Chapter One: School Days

Randy's closing words were etched into my mind. As I ran away from him on Christmas Eve, trying to end an affair that should never have started, he urged me to keep his gift “as a memento of this evening.”

I wanted to forget him. Not because I didn't love him, but because I did love him. He was so good-looking, tall and muscular with unruly blond hair and a cowlick that just didn't seem to want to behave. He had an innocence about him that was so beguiling and, in truth, matched my own innocence and lack of experience with love.

Our romance was doomed, I knew it. Nothing good could come from continuing to be together, I was convinced. I was nearing my twenty-fourth birthday – it would come in just two short months on St. Patrick's Day – and Randy had just turned sixteen. He was a junior in high school, and I was an adult. Didn't that fact alone make me a sexual predator under the law? Besides how could he know his own mind at age sixteen? Would he not soon ditch me when he found a cute classmate that would become his prom date?

Then there was the secret that I withheld from him: anatomically, I was a man. How could I tell him that when all he saw – as he said over-and-over – was a pretty young woman?

Yes, it was a doomed romance. But I couldn't forget him.

In the dreary weeks of January – after the bright lights of Christmas had dimmed only to be followed by chilly air, cloudy skies and occasional snows that quickly turned to slush – all I could think about was Randy. It seemed almost every night as I sat in my apartment – alone – that I was tempted to email his friend Carmen to ask her to pass on a message to him. It was the only way we could ever meet again, since I had refused to give Randy (or his two friends, Ryan and Carmen) my phone number or email address. I had reluctantly agreed to take Carmen's email address, just in the remote instance that I'd want to re-establish contacts with them.

How often I debated with myself! Why not just email Carmen and thus provide her with a way to have Randy contact me? What harm would it do? We could be online friends, after all. But, after several weeks, my better judgment took over: I could never again resume the romance. It was ended!

But was it really ended? For months, I kept the gift Randy had insisted I take from him on Christmas Eve in a drawer hidden under my lingerie, still in its gift box. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought. I wondered how I could return the gift, since it was such a symbol of our forbidden love for each other, but never approached Carmen to work out the return. One bleak March day, I moved my lingerie about so that I could see the box. For a few moments, I debated whether I should open it up again and look at it.

It was a necklace with a gold peace symbol dangling at the end of a thin, dainty gold chain. It was too lovely to hide in a drawer. I took it out and hung it on my vanity mirror, right at eye level where I’d see it every day. How could I forget such a gorgeous, loving boy like Randy?

*****
In Mid-January, I got an email message from the Superintendent of the Sunrise Harbor School District, offering me an interview for a temporary position as an English teacher for freshmen and sophomores at the Admiral Farragut High School. They needed someone to take over the duties of a teacher who was going on maternity leave.

The message was most encouraging: “Please reply immediately, since we need to fill this position by Feb. 1 and the start of the next semester. We'd like you to interview on Friday morning, Jan. 17, here at Adm. Farragut High with Principal Theresa Hammond. Are you available then? Urgent!”

I had only just gotten up and was still in my nightie when I found the email message. It seemed like I needed to make an instant decision on this since Friday was only two days away, and I'd have to arrange to get off work. This was the answer to my desires after two years of fruitless searching for a job in which to use my English degree; I also had a minor in education and had qualified for a teaching certificate. If I did well enough as a substitute, maybe they'd offer me a position for the future.

Yet, I suddenly had a wave of fear come over me; I had been accepted well at the nursing home, where I had worked now for almost a year. My co-workers, the bosses and the patients had accepted me just as I was: a growingly effeminate young man who was mistaken for a woman more often than he was considered a man. I thought fondly of old Mrs. Rockwell who insisted upon calling me “miss,” even though I told her I was a “mister.”

“Oh don't kid me, darling,” she responded every time I told her. “You're such a pretty young lady.”

Finally several weeks ago, I began letting her call me “Julie,” which was the name I had chosen for myself when I was dressed as a woman, which I usually was when I got home from work each night.

I could be as girlish as I wanted at the nursing home, and usually wore girl's slacks and blouses while on the job, even though my name tag said “Jason.” My hair was long and I wore clear polish on my fingernails, which were always neatly tapered and manicured. Several of the women at work had commented how pretty my hands were; they were slender, smooth and pale.

