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Chapter Six: Finding Their Identities
“Oh, goodie, we’ll both be girls,” Milton said when Adam informed him the next day of his mother’s plan to make him an authentic Billie Holiday.

“If you hadn’t started all this, Milton, I wouldn’t have been roped into dressing up so ridiculously,” Adam said.

“I’m glad we’re both doing it.”

“Me too. I’d hate to be the only boy doing this. I’m afraid we’ll get harassed a lot,” Adam said.

“I suppose, but I get it so often, I am beginning not to think about it. I just stay out of the way.”

Adam nodded. The two boys had learned to stick together and avoid the groups of boys who might eventually hassle them.

“You know, Milton, this might be kind of fun, being girls together. I bet you’ll look pretty.”
Milton giggled, and added, “Not as pretty as you!”

“But I can hardly call you Milton,” Adam said. “It doesn’t fit a pretty girl like you. I think I’ll call you Mary Ann.”

“No, not Mary Ann. I think of Mary Ann Johnson. She’s such a pill.”

“What then?”

Milton thought for a moment.
“How about Elizabeth?”

“OK Elizabeth.”

“Yes and who will you be?”

“Billie.”

*****
Milton and Adam commiserated with each other over how they’d be received as they were being driven in their costumes by Mrs. Lester. Milton’s mother drove to Adam’s house, where she and Adam’s mother together checked out how their two sons looked before the venture; after some fussing with each one’s hair and other minor adjustments, both women smiled.

“We have such lovely daughters, don’t we, Amelia?” Harriet Lester said to Adam’s mother.

“We’re boys, mother,” Milton protested, but both mothers merely smiled in return.

The two boys were locked into their own thoughts during the short 15-minute drive to the City Arena. Neither had admitted to each other that the truth was they were enjoying playing the role of women and that they felt comfortable in dresses, even if Milton’s outfit required him to move about stiffly and erect due to the corset and other undergarments. Each also had a private dread over the reaction they’d get from other students as they entered. Would they be subject to a chorus of mean, nasty statements or even some violence?

“Look at how everyone else is dressed,” Harriet Lester said as she approached the drop-off zone in front of the Arena.

“Wow, there’s some wild ones, aren’t there?” Milton said, somewhat reassured by the sight of so many costumes.

“Look, there’s Mason and Henderson from the football team wearing cheerleader outfits,” Adam exclaimed as the two exited the car. Milton saw the two dressed as cute cheerleaders, but noted their muscular, hairy legs easily made them look as if they were clowning.

“I’ll pick you up at 11:45, girls,” Mrs. Lester said.

Milton noticed several eyes turn their way, likely attracted by his own rather unique outfit. He was certain that he and Natalie would likely be the only students dressed in 19th Century women’s outfits. He struggled to walk in his two-inch heels and stiff outfit while Adam sashayed beside him as if he were a beauty queen.

“Who are you two girls supposed to be?” asked a boy Milton knew only as Troy from his social studies class. Milton was afraid the boy would recognize him, but it was clear he obviously hadn’t and saw both he and Adam as girls in costume.

“That’s for you to guess,” Adam replied, accompanying his statement with a girlish flick of his wrist.

“Cool,” the boy named Troy said. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so. Would you like to?” Milton said, surprising himself with an obvious flirtatious reply. Adam looked at his friend in surprise.

Troy blushed; it was obvious the boy – tall, gangly and awkward – was uncomfortable in talking with girls. Milton recalled that he was a shy boy in class, rarely raising his hand; yet, the boy seemed always to have the correct answer when the teacher called upon him.

Sensing Troy’s uneasiness, Milton said, “Well, you’ll see us when we compete on stage later and then you’ll know who we are supposed to be.”

As the boy began to leave, Adam whispered into Troy’s ear.

“What did you tell him, Adam?”

“That we were with the Poetry Club group if he wanted to buy you a soda later.”

“You didn’t, Adam, did you?”

