepare a thick enough sugarcoating, he continues.

“And don’t tell me the truth. Tell me she’s playing hard to get, that she secretly kind of likes me, and that she thinks of me as more than a friend.”

“She’s not into you, Michael.”

“Damn it, Shannon! I told you to lie.” He tosses the envelope onto the table.

“She thinks highly of you and your work.”

“Yippie. I’ll put her down as a reference.”

His pity party is wearing just a bit thin. Mila was being as diplomatic with him as possible. Most women would have been a lot more blunt. “Michael, you have to move on.”

“Yeah. I know.” He points to the envelope. “Just wish I hadn’t blown two hundred bucks on those.”

“I thought you said you won them.”

“I say a lot of things. Her favorite band is playing there.” He looks me in the eye. “She doesn’t really have to work, does she?”

“Um…”

“Figures. Well, I tried.” He starts to stand, then stops. “Hey, do you like jazz?”

“It’s…wait, what?”

“Since I’m not going to be able to make my car payment this month, I might as well see the concert. You want to come with? I hear they’re pretty good. C’mon, we can go out and get hammered afterward.”

I’m on the fence. On the one hand, I sure as hell am not going to go clubbing again. And the concert does sound kind of fun. Kind of cosmopolitan. But I need to say something.

“Michael, you’re not one of those maudlin drunks, are you? If we go out drinking, you’re not going to go on and on about Mila, right?”

He laughs. “No. I promise. Actually, though, I do need to warn you. When I’ve been drinking…well, they tell me I tend to talk a lot.”

“Get out.”

“No, really.” He stands. “See you Saturday.”

*

Michael is deep into another story. “And after I shattered my kneecap, that was the end of my lacrosse dreams. It healed up…kind of. If I was wearing shorts, I could win some serious bar bets.”

The concert ended two hours ago. Despite me never having taken an interest in jazz, I really enjoyed myself. The performance had been in a smoky, claustrophobic club where everyone was dressed to the nines. I was glad I’d picked up a new dress for the occasion. And even happier that no one would ever know I’d picked up a new dress for the occasion.

Now Michael and I are sitting in a crowded coffee shop that sells alcohol. Everyone seems to know him here. He’d promised me that we were going to both get so shitfaced that we’d be hungover until next week.

We’ve been here over an hour and we just ordered our second beers. But they’re large beers.

We’re been exchanging life stories. When Michael’s not explaining things, he can be surprisingly interesting. I never would have suspected he spent a gap year planting crops in Guatemala.

“So about you, Shannon? You play any sports?”

I take a sip of my drink. “Hardly. My dad signed me up for soccer when I was in middle school. He was so disappointed when I quit.”

“Huh,” says Michael. “You don’t usually hear about girls getting forced to play sports. But I suppose if it’s just you and your sister…”

Damn. I’m going to have to be more careful about revealing my history.

“I guess you’re pretty close with your family?” continues Michael.

I’m shocked at this question. “No. Not really. I was always kind of the odd one out.” I pause. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “You just talk about them a lot. Especially your sister. It’s just the two of you, right? No brothers?”

I’m suddenly wishing Michael would try to explain something. “Yeah. Just Chris and me.”

“I’m an only child myself. Always wanted a brother or sister. So you and Chris never hang out?”

I try to improvise some sort of falling out I could have had with Chris, some reason that the Ferguson sisters were never close. But I just tell the truth.

“Chris was always the popular one. The athlete. The outgoing one. I guess she was always kind of embarrassed by her younger, um, sister. I was never very cool. She hated that. She’s only a year older, and we went to the same school until last year.”

Michael absently swirls his beer. “Popular kids are like that, I guess. High school’s rough. She shouldn’t have avoided you like that, but you know how it is…”

“Oh, she never avoided me,” I interrupt. “She was always trying to drag me to football games and parties and introduce me to people. I was like ‘I’m not going to be this ideal—sibling—you want, so stop trying to change me.’”

Michael signals for the check. “Maybe she was just trying to include you. Include her little sister.”

I remember a thousand insults and headlocks. “Or maybe she was trying to change me. Trying to make me conform.”

He shrugs. “You know her better than I do. So how about your parents?”

I feel a tinge of unexpected guilt. I’ve been missing for two weeks. I wonder what they’re thinking. I wonder if they’re still trying to find me.

“Like I said, I was always kind of a disappointment. They all like football and TV and stuff. Didn’t really understand my love of the theater and acting.”

Michael chortles. “I bet they were impressed when you landed this gig, though. C’mon, they have to be proud.”

They don’t know. And when they find out what I’ve done, they’re going to be furious. Not because of the cross dressing, but because they were worried for nothing.

I chug half my drink. “I don’t think proud is the word I’d use. Hell, when I go back to Iowa, my fifteen minutes will be up.”

“Don’t be too sure. Mr. Lawrence doesn’t let it show, but he’s very impressed by your professionalism. So is Mila. And I think you’re talented. You’re getting to know people. Making connections. You’ve got an inside scoop that a lot of aspiring actresses would kill for.”

“Yeah.” Except I’m not an aspiring actress. “You ready to go?”

*

We’re not far from my hotel, and Michael walks me. “Hey, Shannon, thanks for coming with me tonight. It kind of hit me the other day that I was getting a little stalky with Mila. I appreciate you being blunt with me before I did something embarrassing.”

I give him a half smile, still trying to stop thinking about my family. “Nothing wrong with moving on. You’ll meet someone. Some movie star that’ll put Miss Jenkins to shame.”

That amuses him and he laughs. We walk silently for the final block.

“Well, this is my stop,” I tell him.

“Thanks again, Shannon.”

“My pleasure. It’s nice not to be alone on the weekend.”

“Isn’t it?”

We smile for a moment.

And then he kisses me.

He’s not grabby or abrupt. In retrospect he was moving slowly enough so that I could back away and he could pass it off that he was just moving in for a brotherly hug.

But I was so absolutely not used to guys trying to kiss me that I couldn’t figure out what he was doing until it was too late. I swear, I thought he was going to brush a piece of lint off my shoulder or something.

Or lips only touch for less than a second. I then jump about a yard backward, catch my foot on the curb, and go sprawling on my butt.

Michael is already apologizing before I regain my feet. “Oh my God, Shannon, I’m so sorry…”

“You just startled me. I wasn't expecting…”

“I’m a jerk. I misread the moment…”

“Sorry, I’m just not…you’re a nice guy but…”

“It’s okay…honestly, I just wanted to have a drink. I don’t know what came over me…”

I’m slowly edging back to the hotel. “It’s okay. Forget it. Please, forget it.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s okay. Good night.”

“Shannon, I’m sorry!”

I’m at the door. “Good night!”

*

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror of my hotel room, trying to figure out what happened. It’s not hard to unravel.

A guy asks someone he thinks is a young lady out for the evening. They talk. They open up. They have a good time. He walks her home.

He tries to kiss her goodnight.

How in the holy shit did I not realize this was a date? How stupid am I? How goddamn blind was I?

I guess it’s not entirely my fault. I’m still not used to being treated like a girl. I still thought of this as a night out with the guys.

But what the hell was Michael thinking? Not about the kiss, but about asking me out in the first place.

Okay, he doesn’t know I’m a seventeen-year-old guy. He thinks I’m a girl. And he probably never looked at my application. With the aging effects of my makeup, he probably assumes I’m about twenty. But my God, still! Why on earth would he want to kiss me?

I focus in on my reflection. Monkey brow, hard jaw, big ears. Even with my padding and apparently nice legs, I’m a 4 at the most. Maybe a 5 in good light.

But Michael seems like a guy who places a lot of value on personality and intelligence, if his obsession with Mila is any indication. And if he’d finally given up on her, maybe it’s logical that he’d try his luck with someone a little further down the dating food chain.

Jesus. I was the rebound girl.

I’m utterly disgusted with myself, with Michael, and with this whole stupid situation. Why didn’t I tell him ‘just friends’ before we went out? Why didn’t I shake his hand the second we got to the hotel? Why didn’t I punch him in his stupid smug face?

It’s not his fault. He’s not the first guy to misread his date. It’s my fault for getting into this stupid mess.

And now what? I’m going to have to face him at the studio for about two more weeks. Should I apologize? Should he? Should we laugh about this, or just act like nothing happened?

I need to talk to someone.

*

“I appreciate you seeing me tonight, Rochelle.”

Rochelle is cleaning up her makeup tables. She looks very tired, and I feel guilty for calling her. “You understand this is after hours. I don’t do this for everyone. Now what did you need to talk to me about?”

I take a deep breath. “I got myself into a strange situation. This guy from work asked me to go see a concert. I swear, I thought it was just a couple of friends going out, but after he walked me home…” It’s hard for me to say this next part out loud. “He tried to kiss me. And I totally freaked out.”

Rochelle pauses in her tidying and sits down in a makeup chair. Again, I’m struck at how regal she looks.

“So you present as female at work?”

“Um…” I keep forgetting that Rochelle thinks I dress like a woman out of identity, not necessity. “Yes.”

She shakes her head. “Shannon, I don’t know anything about your life outside this salon. But it’s obvious you’re living as a female, more or less full time, am I right?”

I don’t deny it.

“And if that’s the case, you’re going to have to deal with the attention of men.”

I snort. “Hardly. I’m not exactly Natalia Jenkins…for example.”

Rochelle stares at me for a long time, in a way that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Then, much to my surprise, she removes her wig, places it on a stand, and begins brushing it.

She’s bald. Not shaven headed, but the full on male pattern baldness. Worse than my father.

And yet I still cannot think of her as a man. Not really.

She talks as she brushes, not looking me in the eye. “Shannon, you may not be sexy. But you pass as a woman in a way that would make some of us girls jealous. When people look at you, they see a young woman. And you’re polite, well-spoken, and intelligent. For a lot of guys, that’s all it takes.”

I shudder internally. Rochelle continues.

“And the longer you present as a woman, the more confident you’ll be. And that’s attractive as well.”

Thank God I’m only doing this for another couple of weeks.

Rochelle looks at the wig, smiles, and places it back on her head. “So I take it your attractions are not with men?”

“What? Oh, hell no.”

She smiles enigmatically. “Then you need to be careful. A lot of gentlemen don’t take no for an answer. You learned that tonight.”

It would be easy to cast Michael as the villain, but that wouldn’t be true. “It wasn’t like that. I think he was more embarrassed than I was. And now I have to see him on Monday.”

Rochelle stands and touches my shoulder. “He won’t mention it. And neither should you. Is he a friend of yours?”

I nod.

“Then just go back to what you had before. You’re not the first girl who’s turned him down.”

I squeeze Rochelle’s hand. Every time I see her, I get more and more curious as to her life outside the salon, but it’s none of my business. “Thank you, Rochelle. I needed to talk that out.” I turn to leave.

“Shannon?” I turn and she looks grave. “Remember what I said. Please be careful.”

“I will.” And I’m so grateful this farce is coming to an end.

I just pray she’s right about Michael. He got a little obsessive over Mila. I hope that doesn’t happen with me.

One foot in front of the other.

Chapter Nineteen

Monday at the studio I’m more nervous than I’ve been since Mila first convinced me to come here in a dress. Not that I have a dress on today. For the first time in a month, I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Well, and my falsies. But I don’t want to look attractive today, not at all.

Both Mila and Mr. Lawrence give me a look when they see how slovenly I’m dressed, but I don’t care. I’m too panicked about the Michael situation. Should I avoid him and cause awkwardness by making a big deal about the kiss? Or should I just go up and talk to him, and risk rehashing the humiliating experience?

We’ll have to see each other at some point. I won’t try to run away from him, but I’m not going out of my way to chat, either.

Rochelle says Michael probably wants to forget the incident as badly as I do. But she doesn’t know Michael. What if he wants to talk about this? What if he gets all upset or angry? What if he mentions this to Mila?

I walk into the sound stage and there he is, sitting on a couch in Natalia’s character’s apartment. One of the extras, a curvy girl with black hair, sits next to him. They’re looking over a script or something.

He glances up and we make eye contact. I can’t pretend I didn’t see him. I walk over to grab my copy of today’s lines. “Hello, Michael.”

“Hey, Shannon.” He smiles warmly at me, then turns back to his companion. “Now the Foley artists, they’re the ones in charge of sound effects. Most of that is digital these days, but you know, fifty years ago, it was a job that took a lot of creativity. Still does, really.”

The girl is staring at him in rapt attention. “Wow. Tell me more.”

She doesn’t sound sarcastic.

The movie director barges in and everyone falls into place. Natalia giggles when she sees how I’m dressed, but I just sit quietly as they film her scene for three hours, and film a scene with me for five minutes.

Afterwards, I pass by Michael as he’s packing up. Again, we’re close enough that I can’t ignore him.

“Good shoot today,” I say, awkwardly breaking the ice.

“Yeah, nice work.” He’s looking at me in that distracted way when someone interrupts you when you’re busy.

“Same time tomorrow, I guess.” Jesus, that sounded forced.

“Yeah.” He takes out his phone and checks something. “See you then.”

“Hey, I’ve been having trouble with my laptop…”

“Huh? Sorry, can we talk tomorrow? I got a thing.” He then smiles and winks at me, not embarrassed at all, and leaves.