As a teacher, I'd have to try to enhance a masculine appearance; how else could I control a classroom of high school students who likely had little interest in verbs and nouns or “Silas Marner” or other similar classic books I'd have to assign? Could I pull it off? The prospect terrified me! The fact, however, was that I was poorly paid – as all nursing home workers are – and even a substitute teacher's salary was bound to be better. Besides, I had a college degree in English and I was doing work in a nursing home which would never utilize my apparent skills.

“I'll accept the interview. Is 10 a.m. OK?” I emailed back.

I showered and readied myself for work, returning to check emails just before I left for work. The superintendent had already replied: “See you at 10 a.m. Check into office at Farragut. Call me at 555-223-0802 if your plans change. Adams, Supt. of Schools Sunrise Harbor District.”

It seemed they were seriously interested in me. That made me feel good, but it didn't remove the fear that I felt at adventuring into a new, more challenging way of life. Was I strong enough to handle it?

*****
I couldn't stop shivering as I dressed on Friday for my interview; to be sure it was an unseasonably cold morning in January, but I knew my shivers came more from nerves than from the five below wind chill temperatures blanketing the area. I still wondered whether I'd look manly enough, even though I had removed all signs of makeup and fingernail polish and tied my long hair back into a ponytail, not untypical of the type worn by athletes.

Nonetheless, I knew my wispy body frame hardly connoted strength and confidence. Only recently, one of the husky aides at the nursing home had opined: “Why darling you could be blown over with a feather!” She was not being offensive, since she had only seconds before been joking about her own massive body. Yet, she was accurate, I felt.

It wasn't until I was on the train that I realized that I'd be getting off at Wantoch, the same train stop that Randy did during my trips to and from Point Pleasant, the beach resort area where we met. It dawned on me then that Randy – the boy I most wanted to avoid seeing – might be a student at Admiral Farragut. What if he was a student in one of my classes, or in my homeroom? I began to feel faint and I considered using my cell phone to call Superintendent Adams that I had to cancel.

As I considered this idea, the train's loudspeaker system announced: “Next stop in one minute is Wantoch. Please exit safely and quickly.”

Admiral Farragut High School was one of two secondary schools in the Sunrise Harbor District along the Atlantic Coast that covered a sprawling area that was largely economically depressed. I hoped against all hopes that Randy attended the other high school. The school was a block-wide three-story red brick affair, typical of those built during the 1930s under Franklin D. Roosevelt's Public Works Administration (PWA) program. It was but a short walk from the train station, but I was shivering mightily by the time I walked up to the main entrance. Embedded into the brick framing the ornate entrance was a square marble stone stating simply “1935,” obviously the year the building was constructed.

It looked like a fortress, and the once fancy oak doors with their lovely windows had been covered with sheets of steel along the bottom and heavy duty screening over the stained glass, leaded panes. A sign on the middle door read: “Doors Lock at 7:25 a.m. Use call box to the right for permission to enter.” I knew that students had to be in their classrooms at that time, but still it seemed the notice set a rather forbidding tone. Was the school so dangerous that it needed to lock its doors once the school day began?

I had been afraid to apply to teach in the schools in my own large city since its schools were known for much violence; I thought – apparently in error – that an invitation to teach in this more exurban setting might be safer. The voice on the call box interrogated me closely before buzzing me into a building, where I was immediately met by two tall, husky male guards in uniforms who ordered me through a metal detector and further examined me with a wand before directing me to the office.

The whole experience made me want to flee the scene.

*****
My interview with Principal Theresa Hammond went quickly. Upon presenting myself in the main office – a surprisingly cheerful place with the secretaries smiling instead of scowling – I waited hardly a minute before she came out of her office to greet me. She, too, was smiling and had a warm, pleasant face. She was a statuesque African-American woman wearing a well-tailored brown suit; she was still strikingly attractive and I judged her age to be in the forties.

“Jason Pearson, welcome to Farragut,” she announced, recognizing me at once.

“Yes,” I said, rising from my seat to greet her. She seemed to tower over me and I felt immediately intimidated.