“It’s obvious he’s enthralled with you, Elizabeth, so I told him where we two girls would be.”

“Next thing you know he’ll show up and want to dance with me, Billie,” Milton said, returning the favor by using his friend’s female name for the night.

“Yes, everyone thinks we really are girls, Elizabeth,” Adam said as they entered the Arena. “So we’d better be Billie and Elizabeth tonight.”

Milton smiled. Secretly, he liked the idea.

*****
At the Wednesday meeting before the Halloween event, Jennifer told the members of the Poetry Club that Milton and Adam would be coming dressed as Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Billie Holiday, respectively, and that both would be entering into competition for the prizes as representatives of the club. Some of the girls argued that Billie Holiday was only a singer, but Adam convinced them that the lyrics in some of the songs she wrote clearly qualified as poetry.

Jennifer asked if any of the other girls wished to compete for prizes, but all turned down the invitation.

“I think you’ll be pleased to see how marvelously Adam and Milton will look and perform,” Jennifer said. She had not only assisted in helping Milton dress, but had seen Adam rehearsing the singing of “God Bless the Child,” which he would do while accompanying himself on the piano. Also, she had coached Milton as he recited the Browning sonnet he had chosen to read from the stage.

As a group properly registered for the contest, the Poetry Club members were assigned adjoining tables near the front of the stage and most of the club members were already at their seats – all in costumes of one sort of the other – when Milton and Adam arrived.

“Oh my God, is that really you, Milton?” Natalie asked. “You look like the real Browning.”

“Where did you get that outfit, Elizabeth?” probed another girl, purposely using the poet’s first name.

“She got the outfit at a costume shop,” Jennifer explained for Milton, adding, “Yes, and tonight these two people at the table shall be known as Elizabeth and Billie.”

Both boys curtsied in an exaggerated manner, bringing chuckles from the girls. The others all identified themselves by their poet’s name, and in a continuation of the gender-switching theme were several dressed as male poets John Milton, Robert Frost and Jack Kerouac.

The buzz in the room was deadening as the teens milled about the room, getting their drinks from a committee of their peers under the watchful eyes of adult chaperones and a smattering of plain-clothes security officers. There were several uniformed officers, two sharing duties over the punch table to ward against anyone spiking the punch with gin, vodka, bourbon or a similar alcoholic beverage; another pair patrolled the parking lot while a roving male and female uniformed pair checked intermittently on the restrooms.

To their credit, the police officers were cheerful and courteous, careful not to be too intrusive, while always being available should trouble develop. As long as you didn’t mind noise, loud pulsating music and some running to and fro, the night was peaceful.

Jennifer was wearing a rustic outfit as Robert Frost; she danced several times with Milton, while Billie danced with Natalie who wore the 19th Century dark clothes of Emily Dickinson. Given that they were dancing to a hard rock band, the sight was ridiculous, four poets from another century dancing to the heavy rhythm of modern music.

“Oh these shoes are killing me,” Elizabeth said after the third dance ended. “I need to take a break.”

“Just like a woman,” Jennifer teased.

“You can laugh Jenny, but you’re wearing comfortable men’s shoes.”

Just as he sat down, Troy, the boy who had talked to Milton while entering, approached the table. He stood over Milton for a moment, apparently wondering what to say.

“Hi,” Milton finally said, his voice taking on a soft feminine timbre.

“Hi. I’m Troy, can I buy you a soda or dance or something?” the boy said, his face growing red, exposing his shyness.

Milton smiled at the boy. “Tonight, you can call me Elizabeth.”

“That’s a nice name. Who are you supposed to be?”

“You’ll have to guess, Troy, but I just got off the dance floor and these shoes are killing me. A punch would be nice if you’d like to get it.”

“Don’t go away. I’ll be right back,” the boy said, charging through the crowd of teens toward the refreshment table.

At first their conversation moved haltingly, but soon Milton and Troy were engaged in deep, enjoyable discussions, with Milton continually steering the conversation so that Troy would be talking about himself. Because of the noise, the two had to sit close to each other, their heads almost touching.