Well. That went nicely. He wasn’t shook up, wasn’t angry, talked to me and everything.

Except, something has kind of changed. He didn’t avoid me, not really, but he didn’t yak my ear off like he normally did.

Maybe he was afraid I’d bring up our awkward encounter.

Maybe he’s a little hurt and hiding it well.

Or maybe, now that he realizes I’m not into him like that, I’ve become just a little less interesting in his eyes. A little less important.

Of course not. I’m being paranoid. I’ve been acting like a girl for so long I’m starting to overthink things.

And if his ego is hurt, who cares? Not me.

No way.

*

I take a rideshare back to the Becoming studios to meet Mila for a late lunch. I don’t really feel like it, but part of me is paranoid that Michael told her about the kiss, though why in the world would he? I eventually wander to her office.

I guess ‘office’ is kind of a charitable term. It’s a room and it has a door, and there’s just enough room for a desk and two people, if one of them stands. No windows, her desk faces the blank wall opposite the door. Still, it’s better than most of the lower ranking staff get, who are relegated to cubicles, crowded conference rooms, and tables in the hall.

Mila’s not there, but her purse is, so she should be back soon. Remembering to cross my legs, I sit in her chair.

I start to get bored, so I go to check and see what publicity shots they’re using for the show. Mila showed them to me before, so I click on the appropriate folder on her desktop.

I scroll through the various episodes. Yep, here’s the Natalia Jenkins show. I watch a couple of promotional spots. Though they don’t mention me at all, they’re certainly making plans to air it. It’s really a go. I’m going to be on TV. Everyone’s going to see me. Dressed like a girl.

This is really happening.

Trying to corral my thoughts, I start flipping through other commercials. Some of the episodes I’ve seen, some are upcoming. I find a folder full of photos of Mila with the various celebrities. Mila with John Calaban, the wrestler. With Otis Blackhawk, the rapper. And with Cinder-Suzie, the pop diva.

There are a lot of that last person, Mila must be a fan. Who can blame her? Cinder-Suzie’s songs have huge crossover appeal, reaching fans of pop, rap, and R&B. She’s an actress, too, and not one who skates by on her musical fame. She was nominated for an Oscar for her last movie, The Boomtown Shuffle. I guess it doesn’t hurt that she has a face like Josephine Baker, even though she must be pushing fifty.

Jeez, there’s quite a lot of pictures of her. Mila must really like her. There’s one of Cinder-Suzie on the set. There’s one of her at the beach. One with Mila at some sort of film event. And another with Mila at someone’s house. And there’s a photo of Mila at what looks like a birthday party. Mila is standing in front of a cake with an 18-shaped wax candle. Cinder-Suzie stands behind her, a hand on Mila’s shoulder.

Wait a minute.

Mila at her high school graduation. Mila and Cinder-Suzie on bikes. A very young Mila on Santa’s lap.

I open Wikipedia. Cinder-Suzie (born Caroline Suzanne Anderson) did have a daughter with her ex-husband, Antonio Nevins. The daughter’s name is Faith, and she’d be twenty-three now.

Holy shit.

I’m aware that someone is standing at the doorway. I turn. It’s Mila.

“Hey, Shannon, sorry I’m…” She squints at the Wikipedia entry about the woman who I’m sure is her mother. I quickly close it, revealing a photo of Mila and Cinder-Suzie at a recording studio.

“I was just…”

Mila does not look happy. Not at all. She snakes out a hand and closes the laptop.

“Figured it out, did you?” I haven’t heard her sound this angry since we first met at the airport.

I stand. “Honest, I was just looking at the promotional stuff.”

She sneers at me. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Not enough that you almost wreck my career? Not enough that I go out of my way to help you? Not enough that you and I were…Christ.”

I kind of want to leave, but she closes the door. “Mila, I didn’t mean to snoop. It’s none of my business.”

“Damn right. And if you breathe a word of this, Shannon, you’re going to wish you’d never heard of Becoming. Jesus, I actually trusted you.”

I don’t understand her anger. I’d never heard anything about Cinder-Suzie being estranged from her daughter. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. But I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this. You’d think you’d be proud…”

Whoops, wrong thing to say. Really wrong.

“Get out, Shannon. Now.”

I slide around her, hugging the wall. I touch the doorknob. Then I stop.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

I swallow. “I said no. I’m sorry I got nosey, but I think you’d know that if anyone can keep a secret, I can. But I don’t understand why you’re so pissed off.”

She looks at me with just slightly less contempt. “You don’t understand, do you? You wouldn’t.”

“So explain it to me. Or not. But after all we’ve been through, I don’t think I deserve to be dismissed like this.”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it. She sits on the edge of her desk and toys with her stapler.

“Yes, Cinder-Suzie is my mother. I was born right before her first album went platinum. Mom wanted to keep me out of the spotlight. She hates it when celebrities use their kids as fashion accessories. She wanted me to grow up without a camera in my face.”

“That makes sense.” I’m trying to phrase this the right way. “But you’re not a child anymore, so why bother to hide it? I mean, having a mother that famous could probably help your career.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to clock me with that stapler. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

“Then help me.”

She lets out a sigh. “Shannon, my mother is one of the most powerful women in show business. Of course she could help me. One word from her, I could be producing my own TV show. I could co-direct a small movie. I could cut my own album. If I wanted, I could pick up that phone and be on the cover of Variety next month.” She snaps her fingers.

It suddenly becomes clear. “And anything you achieve would be your mother’s accomplishment, not your own.”

She nods, not looking at me. “You know how hard it is to break into the industry. And maybe it’s stupid, but I’d like to do it as Mila, not as The Daughter of Singing Sensation Cinder-Suzie. My mother paid for my private school. Got me into a competitive film program in college. Gave me everything. But I’m an adult now. I’m going to be a producer. And not because my mother is backing me up. That’s why I use my middle name and my father’s last name. Why I don’t talk about my past.”

I admire her drive. “I think you’ll do it.”

“Will I, Shannon? You can’t keep secrets around here. Mr. Lawrence knows. Michael knows. And every time I get an assignment, I wonder if I’ve earned it, or if he just wants to keep the studio in my mother’s good graces. Every time I screw up, I wonder if I’m only keeping my job because of whose daughter I am.”

I so want to take her hand, but I know that would be a mistake. “You’re plenty talented, Mila.”

She rolls her eyes. “So are a lot of people. And it doesn’t help being Black. Every time I succeed at anything, there are people out there—and a lot more than you probably suspect—who believe I only got where I was because they think I’m a DEI hire. It hurts. Not to mention the fact that I’m—”

“A woman,” I finish for her. “I can maybe understand that, a little.”

She gives me a fake smile. “When you’re an African-American woman, everyone assumes that everything you’ve ever achieved, everything you’ve fought for and earned, was handed to you. So I’m sure as hell not going to take something I didn’t work for.” She faces me for the first time since our confrontation. “That make sense?”

In a way it does. I guess if she asked her mother for help, it would feel cheap to her, like she hadn’t paid her dues. But I’m having trouble sympathizing.

“You know what’s worse than people thinking you take handouts? Everyone knowing you take handouts. Like, I dunno, when your mom gets sick and your dad gets laid off the same month and you have to go on food stamps for half a year. And your mother has to drive downtown to pee in a cup once a month, because the smarmy governor wants to make sure she’s not using her EBT funds for meth. Or when every Friday in fourth grade, they send you and your sister home from school with a little bag of groceries. I wasn’t the only kid in the program, but I was the only one with two parents. Or when you have to wear your older sister’s hand-me-downs.” I laugh at the irony of that last one. “Sorry, Mila. I wish I had your problems.”

She gives me a sour look, but doesn’t respond. We kind of just stand there for a few moments. Then she laughs.

“Jesus, we’re quite the pair, aren’t we? We both want the same thing, and we’re willing to do whatever it takes to get it. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m being ridiculous.”

My turn to laugh. “Yes. While I’m the very model of restraint and dignity.”

We smile, but it’s a little forced on both ends. “Can I trust you to keep my secret, Shannon?”

“I dunno. It’s not like you know some huge secret about me that I’m desperate to keep quiet.” I stand. “Do you mind if I bail on lunch? I’m not really dressed for dining out anyway.”

She glances down at my slovenly jeans and shirt. “I was going to say. What’s with the grunge look? You looked so cute last week I was a little jealous.”

I frown. “Can it, Mila. I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

She takes a step forward and looks me right in the eye. Then she smiles. “I wasn’t.”

She leaves me alone in her office, feeling very confused.

Chapter Twenty

“Just laugh, Mila. I know you want to.”

Mila looks pointedly at her menu. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been biting your lip all evening. I look ridiculous. Just say it.”

The filming of my episode of Becoming is winding down. Today, they decided I really needed to look more like Natalia. Clothes, nails, makeup…and hair.

I think whoever selected my hair dye picked the wrong color. Instead of Natalia’s dirty blonde coloring, I’m now an intense platinum. It’s a shade of blonde man wasn’t meant to see.

Mila continues to deny anything is wrong. “It’s maybe not the best color for you, but it’s not bad. Really, I think you’re upset over nothing.”

“Nothing? I’m surprised there aren’t moths circling my head.”

She clears her throat, but doesn’t crack a smile.

“I could stand out in the harbor at night and guide ships.”

“Want to split an order of potato skins?”

I’m determined to break her façade. “I can read in bed now by the shine of my hair.”

Yeah, she’s really struggling to keep her laughter inside. “That’s a very nice outfit, Shannon. Is it new?”

“It’s Natalia’s. Funny thing.” I lean over the table toward her. “Last year, I used to always fantasize about getting into her clothes. Today, I got my wish.”

Mila bursts out laughing so hard, the other diners turn and stare at her. I laugh too.

“I’m sorry, Shannon. They really did a number on you. When filming’s over I’ll take you to my girl. She’ll make your hair look human again.”

“I’d settle for masculine. Damn, it’s going to be a relief to not have to wear these breasts anymore.”

Mila tilts her head. “Too bad. Are you going to take your clothes back home with you? Dress up on the weekends sometimes?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious. Why stop? Now that you’ve got the hang of it, you’re only going to get prettier.”

“Har, har.” Her joking is getting less funny.

“Some electrolysis, some hormone therapy…who knows where you might end up?”

I pick up my menu just so I can throw it down. “I wish you wouldn’t tease me about this.”

She meets my eyes. “I wish you’d take a compliment. That first week after I met you, I barely slept. I was so sure you were going to screw up and give yourself away, or bail on me. And now look at you. Practically Natalia Jenkin’s little sister. You know what I’d call a guy who could pull that off?”

I shrug. “Effeminate?”

“An actor. You’ve done great work this summer, Shannon. I hope you realize that.”

“Well…thanks for not firing me. Now I have to go back home and explain to everyone where I’ve been.”

Just the thought of having to face Chris and my parents fills me with dread.

Mila looks concerned. “Don’t worry. After you get your male makeover, I’ll introduce you to a couple of actors. We’ll take your picture together, and you can make up all kinds of wild stories about working in a movie that was almost released.”

I smile. Too bad that’s not the truth of what happened this summer.

The waiter arrives and takes our order. Again, I have a hard time spending what would have been most of my family’s weekly grocery bill on dinner. Better enjoy it while it lasts.

“Shannon?” asks Mila, when the waiter leaves. “Mr. Lawrence is having a party at The Winchester Hotel Friday night. Want to be my plus one?”

“I’m not sure.” Ever since I saw Mr. Lawrence slap Michael, I’ve not really had an urge to do things with him outside of work.

“C’mon. You’re going back home in about ten days. We won’t see each other again after that.”

The thought gives me a pain in my gut. Mila and I…would you call us friends? We’re not exactly best pals, but I think things have changed since we first met. I can admit it. I’ll miss her when I’m gone.

“Okay, Mila. What should I wear?”

*

The producers of Becoming have rented out an entire floor of the hotel. In addition to the main party suite, there are several smaller rooms. Mila and I get ready in one of these.

We stand side by side at the huge vanity, applying our makeup in front of the mirror. It comes easier for me every time. The foundation, the blush, the eyeliner. Skills that I didn’t possess a month ago, skills I won’t use again a week from now.

But still, I am kind of proud of myself.

Mila air kisses her reflection and puts away her lipstick. I glance at her sideways. She’s wearing a sleeveless black cocktail dress. Nothing too fancy. And yet…let’s just say that every time I’m around her recently, I become more and more sympathetic to Michael’s obsession. And more aware of my own embarrassing inner feelings.

At least Michael has a job. And he isn’t secretly seventeen.

I smother my pointless crush. “So how do I look?”

Mila takes a step back and gazes at me with a critical eye. It’s a dress Rochelle picked out for me, dark green, almost but not quite backless, with a slit up one side of the skirt.

She’s taking too long to say anything. She hates it. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

“Shannon…”

“I told her I couldn’t pull this off with these shoulders and this neck and…I should change.”

“Shannon!” She places her hands on her hips and tilts her head in that way I’ve recently found inappropriately endearing. “Aside from your unfortunate hair color, you look…regal. I mean that. Sophisticated. Maybe even…pretty.”

I nervously move a lock of hair off my forehead. “Thanks,” I almost whisper.

“Well, come eleven o’clock, you’re going to be the best dressed woman at this shindig.”

