Chapter One: A Budding Columnist

It was strictly happenstance that I became the only male employee at “Women's Place,” a magazine that claimed to be “By women, for women and about women.”

You see, Edith Banks, who wrote their popular “Ask Edith” column, died without warning of a heart attack in mid-June — just six months ago. The column, of course, was one of those lovelorn places where women came crying, seeking advice about cheating husbands, men who ignore them, teen girls with crushes on quarterbacks or wives with troublesome mothers-in-law. Edith's advice usually was right-on-the-mark, I believed.

My name is Jeremy Sullivan, and my really best friend in the whole wide world is my mom. Together, we eagerly awaited each monthly issue of “Women's Place,” having had established a routine many years before, when I was about 12, of reading the column together right after supper — even before the dishes were done — on the day the magazine arrived. Almost from the beginning, I began reading the letter-writer's question mimicking a female voice and mannerisms as I did it. Then I'd turn the publication over to mom and she'd read Edith's answer.

At first I did it as a lark typical of a boy my age who liked to make fun of elders. Mom and I would giggle a lot during those earlier sessions, but by the time I was 14 I began to take the letters more seriously, and my female voice imitations became less outlandish and more realistic. Soon, mom and I discussed some of Edith's answers in detail, even offering suggestions different from the expert.

I remember how vehemently I argued against one answer Edith made to “Maryann. Age 16. Shreveport LA.” I read the question aloud in a sweet, girlish tone, almost falling into tears as I understood the desperation in the writer's words:

Dear Edith: There's this boy who I'll call Jimmy (that's not his real name) who is my partner in chemistry class and he’s very smart. He's real nice and handsome, too. He's very helpful to me and I will get an 'A' in that class. I am told I'm pretty and cute, and yet the boy doesn't seem interested in me.

I know he's shy, since I asked one of his friends about him. He said the boy has never even kissed a girl yet, and he's almost 17. Should I ask him if he's gay or something?

I think I love this boy. How can I make him like me and ask me out for a date? Help me, Ms. Edith. I'm desperate. Your friend, Maryann.

I read that aloud, using a sweet girlish voice, almost breaking into tears as I did so. Mom then read Edith’s answer:

Maryann: Give up on the boy. He's hopeless. If you're pretty and cute, you should have no problem getting dates. But don't ask him if he's gay? That's too personal. You're too young, my dear, to worry about finding love. Edith.

“Mom, she's not being fair, really,” I said. “That's girl's in pain. I can feel it in her letter.”

“But honey, the boy doesn't seem interested,” his mother argued.

“She did say he was shy, mom. Maybe she needs to find an excuse to invite him to something.”

“Well, usually Edith is right about these things, Jeremy. Besides, you're a boy, honey, how can you know what is best for a teen girl?”

“I guess so mom,” I said, shaking my head in despair. “It still seems there might be real love between these two kids.”

The answer bothered me so much that I had trouble concentrating on the social studies homework that night. Eventually I gave up, and went to the computer and wrote my own answer, as if I were “Edith Banks.”

Maryann: While I normally respect Edith's advice, I think she's wrong in this case. I think girls can fall in love at 16, first of all. And, if you really like this boy, continue to show interest in him, and maybe get him to tell you what he likes to do in his free time. Find out what movies he likes. Just try talking like a friend to him.

Many boys I found are just shy, like his friend says he is. He'll need a little prodding by you to maybe show he's also interested in you. Is there something you could invite him too, like an art exhibit or something like that? Get talking about a movie he might like, and suggest maybe the two of you could go to that.

A girl should never give up on her true love.

I wondered whether I should send the answer in to Edith Banks. The columnist each week ran a column on the magazine’s website, where she included comments by readers, even those critical of her advice. The only problem was that I'm a boy, and the letter sounded a bit like it came from a girl. Anyway, no girl wants to take advice from a boy.

I printed out and showed it to mom, who was in the kitchen working on a crosswords puzzle.

“You think a girl should do what you say, honey?” mom asked me.

“Yes,” I told her. Just about all of my friends in school were girls and they talked openly before me. I had become kind of a listening post for some girls, who insisted on sharing their stories about their boyfriends, just as if I was a girl, too.

Mom must have sensed I was right about my answer, since most of my time seemed to be spent with either her and her girl friends as well as the girls in school. Often I seemed to be teamed up with Tammy and Sasha on trips to the mall, fast food joints or the movies. The two girls had been to the house often and I guess she must have heard me giggling along with them.

Sasha once told me I knew more about girl's clothes than she or any of her girl friends. I guess I did, since mom was always a classy women; she believed in dressing in good taste, with great effort at assuring the colors fit the person.

“Mom, I feel sorry for that Maryann girl. I just gotta send that letter in, but I can't sign it 'Jeremy,' can I?”

“No I guess you can't, dear,” she said, going back to her crossword puzzle.