After several songs went by, the Arena lights darkened, and the band stopped playing. Stage lights went up and a local disk jockey went to the microphone announcing: “Now our costume contest will begin.”

Troy took Milton’s hand. “Elizabeth, I guess I’d better go,” he began. “I’ve so enjoyed our talk. I’ve never been able to talk to any girl like I did with you tonight. May I see you again?”

“That might not be possible,” Milton said. “You’ll probably understand later tonight why.”

“What?”

“You’d better go, Troy, I have to get up on stage soon.”

“Why?”

Milton turned his back to the boy, feeling cruel and mean, but not knowing how to let on that Elizabeth was a fake. Troy moved away; Milton was about to burst into tears and he feared Troy might be feeling the same. He had enjoyed being Elizabeth winning the attention of a nice boy.

*****
“We have two entries from the Poetry Club at Walt Whitman High School,” began the radio person who enjoyed hyping up his voice.

“The first contestant is dressed as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I’m told this Browning woman was a poet back years ago, but you kids probably know more about that than I do. I flunked English.”

The kids hooted and howled as the radio person bragged about his astounding lack of knowledge about poetry. Milton and Adam stood together in the wings of the stage as the radio guy continued to prattle on with his inane comments. Milton shivered as a nervous chill came over him; he was so worried he’d forget the 14 lines of the sonnet, or even worse be ridiculed for dressing as a woman.

“Let’s welcome our contestant as Miss Browning. Here she is . . . whoa . . . what’s this? This should be wild, ‘cause here HE is … Mr. Milton Lester of Whitman High!”

More hoots and howls from the milling audience that had gathered about the stage to watch the contest.

“I’m not going out there now,” Milton protested, turning his back to the stage.

“Get out there,” a stern voice commanded. It was from one of the teachers who had organized the event that year. She grabbed his arm and propelled him onto the stage.

Milton stood erect, a feat made necessary by the stiff corset he wore, and his voice began in an unusually high register, almost squeaky as it emerged from his throat. Somehow he got through the 14 lines without a flub or missed word, the rhythmical flow of the poetry guiding him emotionally. He finished with a smile to the audience and a crisp curtsey, almost running from the stage, hearing a mixture of applause, cheers, giggles and an occasional shout of “faggot” or “queer” or “pansy.”

“Now, now boys and girls,” warned the emcee. “Didn’t she perform great?” His words were greeted with laughter and renewed applause.

“Also from the Whitman High poetry club we have another young lady performing as the great jazz singer, Miss Billie Holiday,” the emcee continued. “Let’s put our hands together and welcome this young lady, Miss . . . oh my . . . another one … Mr. Adam Strawbridge.”

Adam’s appearance on stage stunned the audience. Wearing the dress with the huge bow at the bodice and a large flower in his curled up-style hairdo, he was the picture of femininity. A baby grand piano sat at the left of the stage, and Adam walked slowly, his arms moving in a girlish manner and his hips moving from side to side. Milton, watching from the wings, realized that Adam was daring the audience to jeer him by performing the part of Billie Holiday to perfection. Milton could sense uneasy stirring in the crowd, broken by a loud male voice sounding out, “Is everyone at Whitman queer?” The shout was followed by laughter, as well as a bunch of others telling the heckler to be quiet.

He moved to the piano bench, smoothing his dress as he sat, and poised momentarily, holding his hands in his lap and then adjusting a standing microphone so that he could sing directly into it. He addressed the keys and played a short introduction, running his hands expertly up and down the keyboard, quickly quieting the crowd and then he began singing:

“Them that's got shall get
Them that's not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own.”

By the time Adam had finished the first verse, his sultry and seductive voice had captivated the crowd which listened closely as he moved through the song, ending up with an understated but fitting ending. At first, the audience seemed to be silent, but suddenly burst into applause; it was so loud and deafening that if there were any jeers or insults they were not to be heard. Adam curtsied deeply and threw a kiss to the gathered teens that had moved tightly up against the stage.