“Is that when you go home?”

She smiles. “You’re catching on. Damn, when you go back home to Bunghole, you’ll be a shoe-in for Miss Butter Churn.”

Her previous compliment fades in my mind. “I wish you’d knock that off.”

She stops smiling. “Shannon, stop being so sensitive about the drag act.”

“Huh? No, I mean, stop making fun of where I come from. I don’t live in the sticks, I live in Des Moines. It’s the state capital! We have a university, and first class museums, and…and…”

There’s Mila’s smirk again. “And indoor plumping and all,” I finish, defeated.

Mila shakes her head. “I’m just messing with you. Hey, next time we do a shoot in the Midwest, I’ll be sure and look you up…” She pauses. “Nope, total lie. I’ve never been to Iowa and I think I can die happy saying that. But I hope you’ll come back and see me some time.”

She sounds sincere. “You ready to get this party started?” I ask.

“You bet. Grab your clutch and let’s get out of here.”

“Grab my what?”

She points to the counter. “Your little purse.”

It’s so tiny it barely holds my phone and hotel key card, let alone my makeup stuff. “This is such a pain to carry. Why don’t you women just put more pockets in your clothes?”

Mila rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted snort. “You are such a man, Shannon.”

I follow her out of the room.

*

The gathering looks like an after Oscars party. Not that there’s a lot of celebrities here. Aside from Natalia and her costar James, I don’t see many other actors. But with all the tuxedos and designer dresses and expensive faces, I know I’ve really made it past the velvet rope.

Mila immediately ditches me to talk to some friends. She doesn’t introduce me. But it doesn’t feel like a slight. I think she just feels I can take care of myself and doesn’t need to hold my hand.

Wish she’d hold my hand.

I spy Michael across the room, but he’s standing with Mr. Lawrence. And they’re laughing. Laughing and joking around together, as if Mr. Lawrence hadn’t just knocked him around and tried to fire him last week. Me, I would have held a grudge. I wouldn’t have forgotten that.

Maybe that’s my problem. But I don’t think so.

I take a glass of champagne from a tray. I remember what Mila said and keep my elbows close to my body, so as not to reveal my armpits or to loosen my falsies.

And I just stand there. Of course I do. Natalia and James are in the room. No one wants to talk to Shannon Ferguson. I’ll just have to go introduce myself to someone.

Yep, just go right up and start talking. Right now.

After another drink.

Hey, Michael’s not with Mr. Lawrence anymore. Now’s the time to mend fences, to show him we can still be friends…

No, wait, he’s here with that girl from the set. I can’t tell if they’re on a date, but I don’t want to slow his roll. And I don’t want to make him think I’m jealous.

Where the hell is Mila? I need another drink.

“I don’t care for these things either,” says a voice at my shoulder.

Is he talking to me? I turn.

It’s a handsome guy in his forties, with thick eyebrows and gray highlights so intense they almost look dyed. He smiles, embarrassed.

“I can’t just go up and talk to people. It feels like junior high all over again. I end up drinking too much and telling my problems to random people I corner.” He grins. “Like I’m doing now, for instance.”

I know exactly how he feels. “I’m Shannon.”

“Kevin. Do you work for Becoming?”

I’m suddenly a little ashamed of my role as a fawning clone of Natalia. “In a way. How about you?”

“I’m a location scout. I arrange filming locations in the Midwest.”

This piques my interest a bit. “Where are you based out of?”

“St. Louis.”

“I’m from Des Moines.” We clink our glasses.

“I really didn’t want to come here tonight,” he says in a slightly whiny tone. “But I heard Natalia Jenkins was going to be here and I promised my niece I’d get her autograph.”

Natalia is busy chatting up some handsome guy who I think I saw in some movie once. She doesn’t look in our direction.

Kevin downs his drink. “I should go.”

If he leaves, I’m going to end up standing around on my own. “Eh, hang out for a little bit. They haven’t even brought out the cocaine yet.”

Poor Kevin looks terrified.

“I’m just joking.” Kind of.

We end up talking for about half an hour, mostly making fun of party guests in low tones. Kevin’s fairly funny in a dad kind of way, though he does seem to believe that St. Louis is the cultural and intellectual hub of the entire universe.

Around about ten thirty Natalia sneaks out on the arm of her handsome companion.

I say ‘sneaks out.’ She pretends to be secretive, but is so blatantly obvious, so slow, it’s clear that she wants to be noticed and photographed.

Kevin sighs and puts down his drink. “I guess that’s that. Well, I’m sure I can forge something for my niece when I get back.”

I laugh. “Look, I work with Natalia. I’ll get her to sign something for her and send it to you.” Because, you know, I’m totes close with Natalia. My BBF.

His face lights up like a kid at a baseball game. “Would you? Aw, she’d love it. Do I, um, owe you anything for that?”

“Of course not.”

“Hey, thanks. Say, do you like bourbon? Someone gave me an expensive bottle earlier. Do you want it?”

I’ve had a few too many already, and I’ve never actually had hard liquor. “That’s okay.”

“Seriously, I can’t take it on the plane. You’d be doing me a favor. You could give it to a friend or something.”

Yeah, maybe Michael or one of the crew would like it. “Sure. Okay.”

“Great. I’m headed out. I left it in the other room with my jacket. C’mon.”

I swallow the last of my drink. Honestly, I’m happy for the excuse to leave. Mila has apparently abandoned me, and now I can hop into a cab unnoticed.

Kevin’s stuff is in one of the unoccupied rooms the show rented out. The place is empty and Kevin has to dig through a pile of jackets and coats before he can find his things.

He eventually locates the bottle. It’s expensive looking, with wax melted all over the cap. “Here you go, Shannon. Thanks for everything.”

“No problem.”I set the bottle on a table and reach for my purse. “Just give me your address and I’ll send you—”

And…he’s moving in for a kiss. Jesus Christ, not again.

I back away.

But he keeps moving forward.

His beer breath is on my face. His scratchy lips touch mine.

I pull back, but he has me against the wall. This isn’t like with Michael. Kevin has to realize I’m not into this.

I move my head to the side. “Kevin! Stop it!”

He starts…oh dear God…he starts kissing my neck. My flesh crawls.

I push at him, but he’s powerful. “Stop it! I said stop!”

His hands grab my wrists. And suddenly, I’m very, very scared.

I struggle. He does not let go.

I shout. He does not respond.

He holds me harder against the wall.

His legs press against mine. I can’t drive a knee into his crotch.

He starts kissing my bare shoulder. I try to fight him, but he’s surprisingly strong.

“I don’t want to do this! Stop it!”

He’s really grinding into me. I can feel his keys or something poking into my stomach…

Oh, God.

That’s not his keys.

“Stop it!”

He pulls back for a moment. I think I’ve reached him. I think he’s going to let me go. But then he smiles.

“C’mon, Shannon. No one has to know.”

And he’s kissing my skin again.

The only thing that keeps me from flailing, from going ape shit wildcat, is a fear that my dress will slide down and expose my male chest. I don’t know if the revelation that I’m really a man will make things better for me, or much worse.

“Help!” I yell.

His hand snakes up and covers my mouth. I bat at him with my free arm, but it’s useless.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

I’ve lost all sense of myself. All sense of him. He seems to have ten hands. I can feel him tugging at the halter in the back of my neck. In a few seconds, he’s going to have my dress undone.

Oh, God.

And then the door to the room opens.

And there stands Mila.

It takes Kevin a couple of seconds to realize what’s happened. When he sees Mila standing there, he pulls away.

He then shrugs and smiles at us.

Mila quickly and deliberately marches into the room. Snatching up my purse without breaking stride, she takes me by the hand and pulls me into the corridor. We don’t talk, not until we’re in the room where we originally got ready. She locks the door behind us and then faces me.

“Shannon, do you want me to call the police?”

I’m so disoriented that for a moment I think she’s threatening me with the cops. After a second I realize that the look of fury on her face is directed elsewhere.

“Shannon, look at me. Do I need to call the police? I could tell what that guy was trying to do.”

I suddenly snap back to reality. The cops? The thought of telling strangers what happened horrifies me.

“No! Please, Mila, don’t make me.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” She moves to take my arm, then stops. “How are you? Did he hurt you?”

I’m suddenly humiliated, now that Mila knows. “No. He just…he just got aggressive. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mila opens her mouth, then closes it. “Shannon…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it. Call me a cab. I’m going home.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I feel some sudden misplaced anger. “Will you leave me alone? It’s no big deal! He was just a jerk who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He wouldn’t stop.”

“Shannon.”

“He…he wouldn’t stop, Mila. I kept telling him, but he wouldn’t stop.” My voice quavers.

“Shannon.”

“He wouldn’t stop! He kept touching me and kissing me and he wouldn’t stop! What…what if you hadn’t shown up? What if…” I can’t finish.

Mila slowly and gently takes me in her arms. “Let it out, Shannon.”

The sobs are coming. “I told him to stop.”

She pats my head. “I know you did, sweetie.”

“He wouldn’t stop.” I’m ugly crying.

“Let it out. Let it all out. You’re safe. I’m here.”

“Thank you, Mila.”

I cry for an hour. Or five minutes. I can’t tell. Mila holds me the whole time. Eventually, I go dry.

“I snotted all over your dress, Mila.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Mila…take me home, please.”

“Of course.”

Chapter Twenty-One

When I wake up, it takes me a moment to realize I’m not back in my hotel room. I’m tucked under a warm blanket, wearing nothing but my panties and an unfamiliar t-shirt. Warm sunlight streams through a large window.

Right. Mila’s house. I groggily sit up. I don’t remember much about going to bed last night. All that champagne hit me at once. This is clearly Mila’s bedroom. I wonder where she slept last night.

My dress hangs on a hanger on a closet door. I turn away, not wanting to look at it. Instead, I pull on a bathrobe I find laid out at the foot of the bed and go off to search for my hostess.

This house, though small, is obviously expensive. I can see the ocean from the living room window, and the amount of Spanish tile and exposed brick lets me know that this is not some rental. Mila didn’t buy this place on a junior executive’s salary. She won’t use her famous mother’s influence at work, but clearly this home was a gift.

I find Mila in the kitchen, preparing something at the granite counter. She gives me a shy smile and passes me a cup of coffee and two Pop Tarts on a plate. We sit at the table, the sea breeze drifting in from the open bay windows.

No one speaks for a while. Mila breaks the silence.

“Do you feel like talking?”

I’d managed to suppress the memories of last night, but now it comes flooding back in all its whiskery, slobbering detail. The coffee cup trembles in my hand.

“No, I’d rather not.”

Mila nods. But five seconds later, I’m talking again.

“What the hell was I thinking, going back to a hotel room with him?”

Mila slams her cup down. “None of that. Never, ever blame yourself. You got that? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I shrug. Sure doesn’t feel that way.

“Shannon, it’s not too late to call the cops if you like.”

I let out a sigh. “So he can tell them that I was falling down drunk and all he did was try to kiss me? So the police can figure out that I’m really a guy and he can throw that back in my face? Mila, I don’t want to have to deal with him again. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad person.”

She takes my hand. “You’re a fine person.”

More silence. I can tell Mila has more on her mind. Eventually she turns her chair to face me.

“Shannon, I need to tell you something. I guess it’s no secret that when I first met you, I didn’t like you very much.”

I have to laugh. “No secret at all.”

“And, well, maybe I went out of my way at the beginning to make things a little rough for you. I was worried about my job, and I kind of took it out on you. I figured if you were going to play the woman, you should get the whole experience. The uncomfortable clothes, the sexism, constantly having to prove you’re as smart as a man, everything.”

“Um, I think that was society, not you.”

“I could have warned you. But I thought it was kind of funny, watching you stagger around in high heels and wonder why you had to constantly repeat yourself around Mr. Lawrence. I could have made things easier for you, but instead, I just laughed.”

I wonder why this apology is surfacing now. “You could have been better…but you could have been a lot worse. It’s in the past.”

Mila doesn’t seem to have heard me. “Shannon, I wanted you to know what it’s like to be a woman. But I swear to you…I swear to God…I never wanted you to experience that. I should have kept my eye on you. When I saw you leave with that guy, I was going to follow you. But then Mr. Lawrence started talking to me, and by the time I got away, I didn’t know which room you were in, and it took me a while to track you down”

She has a desperate look on her face. “Mila, it wasn’t your responsibility.”

“Yes it was.” There is no arguing with her tone of voice. “You’re a guy. You’re not used to having to be careful in situations like that. I know what can happen when you’re alone with a man. I know that they don’t listen when you tell them to stop. I know what it’s like to have to fight someone who’s stronger than you. I should have stuck with you. And I hate myself for what almost happened.”

She looks like she’s about to cry, which I honestly didn’t think she was capable of. “Mila, you weren’t the one who put his hands all over me. But you were the one who stopped him. I’m okay.”

“You know I didn’t want that to happen, right?”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“Maybe I haven’t done right by you, Shannon, but I’d never wish that on anyone. I should have let you change out of that dress when you asked. I shouldn’t have brought you to that party.”

“It’s not your fault!” Geez, you’d think she was the one who’d been attacked.

She rubs her eyes with her fingers. “Yes. Right. Thank you.”