Later that night, I clicked the “send” button to submit my reply to Edith. It was signed “Gerianne, Age 15.”

Guess what? It was the first comment printed on the website column a day later, bringing about several later comments, all supportive of “Gerianne's comment.” One writer said: “That girl, Gerianne, is wise for a teen girl.”

A month later, I posted another comment; that, too, got plenty of response, mostly favorable. Then, I was hooked, commenting on one or another of Edith’s solutions about once a week, most of them gathering other responding comments. I was surprised to soon become sort of an icon on Edith’s comment page, even to the point that she featured one of my comments in the monthly column she puts into the print edition of “Women’s Place.”

I had become sort of a celebrity by the time I was a junior in high school on Edith’s page in the “Women’s Place” website. Eventually there were requests showing up to tell more about myself, my location, whether I had boyfriends, and how did I look. Some suggested I show a picture of myself.

That got me thinking: Maybe I should create a female character that could be the one writing these incisive responses. In other words, I could create myself as a teen girl. The idea excited me, and it really wouldn’t be such an untruth, would it? I spend most of my time with my mom, and she’s introduced me to all sorts of femininity; I’m an expert at most forms of housework, including cleaning, clothes washing, cooking and even sewing. I’ve joined her in shopping for her clothes, and learned plenty about fashions. And, together, we’ve watched plenty of female-oriented television and movies. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, too, that I’ve found lots of joy in reading novels created strictly for teen girls as well as romance novels for older readers. I love such stories and find myself identifying with the heroines, crying, laughing and loving right along with them.

And, as I said earlier, when I’m at school my friends are all girls. So why not create Gerianne?

My name is Gerianne and I am 17 years old, completing my junior year at a public high school in the Midwest. I am shy and I enjoy writing. I’m hoping to go to college to study communications and became a writer-reporter.

I have been a reader of Ms. Edith’s column since I was 12. I’m about average height, and just ordinary-looking. I have a nice figure, except that I could lose five pounds.

Besides writing, I love to cook, sew, read teen novels and do things with my girl friends. I do not at present have a boyfriend.

I was totally honest in that portrait of myself, except that I knew it left the impression that I’m a girl. On the other hand, I so often feel I am a girl that maybe that portrait isn’t such a lie after all.

Mom is the only person in the world who knows I’m Gerianne. I haven’t even shared that information with Tammy or Sasha, even though they might enjoy knowing it and probably could keep a secret.

Mom opposed my idea of sending this portrait into Edith Bank’s online comment section.

“Really, honey, that could lead to all sorts of problems if the truth ever came out,” she said.

“But who’s going to tell them anyway, mom,” I said.

I sent it in, just as you read it, and you can’t imagine the comments that appeared in response. Most were surprised that I was such an ordinary girl; several wondered how dare I give advice when I apparently had such little experience dating; several wanted to be friends with me, and four said they had brothers or cousins who might want to date an “ordinary girl.” “Why don’t you post your picture?” a few asked.

Strange as it may seem, the popularity of my comments grew, with some readers even suggesting to Edith that she consult with “Gerianne” when it came to discussing teen girl issues. “How else can you comment on teen issues, Ms. Edith, unless you're a teen girl like Gerianne,” wrote one person. Another said: “I always like to read Gerianne's comments. I feel just like she knows me so well. Just like she's my best girlfriend.” And so the comments went, and to tell the truth, I loved reading them. Particularly those who referred to me being a teen girl just like they were.

At school all my friends (girls, of course) discussed Edith's column and particularly that girl Gerianne. I'd have all I could do to keep my mouth shut and not blurt out that I was that girl. I must admit to having a private chuckle whenever the subject came up.

“I read some of Gerianne's ideas on line that other day, and I think she's all wet,” I said, just hoping to get a rise out of my girl friends.

“What do you mean, Jeremy?” Sasha asked. “What would you know anyway? You're a boy.”

“Well that one answer she gave about continuing to pursue a boy who was ignoring her. That was all wet. No boys like to be pursued.”

“Ah, you're just jealous 'cause none of us are pursuing you,” Sasha teased.

“Yeah, and I cry about it every night at bedtime,” I said sarcastically.

In fact, I never really cried about that. I don't know why; for some reason I wasn't interested in dating girls, but I loved being with them. I loved how they wore their clothes and their smooth, soft features. I loved how they walked and talked with their hands. I loved how emotional they were, so quick to giggle or laugh and then to cry and mope.

Tammy rescued the situation. “Don't say that about our Jeremy, Sasha. We all love him, don't we girls?”

“He's just one of us girls,” added Stephanie, a round-faced girl with eager eyes.

Tammy hugged me from the left and Stephanie from the right. We all giggled.