He moved off the stage with slow dignity, throwing kisses every few steps.

“Oh my, Billie,” Elizabeth said, wrapping her arms around the thin girl as she left the stage.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said.

*****
A half hour later, after both boys returned to their seats with the other Poetry Club members, having braved the milling crowd of teens, nearly all cheering them, interrupted with a few cries of “faggot” or similar epithets.

“You girls were great,” Natalie said, kissing them both, an act that was followed by Jennifer and most of the other club members.

“You did us proud,” Jennifer said.

When the judges completed their jobs, the awards were announced. Adam’s performance as Billie Holiday was proclaimed to be the First Place winner of the talent contest, an announcement that was greeted with loud, approving cheers. No one seemed to second guess the judges about the selection. There was disapproval, however, when Milton finished in Second Place in the “Most Authentic Costume” category, beaten out by a girl who had dressed up as Judy Garland.

It appeared most of the audience wanted the award to go to Milton for his costume as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In the tradition of such contests, the third place winner was announced first, followed by the second place award and then first place. When it was announced that Milton won second place (not first) a large chorus of boos went out; the same occurred when the first place award winner was announced.

Standing in front of the audience after receiving his second place honor, he watched the winning girl (who was from Emerson High School) come on stage to collect her award amid the jeers and hoots. It was clear she was crying in this moment that should have been one of triumph; yet she felt humiliated, and Milton felt sorry for her.

He moved over to hug the girl, holding her tightly, in an act of good sportsmanship and kindness. The audience soon moved to applause and encouraging whoops and cheers.

“Thank you, Milton, you’re sweet,” whispered the girl into his ear before breaking away to get her award.

*****
Milton wondered about Troy’s reaction as he went back with Adam, the two holding hands as two girls might do, to their table.

“You were so lovely, Elizabeth,” the voice said. “You should have won.”

“Troy, it’s you. I thought you’d be mad at me. I deceived you.”

Troy smiled and drew Milton away from Adam’s grasp.

“You did, Elizabeth,” the boy said, continuing to use Milton’s feminine identity. “But you’re perfect as a girl.”

“Oh, Troy, you’ll see me Monday in class, and I’ll be Milton again.”

“Milton’s such a pill,” Troy said, laughing. “To me you’ll always be Elizabeth.”

“No, Troy, by tomorrow, I’ll be Milton.”

Troy nodded, realizing full well the two were living in a fantasy.

“Well, can you be Elizabeth for the rest of the night?” the boy asked.

“Why not?” Milton said, leaning over and in an act that surprised himself, he gave Troy a quick kiss on the mouth.

The two went hand-in-hand to the dance floor as the band began its closing set.

*****
Milton and Adam stood outside the Arena, awaiting their ride from Milton’s mother. They were greeted and congratulated by teenagers and adult chaperones not only for their convincing performances and costumes but for their courage in going on stage as women in front of a bunch of teens, who often show a tendency to be cruel and rude.

“It’s great being a girl, isn’t it, Elizabeth?” Adam said finally as they found a moment to themselves.

Milton smiled. It was indeed.

Chapter Seven: Discoveries

As the school year progressed, Milton, Jennifer and Adam became a familiar threesome, often eating lunch together, meeting at the Pine Plaza mall on Saturday afternoons and spending time at the local park. They even walked to Jennifer’s favorite spot along the Muskrat River; all three began sharing their dreams and thoughts, becoming quite open about their desires.

Mostly they talked and talked. The topics ranged from their own growing objections to the continuing war in Vietnam to their own thoughts about God and their own futures after high school.

“Adam, What do you wanna be in life?” Jennifer asked one chilly fall day, as they gathered at the riverside.

“Me?” he said, startled by the question. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe a jazz singer.”

“A jazz singer?” she asked surprised.