Silence descends. I wonder if I should leave. I don’t want to.

“Shannon? If you’d like…I don’t want you to, but if you’d like to go back home, it’s okay. We really have enough footage. I’ll say you’re sick or something. No one would blame you.”

Go home a week early? That would have been temping earlier this month. But after all we’ve both worked for, I’m not ready to give up. And I’m not willing to let a guy like Kevin scare me. I picture his smug smile when Mila burst in. Like she’d walked in on a couple kissing, not an attack.

“I want to finish things.”

She smiles weakly. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you. C’mon. Let me find something for you to wear, then I’ll drive you home.”

She stands. I don’t.

“Mila? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business. But when you were talking about what happened at the hotel. That sounded like the voice of experience.”

She stands there silently, her eyes cast down, her fist clenching. I shouldn’t have said anything.

“I’m sorry, Mila…”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I want to tell you.”

She turns and faces the window.

“It happened about three years ago. Summer internship from college. I was working on the production of that failed Life With the Loan Sharks thing. It was kind of like what happened last night. A party. A guy I trusted, a guy I knew, offered to walk me home. Asked to come up and talk. And then…” She shrugs. “I never told anyone. Not even my mother.”

“Oh, God, Mila, that’s horrible.”

She turns and faces me. “What was really horrible was that he was working on the same project. I kept having to see him the whole time I was there.”

The bottom drops out of my gut. “See him? How the hell did he even show his face around there again? How could he be in the same room with you?”

To my surprise, Mila smiles. “You’re such a man, Shannon.”

“What does that mean?”

She shakes her head. “It means that it didn’t occur to him that he’d done anything wrong. Most guys don’t. He just edited his memory and made it a one night stand where I took some convincing. And then he could live with himself.”

I want to barf. I want to throw my arms around Mila. I want to apologize for having a Y chromosome. I rewind every date I ever had. Every girl who told me no. I listened, didn’t I? I didn’t keep trying, did I?

“I don’t know what to say.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything. It was good to get that off my chest.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. If you ever have a son, make sure he understands this. All of this.”

“I will. I promise.”

We look at each other awkwardly. And then we hug.

“C’mon, Shannon,” she says after a bit. “Let me find something for you to change into.”

“Thanks. Thanks…for everything.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “It’s what you do for a friend.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The following Monday, I’m still scared and upset over what happened at that party. But I’m determined not to let it get to me. Assholes like Kevin hurt wonderful people like Mila and I’m not going to let him affect my work. I can do this.

One foot in front of the other.

We’re filming another scene for Darkness in the Daytime. And this time, when I’m called upon to read some lines, I don’t hold back. Maybe I even put a little more into it than Natalia did. If she doesn’t like it, maybe she can try harder. I’m certainly not being paid three million bucks for this role.

Natalia seems to be in a bad mood, and I wonder if maybe today wasn’t the day to show off my acting chops. Oh well. As I gather my things, the assistant director approaches her.

“Miss Jenkins? Shall I have the car come around?”

She takes a long drag from her cigarette. “Why?”

“You’re due at the south lot. Remember? That cameo for the new Joshua Jones film?”

I accidentally let out an audible gasp. Joshua Jones is a young director and I’m kind of a big fan. He burst onto the scene about five years ago, when, thanks to his work on the low budget gross out comedy, Retail, he was nominated for best director. It was a crude lowbrow movie, but it really resonated with audiences, especially those who worked in customer service.

I’d dearly love to meet him. I wonder if Natalia will let me come.

She exhales a plume of smoke. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“We’ve postponed three times. We owe his production company. Remember how they helped us out during the strike last—”

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

The assistant director is looking panicky now. I know I should leave, but I want to see how this plays out. “They have to get this wrapped up today. It’s just a two-minute scene. You’ll be home by nine.”

Natalia stands. “I’m not up for it. If they don’t want to reschedule, they can shoot it without me. Bye.” She elegantly flips her jacket over her shoulder and trollops her way off the stage.

I notice the director making strangling motions at her as she leaves. He then turns to me and sighs.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go ruin Mr. Jones’s evening. Unless I can find some sap to do it for me.”

“I will!” I bark.

He stares at me for a second, then smiles. “I’ll call a car for you. Just tell him that Miss Jenkins…um….”

“Is very sorry, but cannot work on the project at this time?”

“Sure. Or tell him the truth. What do I care.” He fishes an ID badge from a box and hands it to me. “Just remember, being the messenger was your idea.”

*

Joshua Jones’s set is made up to look like some kind of skuzzy college apartment or frat house. I don’t see any extras on the set and I wonder what kind of scene Natalia was supposed to be doing.

My magical badge gets me past security, and I’m directed to Mr. Jones’s headquarters. I’m going to actually get to meet him! True, it’s to give him bad news and probably get yelled at, but still. I’ll be in the same room as the guy who made ‘festering cornswaggling arsewipe’ part of the national dialogue.

The door is open and I stick my head in the office. A younger guy sits in a chair, playing a handheld video game. And at the desk stands Josh Jones, the man himself. He’s just over thirty, but already has an enormous beer gut, receding hairline, and an unkempt beard that’s going gray. He often casts himself in the recurring role of the Chairman of the Joints, so I recognize him immediately.

My recent experience has taught me to approach a celebrity like you would an unfamiliar dog: slowly, on their terms, and ready to run.

I tap on the door frame. “Mr. Jones?”

He looks up and smiles. “Hi there! What can I do for you?”

“I’m Shannon Ferguson. I work with Natalia Jenkins.”

His smile broadens. “Great! Is she here? I was afraid she was going to cancel on us again. I know it’s just a silly cameo, but I’m really looking forward to working with her.”

Here goes nothing. “Actually, she’s not here. I’m sorry, she can’t make it.”

His face darkens. “Damn it! We’ve been set up and ready to go for hours! This is costing me a fortune. Chad!” He snaps his fingers at the guy playing the video game. “I’m pissed! Break something!”

Without looking up, the guy tosses a plastic cup to the floor.

Mr. Jones turns to me. “Is she on her way? We’re really fighting a deadline here.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Damn it! Chad!”

Chad Frisbees a clipboard across the room.

Mr. Jones wrings his trademark ball cap in his hands. “Did she tell you when she’d be available?”

“Um…no.”

“Son of a…they’re striking this set tonight! Aaargh! Chad! I’m furious! Knock yourself around for me!”

Chad begins slapping himself without enthusiasm. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

“You call that an ass beating? You’re fired!”

“You can’t fire me, I quit.” He still hasn’t looked up from his game.

“Call security! Tell them to have you thrown off the set! And be rough!”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Mr. Jones turns back to me with a wan smile. I’m not sure if that routine was for my benefit or if that’s what he’s really like. All I know is that I’m annoyed with Natalia. Some people would really enjoy this chance to work with this crude and talented director.

“I wish she’d let me know earlier,” he says, half to me, half to himself. “I held up production for a week, just so I could put her name in the credits. Damn.”

“Boss?” says Chad, from his seat. “We still shooting that scene?”

“Might as well, though it’s kind of pointless without Natalia. Well, we’ve already paid everyone. Call up casting, tell them to send a girl over. Nineteen, twenty, I don’t care what she looks like. I—”

Both men suddenly turn and look at me. Mr. Jones smiles.

“Who did you say you were?”

*

I’m standing in the party room set, dressed in a sorority sweater and skirt.

“We just need a close up of you giving the lines. We’ll get the long shots later with a body double when everyone is on set. Sit on that ottoman.”

I follow directions. This is so exciting! I’m actually going to get to give a line on my own, and not just in imitation of Natalia.

“So you’ll talk for about twenty seconds, and then Chad will spray vomit all over you.”

“Um…what?”

Chad walks up to me. He’s wearing tinted goggles and carrying a tank with a sprayer attachment. “Beef stew and water,” he says with a manic grin.

“All right!” barks Mr. Jones. “Places!”

“Wait!” I say with a squeak. “I haven’t seen the script!”

“Huh? Oh, right. Natalia was going to improvise.” He thinks for a bit. “You’re a girl who’s been hurt by her jerk boyfriend. But you’re going to give him one last chance. Just tell the camera how small and worthless he’s made you feel, but how you still care deeply for him and you’re going to put your heart on the line one last time. When I’ve heard enough, I’ll have Chad let fly with the puke. Got it?”

“You bet.” I wonder if Natalia knew about the nature of this scene. Probably not.

“Action!”

Well, Shannon, you always said you were talented. Let’s show them what you got. I face the camera. I look sad.

“Well, here I am again. I know I said I never wanted to see you again. That I wouldn’t let myself be hurt like that again. But…I dunno.” I make my voice hitch. “I can’t walk away from us. Are you even listening? Do you know what you’ve put me through these past months? How worthless and ugly you made me feel? How I questioned the very woman I was? Don’t you realize I get scared? That sometimes I just want to go back home? I feel like a fake, someone who’s becoming someone else just to fit the role you’ve decided I need to play.” I glower at the camera. “Are you even listening? Are you? Because I can’t do this much longer. I can’t sell out my dignity and my identity for some stupid dream that’s never going to come true.”

I keep waiting for the vomit, but nothing. Chad just stares at me, the lights reflecting weirdly off his goggles. I plow on.

“But you know that’s all empty threats. You know I’m in this for the long haul. Because these past months have been beautiful, too. Sometimes I wake up and can’t believe this is all happening. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s a temporary fix, but you know what? I don’t care. Because I love you. God help me, you’re all I ever wanted. All I need. So just look at me. Look at me! Tell me I mean something to you. Tell me I’m not wasting my time. Answer me! Do you care? Do you?”

“Cut!” snaps Mr. Jones, angrily.

Damn. I must have laid it on too thick.

“Chad, what the hell? You were supposed to let loose with the puke twenty seconds ago.”

“I’m sorry. I…I missed my cue.” He removes his goggles and smiles weakly at me. “Kinda got caught up in the moment. Been a while since a girl talked to me like that.” He laughs. The crew laughs with him. It’s rather forced.

“Okay, let’s try it again,” says Mr. Jones. “Shannon, great work. Maybe less intense. I want Chad to puke on you, not propose. Action!”

Nailed it.

*

We shoot the scene three times, pausing for me to change my clothes after each take. The vomit is ice cold and my disgusted reaction isn’t the result of acting.

But I don’t care. It’s a throwaway scene, but I did it. I acted in a Josh Jones production. I can burn my bucket list.

After I get out of the shower and back into my clothes, someone tells me Mr. Jones would like to talk to me. I find him back in his office, eating handfuls of generic Lucky Charms straight out of the bag.

He looks embarrassed when he sees me. “My father never loved me,” he mumbles with his mouth full.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

He pats a chair. “Have a seat. Shannon, I was very impressed with you today. Great improvisation.”

I’m glowing. “Thank you, sir.”

“Unfortunately, we’re probably not going to be able to use any of that footage.”

I’m not crushed. I’m not crushed. “I’m sorry. Maybe if I’d had some time to prepare—”

He holds up a palm. “Your lines were flawless. But that scene was written with Natalia Jenkins in mind. You see, the audience really would like to see someone throw up on her, she’s so pretty and perky and perfect. Whereas you...no one knows who you are. It wouldn’t be as funny.”

I nod, but there’s something he’s not saying. I’m not pretty. And seeing an ugly girl humiliated, that’s not really entertaining. Josh Jones can be gross and tasteless, but he’s never mean.

He wipes his hands on the arms of his chair. “So that was no reality TV actress I saw out there. Are you in drama school?”

I blush a little. “Still in high school. But it was an honor to work with you, Mr. Jones. I really enjoy your films.”

He nods. “I don’t often hear that from women. Thank you. Tell me, are you going to try to make a career out of acting?”

“It’s my dream. I’d love to be in film.”

He nods. “Shannon, it was my dream too, back when I was your age. And sometimes it doesn’t seem real. But do you know why I prefer to be behind the camera? Why I never cast myself as a lead?”

“Because you’d rather direct?”

He nods, then frowns. “That’s part of it. Some people say I have the talent of a Hitchcock. But more people say I have the body of a Hitchcock.”

We both laugh.

“It’s true, Shannon. And…may I be blunt?”

I know where this is going. “I don’t have the face of a leading lady.”

He pauses, then nods. “That’s right.”

Okay, he’s telling the truth. And I really don’t want to be pretty. So why do I kind of feel hurt?

He continues. “But Hollywood isn’t all top billing. We need people to play best friends, bosses, doctors, coworkers, neighbors, etc. Do you know who Parker Posey is? Or Michael McKean? Or Sarah Hughes?”

“Um…”

He holds up his phone and shows me a few headshots. I recognize all of them. They’ve probably been in a hundred movies in total. But I couldn’t have told you their names.

“Shannon, you have some serious talent. And people are going to tell you that you can’t make it in this business because you’re not, um, uh…”

“Natalia Jenkins?”

He nods, relieved. “Exactly. But despite what people tell us, it’s acting ability that makes a good movie. Now, you're going to be a high school senior? Any plans for after graduation?”

The room is suddenly very quiet. “Um, nothing definite.”

“Well, next summer, I’m starting a new project. A high school rom com, maybe a little more serious than my previous stuff. I think I may have a small role for you. Very small, but I think you could do things with it. Are you interested?”