*****
In the summer after graduation I could find no job before entering college that fall; I moped around the house for a few days and missed my group of girlfriends, all of whom seemed to have found summer jobs. The biggest disappointment of all was that both Tammy and Sasha — my best friends — had found boyfriends, and you know where they ended up spending their free time. Certainly not with a loser like me.

For sometime I had been toying with the idea of establishing my own website for Gerianne; it had become easier and lots cheaper. With nothing much to do after the housework was done, I set about to do just that. Thus, “Ask Gerianne” was born. I created a Facebook site to accompany it as well as a Twitter account. I had judiciously maintained a contact list of every girl who had commented online and promoted the site to then.

Several girls even snuck messages onto Edith's online comment page giving out my website address. Within two weeks, I was getting 5,000 hits a day, and by the end of the summer more than 20 times that many. Each day, I provided answers to three or four questions, trying to use my own common sense and what I thought I knew about girls.

Mom knew what I was doing and she was uneasy with it. “What if you gave some girl the wrong advice and she hurt herself? You'd never forgive yourself.”

Mom was right, of course, and to avoid that awful thing happening, I spent lots of time researching my answers, often referencing prominent psychiatrists, sociologists or psychologists in my answers. It was then that I hit upon the idea of letting the readers provide the answers, with me sorting them out and coming to a consensus. I called it my “Tell Gerianne” page, and it quickly became popular.

I continued my Gerianne website for all of my four college years, even getting to the point that I could sell advertising on the site. I got so busy I had to take on a business partner, a girl I met in an online marketing class who understood how to use the Internet to make income. Helena was an outright capitalist: she had no problems with the dishonest moral dilemma that I was passing myself off as a girl as long as there was money to be had.

Teaming up with Helena turned out to be the best decision I had made in my young life. To be truthful, I didn’t really like her. Perhaps it was because she seemed to be solely interested in making money; I tended to be tortured so often that I’d be giving some girl really bad advice that could hurt her. I was even known to have cried as some girls related their tales of cruel or uncaring boys; weren’t there any kind members of the male gender in this world, I wondered? Well, there were Jesus and Gandhi, I guess. And I’m told Mohammed was kind and gentle, too.

Also, Helena was from one of the ritzy suburbs around Chicago, and she also seemed to fashion her blonde flowing hair in the latest of styles; she was always perfectly groomed. There really wasn’t anything natural about her, I thought.

But she was a whiz at running the business, and I will be forever grateful to her. To her credit, too, she was totally honest as to the financial side of things and she knew how to keep the accounts straight. Consequently by the time I graduated with my degree in social work — certainly no money in that career — we had a highly profitable business, so profitable that I was able to finish my senior year without relying on student loans (hurray!).

It was just a few weeks after graduation that Edith Banks died; there was great sadness among her readers, including myself. I had Gerianne write a warm tribute to this queen of the lovelorn columnists, calling her an inspiration to women everywhere and stating that she was a true feminist, while heralding the values of femininity. “Ms. Edith showed women how to respect themselves without losing their charm and womanliness,” I wrote. I cried while I wrote those words.

As I said, I spent that summer after graduation working on the “Ask Gerianne” website from the spare bedroom in our three-bedroom 1930s bungalow on Chicago’s north side. I was happy not to have to go out in the working world so that I could continue to live as I have for I most of the first 22 years of my life, at home with my best friend, companion, and “love of my life,” my mom. From time to time, Helena stopped by to do our website business, which continued to thrive and pay off for the both of us in real money.

*****
A month after Edith’s death, I got a phone call from a Ms. Cecily Winston, who identified herself as the executive editor of “Women’s Place” magazine.

“Is Ms. Gerianne there?” the woman asked.

I never got phone calls for “Gerianne,” largely because most calls were for Helena concerning business matters for the website. And, there was no indication on our website who “Gerianne” was or where she lived. I was nonplussed. How was I to answer?

“No, she’s not,” I said, biding for time to answer.

“May I ask who this is?” the woman said. Her voice was crisp, short and business-like.

“Ah . . . this is Jeremy,” I stuttered. “Ah . . . her brother . . . and . . . ah . . . her associate for the website.”

The woman seemed to think about the answer for a minute, before responding: “I take it, then, that you’re very much associated with her website then,” she questioned.

I admitted that I was, though I said there was another partner in the business.

Before it was over, Cecily Winston invited Gerianne, myself (as Gerianne’s brother) and Helena, our other business partner, to lunch at a private room at the Drake Hotel, one of Chicago’s oldest and classiest of hotels. She said that she was impressed with our website as well as the strong following it had gathered, particularly among teens, college-age girls and the twenty-somethings.

“Perhaps we need to meet, Jeremy, so we can talk about some eventualities,” she said.

“Like what,” I pressed.

“Who knows, Jeremy? Maybe nothing. Who knows?”

“Ok,” I agreed.