“Like my mom was,” he replied. “She was really good, and, oh my, she still is good. I love the music.”

“Wow,” Milton said. “Like Elvis?”

“No, dummy,” Jennifer said, taking on a joking, teasing tone. “He’s no jazz singer. Maybe like Eric Clapton.”

Adam laughed. “You’re both wrong. Like Billie Holiday.”

“You mean like you sang on Halloween?” Milton asked. He was terribly unschooled in music, he realized.

“Yes, just like that,” Adam said.

“But, Billie Holiday is a ‘her,’” Jennifer said. “Really famous and many singers fashion themselves after her.”

“You want to sing like a girl?” Milton asked.

“No, Milton, just to follow her style of singing,” Adam said, beginning to blush.

“And what do you want to be, Milton?” Jennifer asked, tactfully changing the subject.

“I don’t know,” he said, getting a thoughtful look, which quickly turned into am impish grin. “A poet, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

“You want to write like a girl?” teased Adam.

“Why not?” Milton said.

Then Jennifer said she wanted to be a writer like J. D. Salinger, author of “Catcher in the Rye.”

“You want write to like a guy?” both Milton and Adam said in unison.

All three began giggling.

The three friends remained constant companions as the school year continued, and it grew to four just before Thanksgiving when Natalie Thompson, the awkward girl from the Keats-Browning Poetry Club, began chumming around with them. She was only an inch shorter than Adam and the two made an appropriate couple, as did the shorter, chubbier Jennifer and Milton make a match, at least physically.

The four young people shared much in common: they were all top students and felt they were outcasts from the social centers of the school. Each had a weird sense of humor and appreciated each other’s wit. Their friendships were chaste and rarely went beyond hand-holding. Mostly, they were comfortable with each other.

*****
It was on a grey, cold and damp Saturday that Adam and Milton found themselves alone, without the two girls. Natalie had gone Christmas shopping with her mother and Jennifer, as usual on a Saturday, worked as a library youth volunteer helping little children find books, reading to them and assisting the child library staff.

“Why not come over, Milt?” Adam suggested.

“And do what?”

“I dunno. We can decide when you get here. Mom’s not home and she said it would be OK. She likes you.”

Adam and his mother had moved to a small two-bedroom Cape Cod house in a neighborhood of tract homes built after World War II; many of the homes had been given additions, either as rooms built onto the rear of the house or in expanding the second stories with finished bedrooms. The Strawbridge home, however, remained nearly intact as a compact two-bedroom home as it had been built in 1952, a sturdily constructed home with white clapboard siding somewhat in need of paint. A few low-growing evergreens blanketed the front of the house and the lawn was covered with an inch of fresh snow from the night before.

A mahogany baby grand piano dominated a small living room, while shelves containing both books and phonograph records covered one whole wall. An entertainment center was tucked into one side of the room, and speakers were mounted on two corners of the room.

“You’re really wired,” Milton said, impressed.

“Mom and I both love music,” Adam replied.

“That’s quite a sound system. Who installed it?”

Adam beamed. “I did. I studied it a bit and got some advice down at the radio store. I put it all in. Wanna hear it?”

Adam went to the entertainment center console and turned it on. Adam rummaged through a cabinet containing cassette tapes, grabbed one and put it in the player. “Here, I’ll play this. See if you can tell who’s singing.”

In an instant, the voices of two girl singers joined in singing a song that Milton thought he had heard before; there was a piano in the accompaniment, with one of the voices being low and sultry, while the other voice a bit higher in register and more lilting seemed that of a younger girl.

“I’ve heard that song somewhere before, but I can’t place it,” Milton said. “And I have no idea who the singers are.”

“Well the song is ‘Strange Fruit’ which was made famous by Billie Holiday. I really adore her.”

“You know I don’t know anything about jazz, Adam.”

“Well, you should learn, Milt.”

“And who are the singers?”

Adam blushed. “Can’t you tell?” he demanded again.