“Are you kidding!” I pull myself together and sit down again. “I mean…yes. My God, yes. Of course. Thank you. Yes. Wow.”

He smiles. “Great. I’ll contact you through Becoming when the details get ironed out. We start filming around June. Great to have you aboard.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and Shannon? Maybe go back to your natural hair color by then? Thanks.”

I shake his hand and wander numbly off the set. Josh Jones, my idol, liked my work. Specially requested me to be in his movie. This is going to be the start of something huge. I can’t wait to tell Mila. Can’t wait to tell everyone on Becoming.

Becoming.

Josh Jones thinks I’m a girl. He thinks I’m a woman. That role he has picked out for me is for a female.

Shit.

*

“And he invited me to be in his next film! Josh Jones wanted me to act for him!”

Mila and I sit in the coffee shop where I occasionally hang out. I’d worry about people overhearing our conversation, but this is L.A. It’d take a lot more than a cross dressing teen actor to raise interest.

Mila sips her tea. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“But he thinks I’m a girl! This role he’s picturing, it’s for a woman. I can’t show up next year as myself.”

“So show up as a girl. You’ve really got the clothes and mannerisms down.”

Just when I think she’s taking my problems to heart. Just when I think we’ve kind of become friends. “Will you be serious?”

She stirs her drink. “I am serious. You’ve been offered a great part in a movie. So why not make it work for you? It’s just a role, after all.”

I’m annoyed and slightly intrigued at her suggestion. “Well for starters, Mr. Jones will be pissed when he finds out the truth.”

Mila shrugs. “Will he? You honestly think a guy like that would care?”

This gives me pause. He did win the GLAAD Media Award a couple of years ago, due to the sensitive portrayal of lovers Beto and Ernesto in one of his short films. Not bad for a movie called Sluts, Butts, and Coconuts.

“Mila, even if he doesn’t mind, I can’t keep doing this! I don’t want to build a career as an actress, and if I do this again, I’m going to be typecast as a female impersonator. And that’s not what I want. This was a one shot deal, and no one was supposed to know.”

She puts down her cup and looks at me with an expression that shows she’s not blowing off my concerns. “Look. Don’t think about it for now. After your episode airs, I’ll talk to Josh. Break the truth to him gently. You said your scene got cut from this movie, right? Well, no skin off his nose. It just shows what a versatile actor you are. Maybe I can convince him to recast you in a boy role.”

I’m not sure this plan will work, but I’m surprisingly relieved to have her on my side. Again. “Thank you, Mila. Even if it doesn’t work out, I did get to be puked on in a Joshua Jones movie. I’ll always have that.”

Mila frowns. “Yeah. We need to talk about that. You haven’t mentioned this to anyone back at Becoming, have you?”

“No. Why?”

She puffs air out of her mouth. “Um, I think we should keep this to ourselves for now. No reason to make Natalia jealous, you stealing her part and all.”

“What? No, you misunderstood. She bailed. They had to pull me in to finish the scene. Natalia wasn’t interested at all.”

“Yeah. How can I put this so you’ll understand?” She rubs her chin. “Let’s see, you and your sister are a year apart, right? When you were children, did you ever have a toy that you never touched, that just sat in your closet? And then one day Chris started playing with it and it became your favorite, bestest toy ever that you couldn’t bear to share?”

“Um…” I remember my baseball glove that had the price tag on it for a year. But when I caught Chris playing catch with it, it suddenly became my glove.

“Maybe. But Natalia’s not a child.”

There’s a pause. Then we both laugh.

“Shannon, Natalia’s used to getting everything she wants. Always. She’s powerful enough to turn down Joshua Jones. That doesn’t mean she wants Miss Cornpone Iowa stepping in and probably doing a better job than she would have. Do me a favor and keep this to yourself until filming’s over. It’s only another couple of days.”

“Okay, Mila.”

She finishes her drink. “In L.A. for a month and you already have directors knocking down your door.”

I shrug, modestly. But yeah.

Mila winks. “Best part is, you got that part on talent alone. Not looks. Well…” She glances down at my legs. “Not just looks.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

It’s the second to last day of shooting. Well, for Becoming. The filming for the movie will take several more months. I’m kind of sorry I won’t be there to see it.

I’m not sure why I bothered to show up today. Mila’s not here, and Natalia’s in full on diva mode. Mr. Lawrence keeps smiling uncomfortably at me, which is his way of saying I won’t be getting any time in front of the camera today.

Oh well. It had to end sometime. I almost laugh at the utterly ridiculous situation I found myself in, and how, thanks to Mila, I pulled it off. Of course, the good times are over. In less than a week, I’ll be back in Iowa, explaining to my very angry family where I’ve been for the past month.

Was it worth it? The humiliation, the loss of my identity, the waste of a summer. And not just that. I remember those first few days when Mila truly didn’t like me, and I didn’t have a friend in the world. Realizing how Natalia Jenkins was nothing more than an image on a screen, something invented in a PR department. I think of the awkwardness of Michael’s innocent attempt at a kiss. I think of Kevin and his attempt at….you know.

But I think of really getting to know Mila. And Rochelle, and Michael. Meeting and impressing Joshua Jones. Maybe learning about the bullshit that women put up with constantly.

I wouldn’t have chosen to spend my summer vacation this way. But I think it was worth it in the long run. I just hope I can remember that next week, when I have to go back to reality.

“Hey, Iowa!” It’s Natalia. Filming is over for the day, and for the first time since the zoo, she’s gone out of her way to talk to me. “You got a minute?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She leads me back to the green room and perches on the edge of the counter. I sit, uncomfortably, in a makeup chair.

“So…a little birdie told me you just amazed the heck out of Josh Jones the other day.”

I freeze. Mila warned me not to talk about this, but it seems Natalia already knows.

“Now don’t be coy!” she says with a smile. “My sources tell me you took the ol’ brown shower with the grace of a Hepburn.”

Is she angry? She doesn’t look angry. But she is an actress. “They just needed a stand in. Mr. Jones said the scene won’t even be in the movie.”

“Don’t be modest! I felt terrible about not being able to make it, but his movies…just not my scene. I’m so proud of you! I wish you’d have said something, I would have taken you out to celebrate.”

Is she really happy for me? “It was just a silly shot. Just a couple of lines.”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “Well, it was just a ‘couple of lines’ that got me my first big break. I don’t know why you kept this to yourself.” She slides off the counter, then moves behind my chair. She begins to gently massage my neck.

“Shannon, I don’t say this often, but everyone here is really taken with your skills. Mr. Lawrence, James, and especially me. I hope this won’t be the last time we’ll work together.”

I am so surprised at her suggestion that I try to stand up. Natalia gently pushes me back into the chair.

“I’m serious. I hope you’re not planning on flying back to…where were you from?”

“Des Moines.”

“Right….” She seems to consider something. “I had a friend from the area. You didn’t happen to go to Central High, did you?”

I’m pretty sure she’s mistaken, I’ve never heard of that school. “No, I went to Fredrick Douglass.” Still do, actually.

“Oh.” She suddenly spins my chair around to face her. “Shannon, I may not have always shown it. I’ve had a lot on my mind recently. But I like you. A lot. And I want to make sure everyone knows what a great actress you are. I want you to think of me as a friend.”

“Thank you, Miss, er, Natalia.”

She gently pats my cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

And now I’m alone. I lean back in the chair. Could I have misjudged her? Maybe she’s just another stressed out professional who didn’t have the time to hold the newbie’s hand. Maybe she really is as nice as she seems on screen.

But somehow I doubt it. I can’t put my finger on it, but she has some kind of angle. Something to benefit her, not me.

It’s probably best that I’m leaving town.

*

Mila calls me before I even get out of the studio. “Shannon! Meet me at my place! Big news!”

She won’t elaborate. I dump some cash on an Uber to get out to her house.

“Mila?” I rap at the open door. “Mila, are you—”

She grabs me by the arm and yanks me into the kitchen. I notice a bottle of champagne on ice, and two glasses. I’m immediately reminded of Kevin, and have to swallow back a little vomit.

“So what’s the occasion?”

Mila is practically jumping up and down with excitement. And it’s a little contagious.

“Mila?”

“Okay, okay, okay.” She’s giddy. This is so unlike her. “You know who my mother is, right? And you know how I said I would never, in a million years, use her to advance my career.”

“Sure.”

She takes a deep breath. Something has really got her keyed up. “Well, I never made that promise about my friends’ careers.”

“What…” I suddenly gasp. Oh my God, is she saying what I think she’s saying?

“Shannon, I hope you’re not mad, but a couple of weeks ago, I told her about you. Everything. The whole truth. I sent her some tapes from Becoming.”

I’m almost afraid to speak. “What did she say?”

“Well, after she yelled at me for a half an hour for not telling Mr. Lawrence the truth and making you dress like a girl…”

“What? What did she say?”

“She said you were obviously a very talented young man, someone who was willing to do what it takes to make it in the film world. Well, she’s going to be producing a new movie next year, and, thanks to my enthusiastic recommendation, she wants to cast you in a small but significant part. As a guy.”

Oh my God.

It happened. It really happened.

Mila wasn’t just talking. She really did return the favor. I’m going to be in a movie. As myself.

This whole ridiculous month was worth it.

“Mila…” I’m choking. “Mila…”

“Oh, honey, it’s okay to cry.”

“I’m not crying.” I’m not, but I’m desperately trying to hold it in.

“Oh, just let it out! This is happy news!”

I’m determined not to bawl. I scrunch up my face and begin flapping my hands by my face.

“Oh my God, Shannon, you’re doing the girl hand wave thing.”

“Damn you, Mila.” We embrace. I cry. I thank her. I cry some more.

And then we proceed to get wasted.

*

It’s around midnight. I’m sprawled out sleepily on Mila’s couch, my feet in her lap. She’s methodically painting my toes as she tells me stories about her mother and gives me advice on how to get on her good side.

“Mila, how can I thank you?” I’m giggly drunk.

“You can thank me by not thanking me anymore. I know I’m fantastic.”

“Yeah. You are.” I mean it. She got me into this mess, but she’s paid me back a million times.

“Well, it’s what you do for a friend. It’s funny, I’ve never even considered using Mom to help out anyone else, but you, you’re the first guy I…” Mila abruptly stops talking and sits there for a minute. Suddenly, she shoves my feet off her lap and stands.

“Mila?”

She’s at the window, looking out at the moonlit night.

“Mila? Are you okay?”

Silence. And then…

“Shannon? You know the bad thing that happened to me a few years ago?”

I stand up and join her at the window. “Of course.”

More silence. “Ever since then, I haven’t been able to be alone in a room with a man. Not even nice safe guys like Michael or K’shawn. I couldn’t do it. It scared me too much. And now…it just occurred to me that I’ve been alone with you a dozen times this month and I haven’t felt uncomfortable at all.”

I look down at my cherry red toes and tight top. “I’m not exactly a prime example of manhood.”

She turns to me and I see the moonlight reflecting on her strangely damp eyes. “You’re still a man, Shannon. You always have been. And I feel safe with you. Maybe that means I’m healing a little.”

“Oh, Mila, I hope so.”

She takes both my hands in hers. “I don’t know what it is about you. Probably the clothes.” She laughs. “Maybe that’s what I should have been looking for. A nice, pretty guy who can share my clothes and makeup and never makes me feel like a thing because he’s just as fragile as me.”

I know what that sounds like, but she wasn’t being insulting. It was kind of beautiful.

We stand there and look at each other. She truly is a lovely woman, outside and inside. Hard as steel, unbendable, unbreakable, but holding all that pain inside. I want to make her happy.

I realize how close we’re standing to each other. Our knees are practically touching. She’s still holding my hands. I can smell her perfume.

She reaches up and strokes my hair. “Too bad you’re not five years older, Shannon.”

“Yeah,” I manage to squeak. “Too bad.”

Our heads move imperceptibly toward each other. I can feel her breath on my face.

We both suddenly pull back at the same time. We straighten our hair in mirror gestures.

“I should go.”

“Yeah. I have to get up early. You’ll be okay?”

I take my purse. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to walk to that Starbucks and call a ride.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yes. And thanks again.”

I stroll out into the balmy California night, thinking about everything that happened today.

Sometimes dreams don’t come true. But sometimes, it seems, they do.

I picture Mila’s vulnerable, moonlit face.

And some dreams you don’t dare even think about.

Chapter Twenty-Four

After over a month of shooting, I’m disappointed when everything just kind of peters to a stop. One day we’re filming, the next day Mila calls to tell me we’re through. I’ll need to hang around for another week just in case, but she tells me she’s already booked my ticket home. She says we’ll have dinner before I leave.

I’m kind of bummed that I won’t get a chance to say goodbye to the crew or Michael or even Natalia. Or that they apparently weren’t interested.

I do get an email from the director of Cinder-Suzie’s upcoming movie, the one that I’ll be in. He’s polite, if not a little snippy. I wonder if he resents Mila’s mother’s influence in my casting. Oh well, I’ll just have to work that much harder.

I use my last few days to do a little shopping, to buy some souvenirs for my family, and say goodbye to Rochelle. I purchase some men’s clothes. I’ll have to ask Rochelle to cut and dye my hair before I leave.