I told her that I handled Ms. Gerianne’s calendar and we settled on a mid-July date.

*****
We — meaning Helena and myself — arrived at the Drake Hotel on N. Michigan Ave. along the city’s “Magnificent Mile” at 12:30 on the appointed day, and as instructed called Ms. Winston on our cell as we handed the car over to the valet; I was dazzled already by the uniformed doorman, the ever-present bell hops and the upscale dress of everyone in the area. I must say I was feeling most out-of-place. I thought I had dressed appropriately, but realized I probably should have worn a business suit instead of the khaki slacks, a light blue open shirt and a navy blue blazer. It was a hot day, and I was sweating. The sweating may have been as much due to my fear of having to explain that Gerianne was a fraud and that I was the young “woman” lovelorn writer named Gerianne.

She told us to wait in the lobby, that a woman by the name of Merilee D’jourdai would meet us. We weren’t there but 30 seconds it seemed before a tall, erect dignified woman approached.

“I’m Merilee,” she announced. “And you must be Jeremy and Gerianne?”

“No, Gerianne couldn’t join us today,” Helena said. “She’s under the weather.”

Merilee nodded and without saying anything further led us to a private elevator that scooted us to a top floor suite. She said little, other than to ask if we used valet parking, which I said we did. She asked for the ticket so that she could validate it for us, saving us the cost of the parking fee.

Ms. Cecily Winston, as expected, was a fiftyish, slender woman with a narrow face and piercing dark eyes. She had full lips and would have been a strikingly beautiful woman, except for a long, narrow nose that dominated her face.

Helena, as we had agreed while driving down, took the lead, introducing us by our real names, but lying in explaining that I was an “associate,” handling computer issues and website management.

“Gerianne’s got a severe asthma attack, Ms. Winston, and when she gets those she best stay at home,” Helena lied, not blinking an eye.

“Oh, I agree, and we have one of those ozone alerts in Chicago today,” she said. “But I think this will be valuable so we can get to at least know each other.”

We nodded, and she led us to a dining room, already set up for our lunch.

We both declined a cocktail or wine for lunch, opting for iced tea, as did Ms. Winston. It was obvious she was eager to talk business, whatever it was, but she put us at ease quickly with her small talk.

“Now that we’re done with our food, I’d like to have you think about something,” she began.

“I figured you had something on your mind,” Helena said, showing her impatience.

“First of all, I’m sorry Gerianne is not with us, because it concerns her,” she began.

Helena looked at me, and I tried hard to hold back a blush. It didn’t work: I blush so easily, it seems.

“Well, let’s hear what you have to say, Ms. Winston,” Helena said.

“Oh, call me Cecily, dear,” she said.

“Ok, Cecily,” Helena said.

It turns out that Women’s Place Magazine, Inc., wanted to buy out our website, but that the deal would hinge on getting Gerianne to sign a long-term contract to agree to work exclusively for Women’s Place Magazine.

“We have a most generous offer for you, but before we can tell you what it is, we need to meet with Gerianne and also get a few answers to some of our questions,” she said.

“What’s generous?” Helena said, always one to get quickly to the point.

“Let’s say that if we like the answers to our questions, you’ll be more than pleased with our offer,” Cecily said.

I tell you I grew impatient. I knew this would be a great opportunity to get out from running this website, since I really wanted to be a social worker. We were making lots of money, and perhaps it seems strange that I would want to give up the money-making website in order to work with trying to assist high school dropouts find themselves. I had a job offer from just such an agency that would put me in a position to help young boys into a more fruitful future, and would like to accept it — even if it meant an income of one-fifth the level I got from the website.

“When do you think Gerianne will be free to see us?” she pressed on. “I want to see her in person and talk with her.”

By then I had had enough.

“You are looking at her and you’re also talking to her,” I blurted out, aiming my eyes straight into those of Ms. Cecily Winston.

I must say Cecily looked confused; she looked toward Helena and then back to her companion, Merilee, who had been introduced as the corporation’s vice president for finance. Helena shot angry looks at me.

“You, Miss Helena? You are Gerianne?” Cecily asked.

“No ma’am,” I interjected. “I am Gerianne.”

“What?” she said. “What’s going on here? You’re a young man? I really want to speak to Gerianne.”

It took a while, but I eventually convinced her that I was indeed Gerianne and that I had been solely responsible for writing virtually all the answers to the “Ask Gerianne” website for five years.

Within two weeks, we agreed to terms for the sale of “Ask Gerianne,” a limited liability corporation to Women’s Place, Inc. for $1.2 million, with the stipulation that I sign a personal contract for two years, with a option to renew for three additional years, to continue hosting and writing as “Gerianne” both on the website and for the printed magazine. And of course, my salary would be in the six-figure level. Too good to pass up. That’s lots of money for a 22-year-old boy, or in my case, girl. Good-bye social work career.