“No. Now tell me . . . oh no, it can’t be,” Milton said. “I bet that’s you and your mom. You told me that she and you sing together a lot and you sing jazz.”

“That’s us,” he said.

“I thought it was a girl singing, maybe with her mother,” Milton said. “But then I listened hard and it kind of sounded like you, even like the way you talk.”

“You mean I sound like a girl?”

“Well, I don’t mean to hurt you, Adam, but you do sound like a girl when you talk. Even the way you talk is girlish. I’m sorry.”

Adam smiled at his friend. “Oh Milton, don’t be sorry. It’s true. My voice seems not to change. Maybe I’ll be like those countertenors, you know the guys whose voices remain high and sing soprano parts.”

“Oh, your voice will change soon, Adam, I’m sure.”

“Can I confess something to you Milton? I think you’re a true friend and you won’t tell anyone else.”

Milton nodded. “Oh Adam, I’d never betray you. You’re the first real friend I ever had.”

Adam went to the piano bench, raised its seat and extracted a photo album from the seat. He returned to sit on the sofa, next to Milton, opening the book up and resting it on their knees. Milton could smell the sweet scent of perfumed soap that Adam must have used that morning.

“Here,” Adam said, pointing to an 8 x 10 color photograph of what appeared to be two young ladies, both wearing cocktail dresses, one seated at a piano and the other standing behind her. On closer examination, the lady who was standing and wearing a lavender dress appeared to be older. The girl at the piano, obviously younger, wore a teal blue dress. Both were extremely attractive with flowing dark hair and soft, lovely shoulders and arms and looked like they could be mother and daughter.

Milton was suddenly dumbstruck. He noticed the piano to be the same one positioned across the tiny living room.

“Oh my God, Adam. That’s you and your mom, isn’t it?”

“Yes, isn’t my mom pretty? She was a top jazz singer when she met my dad.”

“Yes she is, but you are even prettier, Adam. I hope you don’t mind me saying it but you’re hot.”

Adam giggled and flicked his long hair in a girlish manner.

“You’re sweet,” Adam said, sounding as if he was flirting. He leaned over and gave his friend a quick kiss on his chubby cheek.

“That’s your secret, then Adam? You dress and sing like a girl sometimes?”

“Yes, and I wished I was a girl, too, but mom says we have to keep this our little secret,” he said, becoming sad. “She said that while some guys do change to live as girls and women that it’s a tough life and that I should stay a boy and man.”

Milton said nothing, but looked at Adam, grabbing his friend’s long-fingered hands in his own soft, chubby hands.

“I’ve got a secret, too, Adam,” Milton began, his voice low and soft.

“Oh?”

“When mom’s out, I sometimes sneak into her room and put on some of her stuff, too.”

“You do? I have to confess that when I first saw you I thought you were a girl, maybe ‘cause of your hair.”

“You did? Oh Adam. It’s like . . . ah . . . ah . . . what shall I say? It’s like . . .”

“We could be girlfriends,” Adam said, finishing the thought.

Soon the two friends were hugging and kissing, just as if they were giggling girlfriends.

*****
It had been an idyllic year of school for Milton, thanks mainly to the friendship with Adam. School ended on a Thursday in early June, and Milton agreed to join Adam at his house on Saturday, where they planned to be girls together.

Milton rode his bike eagerly that morning, arriving five minutes before ten o’clock, their stated meeting time. He rode up to the house, deposited his bike against the back porch and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again and still no answer. He pounded on the door without luck. It was only then he noticed the windows had no curtains showing and he glanced into the kitchen window. The room was empty; the Strawbridge’s refrigerator, stove and kitchen table and chairs were gone.

Sometime in the last two days, the family left. Milton looked at the empty house; he got not even so much as a phone call from Adam. What was going on?

All he could do was cry. His eyes were clouded with tears as he biked home. His friend Adam was gone, disappeared – and also gone were the prospects for a girly summertime for the two of them.
(To Be Continued)