I sit in my hotel room, trying to picture going back to Iowa, to a house without central air conditioning, and explaining to my family where I’ve been. Will they be furious or ashamed?

A couple of days before I’m to leave I get a text from Michael, saying I have to sign some release forms and that I need to come down to the home office at three o’clock. Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.

I should have seen it coming. The receptionist tells me that I should meet Michael in conference room B. For some reason she finds this amusing. She giggles as I leave.

I locate the room and open the door.

“Surprise!” Almost all of the crew is waiting in the meeting room, now decorated with balloons and streamers. A sheet cake and punch bowl sit on the table. An image of my face is projected onto a screen, over the words GOODBYE SHANNON.

I gasp. Then I take a deep breath to keep from crying. “You guys…”

Michael is here. Natalia. Mr. Lawrence. James. Everyone, actually, except…

“Where’s Mila?”

“She’s running late,” says Natalia, taking my hand and pulling me to the middle of the room. “She’ll be here soon.”

Someone thrusts a drink into my hand. I’m surrounded by the people I’ve worked with this past month. I glance around, but there are no cameras. This isn’t staged. I don’t know if they do this for every participant on Becoming, but I’m touched.

“A toast!” says Mr. Lawrence. “Shannon, you are our sixty-somethingth guest on this show, and I have to say, you’re one of our favorites. So polite.”

“So many good ideas,” says James.

“So smart,” says Michael.

“And such a great little actress,” says Natalia. “Let’s not forget what a great actress Shannon Ferguson of Des Moines turned out to be. So versatile.”

Everyone claps in assent, but I’m suddenly a little uncomfortable. Something about the way Natalia is smiling. I wish Mila were here.

“Shannon,” says Mr. Lawrence, “Would you like to say a few words?”

The crew members bang on the table.

I take a sip of my drink. I’m really going to miss these people. “Okay. I just want to tell you all—”

“Hang on,” interrupts Natalia. “Before we get to that, we’ve got a surprise. The tech department cooked up a little treat for you. Michael, hit it!”

Michael has his mouth full of chips and seems a little unprepared for this request, like it was supposed to happen later. But Natalia is asking, so he goes to his laptop and hits a button. The projection on the wall fades to a short film.

Set to the theme song of Becoming, it’s a series of clips of my time on the show. It starts with me first meeting Natalia at her ranch, my first makeover, the time at the zoo the water buffalo snotted on me…God, that all seems so long ago. Everyone laughs and claps at their favorite scenes.

And then, suddenly, the music stops. The film keeps going, but it changes. It’s an older clip. I recognize my audition tape. The one I sent in to apply for this show. The one where Mila mistook me for a girl. Looking at it now, I can kind of see why she thought that, though I’m not sure why they’ve included it in this best of Shannon compilation.

Michael seems confused too. “Sorry, something’s wrong.” He stands to adjust the laptop, but Natalia stops him.

“No, let’s watch this.”

Something is wrong. This clip show was obviously supposed to be light hearted and funny, but this tape, with me talking about how lonely and sad I feel, is kind of personal. Several people look uncomfortable.

Have you ever been so close to a disaster that you don’t immediately realize what’s happening? Yeah. When a photo of me in boy mode pops up on the screen, my initial reaction is ‘How did they find that?’ rather than ‘I’m so screwed.’

It’s from my high school yearbook. The online version. There I am, Shannon Ferguson, sophomore. With my close cut hair, my toothy grin, and that unfortunate attempt at a mustache.

Oh shit.

Another photo of me from my freshman year, with the forensics team. Not too many people in that club. Very close shot of my face.

The people in the meeting room begin murmuring.

And then, a headshot. The one I mailed out to dozens of studios and agents. Up close, recent, and very, very male.

The screen splits. Now there’s a headshot of female me alongside the male version. A caption reads ‘Shannon Ferguson.’

They are unquestionably the same person.

Freeze frame.

I tear my eyes away from the screen. Everyone, everyone is staring at me.

James tries to break the tension. “So, Shannon, something you want to tell us?”

I am frozen. Mila and I knew there was a chance that I’d be found out, but we’d assumed I’d be thousands of miles away when the shit hit the fan.

Mr. Lawrence looks enraged. Michael won’t meet my eyes. And Natalia…

Natalia is smiling. Not meanly. Not smugly. Just smiling.

Mila was right. She didn’t like being upstaged for any reason. She decided to dig up some dirt on me.

And Jesus, did she ever find some.

I mumble something. I grab my purse. I hurry out the door.

Alone in the hall, I fumble for my phone. I have to call Mila. I have to warn her. I have to know how to best control the damage.

I have to leave town.

Before I can dial, a hand snakes out and grabs my wrist.

It’s Mr. Lawrence. He’s furious.

“Did you think this was all some kind of joke?” he snarls. I try to pull away from his grip, but he won’t let go.

“Let me explain…”

“Explain?” he hisses. “I allowed a man to go into the dressing room with Natalia Jenkins! Do you have any idea how angry she’s going to be?”

Oh, I have an idea all right. But more importantly, I’m remembering how Mr. Lawrence knocked around Michael for a minor mistake. Now that he knows I’m not a girl, will he do the same to me?

“You little bitch. You can be damn sure this episode is never going to air. We can sue you for this. We can sue your parents for this. Am I getting through to you?” He shakes me. “Are you hearing me?”

All I can think of is the threat of a lawsuit against my family. And the vice hard grip of this powerful and pissed off man.

“Okay, that’s enough, Mr. Lawrence.”

The voice is confident and authoritative. It takes me a moment to realize who it belongs to.

“Go away, Michael,” snaps Mr. Lawrence.

“No. Let go of her. Right now.”

Michael is standing at Mr. Lawrence’s shoulder. And for the first time since I met him, he doesn’t look nervous or confused or unsure of himself.

“Now, Mr. Lawrence.”

My wrists ache as he releases me. The two men stare each other down, yet another macho pissing contest.

Mr. Lawrence blinks first. He turns to me with a sneer. “I want you out of that hotel by the weekend. I want you out of the city by Monday. You’re dead to us. This never happened.”

He storms off.

I turn to Michael, humiliated and afraid. Maybe he has some words of encouragement. Some kind of advice.

He looks at me without expression.

“I think you need to leave, Shannon.”

He turns and walks away.

*

I’m blubbering into my phone as I wander into the parking lot.

“Shannon?” snaps Mila. “Calm down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It was…it was at my going away party.”

“Wait, I thought that wasn’t until Thursday.”

In my hazy state, I realize that Mila had been given bad information. Natalia arranged it so the one person who might have defended me wouldn’t be there.

“Mila, everyone knows.”

“Knows what?”

“What do you think?” I practically scream. “You were right. Natalia found out. She told everyone. Mr. Lawrence fired me.”

“Shit.” There’s something very comforting about the way she says that four letter word. Like her devious little mind is already making plans. “Go back to the hotel. Talk to no one.”

I sniffle. “How soon can you get here?”

“Shit.” This time, she doesn’t sound so confident. “The thing is, I’m in Sausalito. I’m not supposed to fly back until…look, don’t worry about it. I’ll get an earlier flight.”

“Mila, I—”

“Shannon, I need to talk to Mr. Lawrence. I have to let you go. Listen, it’s all going to be…we’ll figure it out.”

The line goes dead.

I’m suddenly very, very frightened. I’m fired. How much longer will the credit card that’s been paying for all my meals and transportation still work? How will I get back to the hotel? Am I even still welcome at the hotel?

Panicking, I hail a taxi and ask to be taken home. As I sit, sweating, in the back, my phone begins to blow up.

Texts from an unknown number. Just a URL. Wishing I had the courage to ignore it, I open the link.

It’s a little video clip.

BECOMING the Girl of His Dreams: Gender Bending Natalia Jenkins Fan Goes the Extra Mile to Meet his Idol.

Wait. It’s a YouTube video. But it’s a corporate account.

Hollywood Insider. A nightly gossip show. This is a commercial for a segment that’s airing tonight.

How long had Natalia been planning this? This was no overnight surprise, it had to have been at least a week. Before she smiled at me and said she was proud of me.

“Driver!” I squeak. “I changed my mind. I want to go somewhere else.”

*

Rochelle. Once again, she meets me after hours. Once again, she’s there for me when I need her. She’ll know what to do. She’ll give me some advice.

She listens to my story of how I’d been caught and how everyone was going to know I was really a man. How it was going to be on the news.

When I’m finished, she does not smile understandingly. She does not pat my knee. She does not offer me a cup of tea.

Instead, she stands and looks at her reflection in the mirror for a long time.

“I take it, Shannon, that you are not actually transgender?”

“What? No. It was all for the show.”

Another long pause. “I see. All for some stupid reality program.”

I’m beginning to suspect I’m not going to get the shoulder I was hoping to cry on.

Rochelle still doesn’t face me. “Let me tell you a story, Shannon. Is that really your name, Shannon?

“I guess it doesn’t surprise you to realize I never felt comfortable in a man’s world. I could never understand why. But when I was about fourteen, there was this fashion model who came out as a trans woman. No one had suspected her past. And I realized that being a boy wasn’t my only option. I had an older sister. We were close. And one night, I got up the courage to ask if I could try on some of her things. I kind of made it sound like I was joking, but she knew I was serious.”

Rochelle pauses just long enough for me to feel like I should say something. But then she continues.

“She told our parents. And my father beat the shit out of me. I’m serious. He used his belt. Made me bleed. I couldn’t walk for a day.”

I’m sickened by this story. “Rochelle…”

“Don’t interrupt. It was then that I realized that the model was a fluke and that normal people didn’t wish for sick things like that. My family never looked at me the same again, but damned if I didn’t try to be a son they could be proud of. I played sports. I dated girls. I got married at twenty. Had a daughter. And then one night I found myself alone in the bathroom with a handful of sleeping pills and I knew if I didn’t live the life I was supposed to, then I really didn’t want to have a life. So I came out. To everyone.

“My wife left me, of course. My daughter won’t talk to me. And by the time I’d paid off all the child support and got back on my feet again, I was fat and bald and old. I make a pretty woman, but not a convincing one.”

She finally looks at me. “When you came to me last month, I honest to God thought you were transgender. And I thought about how much things have changed. I thought you were living the life I dreamed of back then, being true to yourself. And I promised myself that I’d do anything to help you live that dream. Maybe it was a stupid fantasy, but it made me so happy to know that I was helping a young woman achieve the happiness that I could never have.”

Her voice drops to an almost masculine tone. “And now you tell me that this was all for some stupid publicity stunt?”

I’m still reeling from her painful life story. “It wasn’t like that, Rochelle.”

She raises a pencil thin eyebrow. I lower my face.

“Okay, maybe it was.”

“Well pardon me for not sympathizing. I guess I’m too busy thinking about the suicide rate among transgender youth. Or how a guy could slash your throat and then get off with a warning because, after all, you’re just a tranny.”

I’d felt like shit when I came here, and the guilt trip makes me feel worse. Mostly because I know she’s right.

“I never meant for this to happen.”

“Well, it did. You’re going to be famous. And now every asshole who likes to rant about the perverted guy in the skirt is going to have more fuel to add the fire. More stories about the sickos who like to dress as women. You’ll go back home and be a man. It’s the rest of us who are going to pay the price. One step forward, two steps back.”

Her exquisite face is hard as rock. Not only did I hurt myself, I hurt her. And people like her. And probably Mila as well. And much as I’d like to blame Natalia, I know it’s ultimately down to me. I stand.

“Goodbye, Rochelle. For what it’s worth, thanks for everything.”

I head for the door.

“Shannon?”

I freeze.

“Shannon, are you going to be okay? Can you get back home? Can you go back home?”

I turn. “I’ll be okay.” I have no idea if that’s true or not. God, everyone back in Iowa is going to see that Hollywood Insider episode. Maybe I won’t be welcome any more.

“Are you sure? Shannon, I’m angry, but I’m still your friend. Do you need anything?”

I shake my head, but then stop. “Actually, I could use a reverse makeover.”

She smiles a tad. “Come by in two days. Linda can give you a hand.”

We stare at each other, awkwardly.

“Rochelle? What can I do? I want to make this right.”

She runs her fingers through her wig. “That’s something only you can decide. But don’t let other people fight this battle for you. Tell the truth, and tell it soon.”

The truth. The one thing I’ve been avoiding for over a month.

“Thank you, Rochelle.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Some disasters, like a car wreck or shooting, unfold instantly. Others, like watching your promising acting career go down in a public bonfire of humiliation, take days.

I sit in my hotel room, staring at my phone, watching each indignity with the detached air of a bystander. I’ve been pretending to be female for so long, it’s almost easy to imagine that this boy, Shannon Ferguson, isn’t someone associated with me.

Almost.

The Hollywood Insider segment is nothing but four minutes of fluff, basically implying that I must have been some starstruck teen hoping to get close to Natalia. It’s capped off with a twenty second video clip of Natalia, giggling and blushing, and implying that I’d seen a lot more of her in the dressing room than I should have.

All lies.

The Google Alerts for ‘Shannon Ferguson’ start coming right after the show and continue the following day. It’s amazing how in a nation with such low voter turnout, people can still get fired up.

I take a little mean comfort in all the rude comments about Natalia. But even then, I’m kind of offended. Can’t you talk about what a bitch she is, not what you’d like to do to her?

