A dinner date with Paul and several revelations keep Don confused.

Day One, Later

Paul pulled me out of our room and down the hall to the elevators before I could really react to the fact that there were other people around. No one I knew well but still.... Just before I panicked the doors of the elevator closed and we rode down in the relative silence of my panting and Paul's soft chuckles.

"Don't think it, be it," he said. The elevator doors opened; I put my hand in Paul's and hurried across the lobby, through the commons room, across the campus to the parking lot and never once looked around to see if I knew anyone.

I hadn't seen his car before, a two-year-old sporty Japanese-built. He held the door open for me and I slid in, remembering to manage my skirt so I didn't flash the neighborhood. I'd never had to do that before but I'd sure read about it in lots of online stories at websites that archived transgender stories. Paul held doors for me every time all night, it made me feel--I don't know--very privileged and special.

He took us to dinner at a little Italian place near the campus, ordering for both of us, in Italian. I didn't know he spoke Italian but it's enough like Spanish that I understood some of it. He had a steak, rare, with noodles in some sauce with vegetables. I got a salad, pretty good, but just veggies.

"I think I'm hungrier than this," I said.

"Go easy on the bread, you need to lose a few pounds," he said.

I blinked, that kind of stung.

"What do you weigh?" he asked.

I didn't lie. "Uh, 147."

"Five-eight and a half, 147. Not bad, but could be better. What size dress you wear?"

"A twelve," I said.

He made a face.

Now I felt bad, what was wrong with a twelve?

"I want you wearing a ten by Thanksgiving, an eight by New Years."

"An eight!" My ears burned from blushing, but whether from anger or embarrassment, I couldn't tell. We got wine with our meal, too, even though I'm only 19; the waiter didn't pour any in my glass but Paul had. I took a sip, not the first wine I'd ever had but better than the stuff my parents poured on holidays.

"Easy on that, too," said Paul. "Alcohol has calories."

I didn't say anything for a bit.

He grinned at me. "You don't argue, I like that in a woman."

I still didn't say anything.

"You're cute when you sulk," he said.

"I'm not sulking," I said.

"Pouting."

Really? I'd tried pouting in the mirror, I didn't think I'd been doing it right.

He laughed. "You're a trip."

I concentrated on salad and tried not to think of bread and butter for a bit.

"How come you speak Italian?" I asked.

"What kind of name you think Felucci is?"

"Polish? But your name isn't Felucci, it's Phelps."

"Ellis Island, I guess," he shrugged. "My dad's grandma still spells it 'Felucci'. Ma nonna Maribella."

I laughed. "My grandma calls my dad, 'Baldo'. I think that's hilarious."

He grinned with evil intent. "Baldness is hereditary."

"Lucky my Mom is Welsh and Indian," I said.

"Still," he said, "considering.... You ought to make sure no male pattern baldness catches up with you. Snip. Snip." He worked imaginary scissors with his hands. I knew he wasn't pretending to cut hair and a thrill winced through me. "I wondered why you didn't look Hispanic," he finished.

I glanced around to make sure no one had heard him. My hands were still a bit damp from the tension of being out in public. I decided to continue with his change of subject. "Most people don't know 'Beltran' is Spanish."

"Your dad's name is Baldo Beltran?"

I shook my head. "Actually, it's Juan Jose Teobaldo Alejandro Manuel Beltran y Domingues. All the men in his family are named Juan Jose something-something-something. He goes by Jack T. Beltran. "

He laughed and we traded family stories for a bit.

Paul shushed me with a finger to his lip as the waiter wandered over to ask if we wanted gelato. "No, grazie. Ora e troppa grassa," Paul said.

The waiter laughed, glanced at me and sputtered. "No, no," he said. "E molta bella." Then he added in English, "American girls are too skinny."

I glared at Paul, blushing. I could guess what he had said and not from knowing Spanish.

"E parla Spagnolo soltanto," said Paul quickly.

I nodded politely. "Pinchazo. Cochon. Pendejo," I said in as sweet a voice as I could manage. The waiter hurried away and Paul stuffed his napkin in his mouth.

He took it out to say, "I love it when you speak French, Tish."

So I laughed, too.

"That was actually a pretty good voice you did," he said when I stopped giggling. "I didn't want you to talk 'cause mostly you sound, well, you sound like a boy--not a man, but not a woman either."

"Oh." That deflated me pretty good. I thought about it while Paul counted out money for the check. I pitched my voice up and tried something. "Well, how do you think I oughtta sound, fer shizzle! Like, is this any better?"

He snorted. "Some. Don't try slang you're not used to using." He thought about it. "Maybe you could lisp, just a bit. Some girls do."

I blushed again. I actually had had a lisp when I started school, had to have speech therapy to get rid of it. Maybe I needed speech therapy again.

As if he'd been reading my mind, Paul said, "How are you going to pay for this?"

"What?"

"All of it. Clothes. You need to see some doctors, head doctors, medical doctors, surgeons. It's all going to cost money. Thousands, tens of thousands. Your parents good for it?"

"My folks...." I shuddered. How the heck would I tell them.

"I don't remember," Paul said. "You got any brothers or sisters? No, no sisters, you'd have been caught by one of them."

"What? I've got three brothers--uh, and a cousin my folks practically raised. Male."

"Older? Younger?"

"They're all older than me, my folks are in their fifties. How could I tell them, this would practically kill them."

"For Christsake, you think they don't know something has been up with you? I don't think they're that stupid. They probably think you're gay and are dreading you telling them you've caught AIDS."

"Huh." I felt poleaxed.

"Tell them," he said. "Soon. But they don't have money for what you need, do they?"

I shook my head. "I-I don't think so. Besides, they'll need money, too. Mom's health is slipping...."

"One of your brothers?"

I snorted, imagining asking Alec, Tom, or Sal for that kind of money. And Mannie had gone back to Mexico, he wouldn't have anything.

He pulled into a parking lot about that time, a strip mall. It was dark, almost eight p.m. and only one business had any lights on. The sign said, "Passions."

I put a hand out to touch Paul, I'm not sure why I did that. "What are we stopping here for?"

He grinned at me as he opened the door. "Instructional videos," he said.