Men.

Of course, most of the comments are about me. Rochelle was right. I’m called everything from a peeping tom to a drag queen. I’m threatened with everything from rape to murder. Hour after hour after hour.

I don’t recognize any names from back home, but I’m sure it’ll happen sooner or later. I am pretty hurt when I recognize Sherona, the girl I went clubbing with. She posted a picture of us together in the night club and laughs at how she hung out with a tranny.

What is even more upsetting are the posts of support. People saying that the show had no right to fire a gender fluid person like me. That I shouldn’t be ashamed of identifying as female. There’s talk of a protest. Talk of a boycott of the show’s advertisers. The Wymynist Council of Southern California offers to pay my legal expenses, should I decide to sue the show (or should they decide to sue me).

My family has to know. They’ll have seen this. And with no warning, what will they think? That this was some immature stunt on my part? Or will they think that wimpy little Shannon is finally living as his true self?

Should I even go home again?

Mila texts me constantly but vaguely. She quickly goes from optimistic (Mr. Lawrence screwed with the wrong chick) to hopeful (this is going to blow over in a few days) to apologetic (we may have to wait a bit on casting you in one of Mom’s films, just till everything settles down) to somewhat frightened (Just landed at LAX. Meeting with Lawrence in the morning. Things aren’t as bad as they seem. We’re going to be okay).

We’re going to be okay. She’s in this too, and has more at stake than her reputation.

Another alert. A blog post this time.

Shannon Ferguson has given me the courage to be my true self. The other night, after the Hollywood Insider episode, I came out as trans to my family. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done in fifteen years, but the worst is over. I never would have had the courage had it not been for her. Thank you, Shannon, wherever you are.

Nope. That’s it. Natalia hung me out to dry, and I guess I can take what’s coming to me. But I’m not going to be a hero to people because I was inconvenienced for a month. And I’m not going to let Mila suffer careerwise because of me.

Plus, I’m too chicken to call my parents and tell them the truth. I’d rather they hear my story without me having to tell it to them face to face.

It’s time everyone knows the truth. Better it comes from me than from all the speculating Natalia Jenkins fans out there. I compose a statement on my phone:

My name is Shannon Ferguson. I am a heterosexual, cisgender man. For the past month I have passed myself off as female to appear on the television show Becoming, alongside Natalia Jenkins. I did not do this due to any sort of gender identity expression, nor, as it has been implied, to view Miss Jenkins during intimate moments. Rather, it was a practical joke that got out of hand.

I filmed an audition take using a female persona as an acting exercise. I submitted the tape to the show as a joke. I was as surprised as anyone when I was selected. Having always been a Natalia Jenkins fan, I thought it would be an opportunity to meet her, as well as obtain a free trip to California. It was an immature plan, and I deeply regret it.

I would like to offer my apologies to Miss Jenkins

I have to force my fingers to type that bit

and state again that I never once attempted to do anything inappropriate with her or with any other woman while passing myself off as female. I would also like to apologize to my family, who were unaware of where I was this summer. I’d like to apologize to Mr. Harvey Lawrence, who was kind to me.

I’d especially like to say sorry to Mila Nevins, who treated me as a friend and whose kindness I betrayed. Above all, I hope she’ll forgive me for my falsehoods.

And I hope that statement gets her off the hook. If I do this right, she won’t be blamed for any of this.

I hope the world will see what I did as I intended: a silly stunt. I’m sorry that I allowed it to progress so far, and I’d like to remind everyone that while I am not a transgender person myself, their struggles are very real, and they deserve our support.

Regretfully yours,

Mr. Shannon Ferguson

Well, it’s no Oscar speech, but it’ll have to do. I need to get it out there.

The problem is I don’t know how. While my name is all over the place, how will anyone know this statement is really from me? Especially since I nuked my social media accounts a month ago. I need to make an official press release.

How do you do that? Mr. Lawrence wouldn’t help me and Mila would refuse to let me take all the blame. But there is someone else.

I text Michael.

I need to make a press release. Can you help?

He answers in under a minute.

Get it to me. I’ll take care of it.

I send the file. I expect that to be the end of it (I’m sure he’s now even more embarrassed by our kiss), but he texts me back almost immediately.

Is all this true?

I answer. Every bit. I’m sorry, Michael.

Sorry for what? You offered me nothing but friendship. When I pressed for more, you politely declined. You have nothing to apologize for.

Always a gentleman. I really hope he finds a girl who appreciates him.

Thank you, Michael.

Are you going to be okay, Shannon? Do you need money or anything?

Again, I worry that Natalia would have had my plane ticket canceled out of spite, but as far as I know, it’s still good. It’s what’s going to come after that terrifies me.

I’ll be okay. Thank you for everything. You were a true friend.

Stay safe. And Shannon, for the record, if you really were transgender, that wouldn’t have been a deal breaker for me.

*

The next morning, I get up early, shower, and put on my makeup. I dress in a short skirt, sleeveless top, and heels. I’m going to check out of the hotel, and I might as well do it as the guest they’ve come to know. Plus I’d feel like an ass, with my girl haircut, trying to wear boy clothes. This is my last time as a woman ever. I’m going to give it my all.

The press release went out last night. I don’t know if anyone read it, but at least I went on record saying that Mila and my parents had no idea what I was really up to. I hope that puts them in the clear.

And now I’m going to go to Rochelle’s salon. Her friend will cut and dye my hair. I’ll change my clothes. I’ll leave my feminine side behind.

Tomorrow morning I’ll fly back to Des Moines. I’ll explain to my family my side of the story in person.

They won’t understand. Chris will laugh. My parents will be both angry and ashamed.

But you know what? My father’s not going to beat me with his belt. And I can be thankful for that.

I head for the door, purse in one hand, bag of male clothes in the other. I take a look at the luxurious hotel room, the likes of which I’ll never see again. I may never see California again. And I’ll never see the girl in the mirror again.

She’s still plain looking and gangly. But she’s gained a bit of poise this past month. A bit of self confidence. A bit of class. Maybe a bit of charm.

I’m going to miss her.

But no point in dwelling on that. It’s all over. I head for the door. One foot in front of the other.

And when I open it, there’s someone standing in the hall, poised to knock. She looks exhausted. Her overnight bag is slung over her shoulder, and her hair is a mess. Obviously a long and unpleasant flight.

Chris and I stare at each other for a second. Then, without warning, she throws her arms around me and throttles me in a bear hug.

“God, Shannon. I was so fucking worried.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chris shoves past me, collapses on my bed, and kicks off her shoes.

“Nice digs, Shannon.”

Confused, I sit down next to her. It feels like it’s been a year since I’ve seen her. Why did she come?

“How did you find me?”

“I kept calling the studio. Eventually they transferred me to some dude who knew you, and when I finally convinced him I really was your sister, he gave me this address.”

“Was his name Michael?”

“I think that was it. He repeated directions to the hotel about eight times.” She squints at me, blearily. “You look different. You change your hair or something?”

I almost laugh. “Why did you come here? Is it about…that Hollywood Insider thing?”

“Of course.”

“You probably want to know why I’m dressed like this.”

Chris’s exhaustion seems to drain away. “No, Shannon. I’m wondering why the hell you never called us. I’m wondering why when we saw you on TV the other day, it was the first time in a month I didn’t worry that you were dead. That’s what I’d like explained.”

I’ve never heard my sister sound hurt before. “You didn’t really think that.”

“The hell I didn’t!” For a second I think she's going to tackle me. “You tell us some story that you’re going to be in a movie and then you vanish? You delete all your accounts, disconnect your phone, drop off the face of the earth…we all thought something horrible had happened to you. And I kept reminding myself that I could have stopped you that night you left and I didn’t, and it was all my fault.”

Somehow, even after the shitstorm that has been this week, the words of my sister make me feel ten times worse. She’s right. I could have checked in. I could have let them know I was okay.

“How are Mom and Dad?”

She shakes her head. “Not good. Out of their heads. They tried to hire a private detective to find you, but they didn’t have much to go on. Seventeen-year-old leaves home of his own free will to be in a movie…so he’s probably in California or maybe New York. It was pointless. And then the other day Aunt Joan calls us up and says you’re going to be on TV. Nice legs, by the way. What’s up with all this?”

She’s not mocking or upset. She honestly wants to know.

“Well, I made a video entry to be on Becoming. And you know how you’re always saying I’m a sissy boy? Guess you were right.” It’s so embarrassing to admit this next part. “They thought I was a girl. I didn’t realize that until I got here.”

Chris bites her lower lip and I can tell she’s dying to say something cruel. But she holds it in. “So why did you stay?”

I shrug. “The producer, Mila, had a lot invested in this episode. She basically bribed me. Said she’d get me a real part in a movie if I went along with it.”

My sister suddenly stands. “Typical Shannon.”

“Excuse me?”

She stares down at me. “It means any other guy would have hopped the next flight back to Iowa. But not you. You saw an opportunity and you took it. You always do.”

I can tell she doesn’t mean for that to be a compliment. “So what’s wrong with that?”

Chris begins pacing. “Nothing. I mean, you want to be an actor. And you’re poor and you’re ugly, and with anyone else I’d say it was never going to happen. But you…I always knew you were going to make it. You’d do whatever it takes. Which is why I got so scared. I was afraid you’d gotten in over your head.” She laughs. “Nope, you’ve been living in a fancy hotel room, hanging out with stars and damned if you don’t look cuter than I would in that outfit.”

“I should have called. I’m sorry.”

She snorts. “Forget it. We might as well get used to it.”

I stand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chris still towers over me. “What do you think it means? One of these days you’re going to get your big break, and you’ll forget all about your white trash family. This was just a practice run.”

“How can you say that?” I bellow.

She shakes her head. “And you call yourself an actor. Totally unconvincing.”

“I’d never forget about you!” I shout, offended.

“Better. But I’m still not buying it.”

“You’re my family! I love you!”How can she not know that?

Sarcastic clapping. “There. Nailed it. Bravo.”

I’m getting furious, and mostly because she may be right. “I always tried to fit in, Chris. You guys always made me feel like I didn’t belong.”

She nods. “Yeah, I know. Mom and Dad always go on about how smart and talented and driven their son is. And their daughter…um, well, she’s certainly nice too.”

I fire back. “Hey, don’t you get all self righteous! How many times did you drag me to parties and football games and shit so I’d act normal? So you’d have a brother you weren’t ashamed of?”

Her eyes widen. “Ashamed? Jesus, I just wanted you to have fun. Forgive me for wanting a brother that I could have a good time with. Who wanted to hang out with me sometimes.”

We’re both yelling now. “All for my own good, eh? Just like beating the crap out of me was for my own good?”
She snorts. “That was just messing around.”

“Was it?”

She freezes, and for the first time since she arrived (and maybe long before that), really looks at me. “You’re my brother. It was just fun.”

I’m silent.

“I never hurt you, Shannon. You’re a boy, you’re supposed to…”

“I know what I’m supposed to do. And I’m obviously not very good at it. And every time you smashed my face into the floor or sucker punched me or got me in a headlock, it just drove home that my sister is more of a man than I’ll ever be.”

Chris stares at the floor. After a while, she speaks.

“I guess I shouldn’t blame you for running off.”

It takes an effort, but I approach her and put my hand on her shoulder. “You should. I had no right. I should have let you know I was okay.”

“I should have let you know…it’s not important.”

We both chuckle, uncomfortably. This is the longest we’ve talked in years.

“Chris? Why did you come out here? Why not Mom or Dad?”

She collapses in a chair, looking tired again. “I asked to. Mom and Dad didn’t know what to say. They were afraid you weren’t planning on coming back.”

“I can’t stay in California, not now.”

“Um, that’s not what I meant, Shannon.”

It takes me a second to catch on. I laugh as I look down at my padding and womanly legs. “Don’t worry. This was an acting job, nothing more. I’m actually getting my hair cut this afternoon. And I’m flying home tomorrow. I’m done.”

Chris grins. “Thank God. Thought I was going to have to cram you in an overhead compartment or something.”

My phone buzzes with a text. I frown when I read the message. “Chris, I hate to do this, but I have to go meet someone. Do you want to rest here?”

She’s on her feet, instantly wary. “Nope. Promised Dad I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

I know better than to argue. Instead, I grab my purse.

Chris laughs. “God, going out with my brother, and he’s the prettier one.”

We head out the door. “Please. At least you’re not all padding. Though if you come with me to the salon, I know a girl who might be able to help out. You ever hear of a new thing called makeup, Chris?”

“Don’t think I won’t mess up that pretty face of yours, Shannon.”

We enter the elevator side by side, the old hostility slightly returning. But not like it was before.

I still have a family. And I have a lot to answer for. It’s time to go home.

There’s just one more loose end to tie up.

Chapter Twenty-Six

My Becoming charge card still hasn’t been canceled and I use it to pay for our ride. Chris peppers me with questions about the show.

“So Natalia Jenkins…she’s not that nice in real life, is she?”

I sigh. I can finally answer this question honestly. “She was the one who ratted me out to the press.”

Chris’s eyebrows lower, and I picture her laying out Natalia with a right hook. I quickly change the subject.

“But James Gunderson is actually a lot nicer than you’d think. And so is Josh Jones.”

She looks impressed. “Get out? You met the Chairman of the Joints himself?”

I shrug, modestly. “Actually, he asked me to be in one of his movies.”

Chris laughs. “One month. One month and you’re hanging out with the stars.”

“Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did me.”

Chris draws back her fist to sock me in the arm, but stops herself. “I think it did. I know this is kind of embarrassing, but who knows? At least you got your name out there. It’s what you always wanted, right?”

Was it?

“This is our stop.”

We pile out of the taxi. Mila’s old car is parked in front of her house. I have so much I need to say to her before I go back home.

“Chris…would you mind terribly waiting at the Starbucks down the road? I shouldn’t be too long.”

She nods. “Yes. I’d mind that a lot, actually.” She trots down the walkway to Mila’s door and I rush to catch up.

I steady myself and ring the bell. As we wait, I’m reminded of the day I did the same thing at Natalia’s. This time, there are no cameras pointed at me.

Mila opens the door and immediately grabs both my hands. We don’t say anything for a second. Then we hug.

Chris clears her throat.

“Oh, sorry.” We disengage. “Mila, this is my sister, Chris. Chris, this is my producer, Mila.”

Mila nods. “I’m glad you came out, Chris. Um…would you like to grab something to drink? There’s cold beer and fruit juice in my fridge. Then maybe you can go relax on the lanai or the sun porch.”

Chris rolls her eyes at the obvious attempt to get rid of her. “Listen to Miss Fancy Britches here. Ooh, look at me, I have a refrigerator.” She barges past us into the house.

Mila smiles. “I like her.”

We wordlessly sit on a pair of wrought iron chairs on the porch.

“Shannon, you shouldn’t have done that press release. You could have let me take some of the blame.”

I remember what Rochelle said about taking responsibility. “Nothing doing. I was the one who was a fake, I’m not going to throw you to the wolves.”

Mila, of course, wants to argue. “The faking was my idea. I forced you into this.”

“I think you’re overestimating your persuasive powers. I wanted to be famous. I wanted to get ahead. I knew what I was getting into. And now your job is safe. You can still keep working for the studio and…and…what?”

Mila isn’t meeting my eyes. Something’s wrong.

“Shannon, I quit my job yesterday.”

I’m horrified. Even more so than when my secret got out. “Mila! How could you! You knew I was taking the heat for everything! All you had to do was act surprised that I was a guy. Why the hell would you quit?”

She looks up and her jaw hardens. “Because Natalia Jenkins threw my friend under the bus and no one’s going to hold her accountable for that.”

“So what? She’s just an overgrown child. But you…you’re something special. Don’t throw all that away just because Natalia wanted some petty revenge.”

Mila touches my knee. “It’s not just about Natalia. I went to talk to Mr. Lawrence yesterday. I was ready to admit my role in all this, but first I wanted to see if we could salvage your episode. I told him you were just a silly kid whose prank got out of hand and we ought to frame the show like that. Maybe bring you back for an interview, get a laugh out of it.”

“I take it he didn’t like the idea?”

“Um, he liked it a little too much.”

I start feeling sick. “What do you mean?”

She seems to have a hard time getting this next part out. “He wanted to make it look like you really liked dressing like a girl. Not like a transgender person, but like a drag queen.”

“Jesus. How did he expect to pull that off?”

“Remember when you were running lines with Natalia? That whole ‘ideal man’ monologue?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, he wanted me to get Michael to do some creative editing. Make it look like you weren’t running lines.”

When the full implication of what she’s saying hits me, I’m numb. It wouldn’t take a lot of splicing to make it look like it was me, not me as Natalia’s character, fantasizing about hot, naked men.

Mila continues. “He was going to hire a body double, reshoot some scenes, make it look like you’d been trying to seduce James. When I told him you weren’t gay, he didn’t care. “

“Well…neither do I.” Though I do care. A lot. “You should just let him do what he wanted.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. I refused to help him and I refused to let him do it, and he threatened to fire me, so I walked out.” She grins, proud.

I feel like shit. “I guess you were my only friend, after all.”

“None of that. Most of the crew is pretty pissed at Natalia, though they won’t admit it. And Michael wanted to quit with me, but I talked him out of it.”

I feel so guilty. Mila, the woman who made my life hell and forced me to dress as a woman and looked out for me and protected me…just sacrificed everything she worked for.

“I’m sorry, Mila.”

“Quit your blubbering. I didn’t do this for you. I’d like to be able to look at myself in the mirror sometimes.”

“You had such a promising career.”

She pushes her chair next to mine and wraps her arm around me. “I still do. It’s just been delayed slightly. I’m not giving up. And you dressing like a girl was all my idea, not yours.”

“Yeah, but I went along with it. I was the one who sent in that that crummy video and lied about my age and—”

Mila removes her hand. “Lied about what?”

“Um, nothing. But…I wish you’d never seen that tape. You’d be happier.”

Mila slowly leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “Yeah, well, it was a learning experience. And I guess spending a month with you wasn’t as unpleasant as it could have been. It just…oh, hell, you’re my friend. I enjoyed it.”

“I did too, Mila.” My voice cracks.

We look at each other for a moment, and it’s both awkward and comfortable.

“So what now, Shannon?”

“I’m going back to Iowa tomorrow. Let everyone laugh at me for a while and finish my last year of school. You?”

“Gonna spend some time with my mother. Schmooze a little. Figure out my next move.”

More silence. I stand. “I’m going to miss you, Mila.”

Mila joins me. “You too. You kind of helped me get some things straight in my head.”

“You helped me see what jerks all men are.”

“Not all men, Shannon. You’re a rare exception.”

We smile. We don’t hug. We stand there and stare at each other, our faces very close.

“Shannon? Maybe…you know, when this all dies down, you’ll come back and visit me. I should be back on my feet by then. I can audition you for something as a man.”

“I’d like that a lot.”

More staring.

I’m leaving town. I won’t see her for a year.

It’s now or never.

I touch her cheek. She doesn’t pull away.

My lips move closer and closer to hers.

They touch. They press. Just for a few seconds.

We part.

Mila’s eyes are wide. I’m sure mine are as well. And then Mila giggles.

“Mmmn, cherry lip gloss. My favorite.”

I blush. I’m debating whether I should give her another taste when I realize we are not alone.

Chris is standing in the doorway, a bottle of beer in her hand, shaking her head.

“Jesus, Shannon. You never stop, do you?”

She rolls her eyes and walks toward the street.

One Year Later

“Mila Nevins Productions, Shannon speaking. Yes, Mr. Blackwell. Tomorrow at four. We’ll see you then.”

I hang up and smile at Mila, whose desk sits immediately across from mine. We’ve come down in the world, this past year. Instead of working out of the mammoth NBS Studios, Mila’s company is a one-room rented office. She is the only employee, if you don’t count me. And I don’t.

Mila gives me a wink and goes back to her computer screen. The woman is a hard core model of industry. It’s not unusual for her to put in eighty hours a week.

I glance at the poster on the wall behind her. Silent Voices, her documentary. It’s about the prevalence of sexual assault in the entertainment industry. It just came out last month, and people are already talking about it.

I wish I could say I helped with it, but I’ve barely been back to L.A. for a month. I decided to gut things out at home for my senior year. Mom and Dad were just happy to have me back. And even though that episode of Becoming never aired, I still caught holy hell from my classmates from that Hollywood Insider report. But time passed, other kids had other drama, Chris busted a few noses, and by Christmas, I was just that weird drama kid again. I didn’t even bother to audition for the spring musical. Once Josh Jones pukes on you, high school theater is a bit of a letdown.

After graduation, I was kind of at loose ends. When Mila called me to offer me a job as her assistant, I jumped at the chance.

“Shannon? You ready to call it a night?”

I nod, wearily. It’s amazing how tiring being on the phone or sitting in front of a computer can be. Not to mention scouting locations, arguing with equipment rental places, filing for filming permits, organizing interviews, and fetching coffee.

And I find I’m good at it. And I find that I enjoy it.

Mila stops to adjust my tie. “I still cannot get used to you in boy clothes, Shannon.”

Of course a lot of that has to do with my boss. She’s gone from unemployed to producing her first short film in just over a year. At first I’d assumed that her mother was secretly funding her projects. A month after I was hired, I signed for a package at the office, which turned out to be a couple of keys of primo ganja. That’s when I realized who her actual silent partner was. While I didn’t get to be in Josh Jones’s newest film, he stops by the office sometimes to hang out with us. He’s not the only one. Rochelle did the makeup on a lot of our shoots. And Michael still stops by sometimes. Him and his new girlfriend. Her name’s Cheryl and she’s a promising young soap opera star. I’m a little jealous.

Jealous of Michael and his hot girlfriend. That’s what I mean. Just clarifying.

We leave the office and climb into Mila’s new car, one of the few luxuries she’s allowed herself, and head out.

*

“Mila, dinner’s ready!” I pull the pan from the oven.

“Smells great, I’m starving.”

“Well I hope you’re hungry. They had a sale on meat lovers. Hand me the slicer.”

Yeah, that’s the problem when neither you nor your roommate cooks. A lot of take out. A lot of frozen food.

Mila and I take our plates out to the porch and eat as we watch the sun set. When I first moved back to California, staying in Mila’s guest room was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. But when I started working for her, I insisted that she send half of my paycheck to my parents, who fought with me about that until Chris intervened. By the time all that was over, I realized I had no way to rent my own apartment. But Mila never brought it up. Every time I try to mention moving out, she changes the subject. I’m glad. Rent out here is insane.

Fine by me. I’m living in a great house, with a great view, with…

I glance over at Mila. She smiles back at me.

Yeah.

I know that kiss didn’t mean anything. It was over a year ago, just a goodbye to a friend after a crazy experience.

But still…

No, forget it, Shannon. She’s 24. You’re barely nineteen. She’s a college graduate. You just got out of high school. She’s a successful producer. You’re her assistant.

Of course, we also spend almost all our time together. And she buys my clothes. And we sit on the couch together and watch movies. Not exactly snuggling…but not exactly just roommates either.

It doesn’t matter. If there’s one thing last year has taught me, it’s that the guy should wait until he’s absolutely, 100% sure. And then probably let the woman make the first move anyway.

“Hey, Shannon, why so deep in thought?”

“Um…nothing.”

She rolls her eyes. “You move your lips when you think.”

“I do not!”

We both kind of laugh.

Then, much to my surprise, she drapes an arm around my shoulder. For a few minutes, we sit and watch the stars, and listen to the nearby ocean. It’s the most stressful, rigid relaxation I’ve had in a long time.

“Shannon?” asks Mila after a moment. “Now that we’ve wrapped up production, what do you say we take a little time off?”

I’m kind of shocked. This is the first time she’s suggested anything like a vacation since I’ve known her.

“I’d like that. What did you have in mind?”

“Mom has a place in Oregon. I figured we could fly up there, stay for a few days. I know it’s cold, but we could hang out on the beach. It wouldn’t hurt your pasty ass to get outside.”

“Sounds like fun.” Sounds like a lot of fun, actually.

“Great. We’ll go Tuesday. Pack your stuff. Don’t forget to take some nice shoes.”

“I know.” Geez, she’ll never let me forget the time I showed up to a fancy party in sneakers.

“And a jacket. It gets cold up there.”

“I know, Mila.”

“And maybe bring that new outfit you just got.”

I suddenly feel shivery. I pull away from Mila’s arm. “You mean that suit jacket you bought me?” I ask, knowing that’s not what she meant.

She smirks at me. “No, Shannon. The one you got on your own. The one Rochelle helped you pick out. You know, the skirt with that cute top.”

I stand. I thought I’d been careful. I thought she believed me when I said I was just meeting friends. I thought I’d pulled one over on her.

There’s no tricking Mila.

She gently takes me by the hand and pulls me back to a seated position. She scoots her chair closer to me.

“Shannon, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Why not? You had a great time last summer, for the most part. Why wouldn’t you want to show off your feminine side every once in a while?”

How can I explain it? How can I tell her that I don’t like dressing like a girl, that it’s all behind me, and yet…sometimes…I kind of do miss it.

“Mila, you don’t know how many times I had to tell people that last summer was just an acting job. That I don’t like crossdressing. That I never planned to do it again.”

She’s hitting me with that intense smile. “No one has to know.”

“But…if anyone found out…”

“Hello? Secluded beachfront property. C’mon. It’ll just be the two of us.”

I’m silent. There’s something I want to tell her, but I can’t.

“Out with it Shannon.”

She’ll make me tell her sooner or later. “It’s just that…I dunno. I don’t want you to think that I’m…less manly.”

She laughs her musical laugh. “I don’t think you’re a sissy, if that’s what you’re worried about. And you know my past. I like you. The way you are. Now I don’t want to hear any more complaining. Your secrets are safe with me. They always have been, always will be.”

She wraps an arm around my shoulder. There’s no denying the closeness.

Am I making a huge mistake? If I keep dressing like a girl, maybe that’s how Mila will always picture me.

But there’s more to me than my clothes. More to me than Shannon the actor or Shannon, the actress, or Shannon none of the above. I’m tired of pretending. I like being pretty every once in a while, and it doesn’t bother Mila.

Besides, when you have legs like mine, you owe it to yourself to show them off sometimes.