It turned out Mrs. Hammond had contacted my nursing home supervisor, Emily Green, who had known I was going for a job interview, as well as my college advisor; both apparently had given her glowing references. My college grades had been pretty good.

“I have no qualms about your qualifications, Mr. Pearson, but I wonder how you're going to be able to handle the students,” she said after we had discussed my background and my own hopes for my future. “This is not the easiest school in which to teach, I must warn you.”

I nodded and mentioned seeing all the security present in the building; I had become used to that from my own time at an urban high school.

“Believe it or not, Mr. Pearson we have a high rate of poverty in this area, plus many of our students are from immigrant families. Some are perfectly admirable students and eager to learn, but we have more than our share of trouble makers.”

“I'm used to that, Mrs. Hammond, having attended such a school in the city,” I said, as if that were reassuring to my confidence. I didn't tell her that most of the time I went to school scared stiff about being bullied and feeling too weak to fight back. I had endured the four years by allying myself with two friends – both girls – and we made a threesome that helped give us all courage, me more so than the others.

“To be honest, Mr. Pearson, I must say you're not the most robust of men,” she said. “I had hoped to get a man for this semester, since men can often handle the roughnecks better, and I do have concerns about you. You really seem quite fragile, but sometimes people will fool you with their strength. I just hope you're up to it.”

“I understand, ma'am,” I said. “But I'd like to try. I do have some ideas that might help them all to enjoy the classes and maybe even learn something.”

She dismissed me and said she'd contact me on Monday to let me know her final decision. She assigned one of the school aides to give me a tour of the school. I was surprised to see how clean and well-polished the school had been maintained, even though it was now more than eighty years old. Since classes were in session, I saw few students in the halls. I was able to peek through the windows in several classroom doors, the classes seemed peaceful enough. I held out hope that Mrs. Hammond's warnings were exaggerated, though I can't say I was convinced they were.

My biggest fear, of course, was to see Randy in one of the classrooms or the school's hallways; would he recognize me? Then I remembered he had told me he was a student at Hamilton, the other high school in the District.

In spite of that concern – and my general fear about being able to handle groups of rowdy high school students – I still felt I had to accept the position if it were offered. My weekend was filled with tension as I wondered if I was doing the right thing in leaving my comfortable, easy job for this more challenging one – a job in which I had to be a man.

*****
“How did I get to be so girlish?” I asked myself the next morning; it was the Saturday after my job interview.

I looked at myself in the mirror after my morning shower; the room was permeated with sweet scents from the moisturized perfumed soaps and shampoos I used. Several bras and satiny panties hung on towel bars where I had placed them the previous night after washing them. I took seriously the rule that a girl should hand wash most of her delicates.

It was certainly a girl in the mirror, a girl using a hair dryer to blow upon her wet light brown tresses that tickled the top of her back. The girl's skin was almost an alabaster, and she had slender shoulders and thin arms that accentuated her delicate frame. She had wrapped a towel up to cover what appeared to be tiny breasts. I looked at the girl in the mirror and I was so happy with what I saw; I loved my image.

How indeed could this lovely creature be transformed into a young man in two short weeks? I was worried, and becoming terrified that I could muster up the commanding nature that I'd have to show to be able to teach in a classroom of some thirty teenagers, most of whom likely didn't want to be there. Was I not but an innocent, shy young lady?

As I did on all weekend mornings, I put on a set of my freshly washed panties and bra; I had stuffed A-cup sized breast forms into the bra. The day was dawning with temperatures well below zero, prompting me to put on navy blue tights made of a heavy cotton material. I stepped into blue women's slacks and slipped on a pink blouse with ruffles and a little girl collar. I found a light blue cardigan sweater to further keep me warm in my chilly house.

As much as I hated the idea, I realized I should go out that day even in the extreme cold; the fact was I needed to get some clothes suited for a young male teacher. In the time I had worked at the nursing home, my clothes had become almost totally feminine, though I kidded myself into thinking they were unisex clothes.

My sleep the previous night had been most fitful. My heart seemed to race as I lie in bed on my side, my right hand caressing the soft bicep of my left arm, admiring its mushy, dainty features. I thought of the kisses from Randy, his fresh young lips upon mine as we sat on Christmas Eve on a bench, nestled together to stay warm, aware only of ourselves while ignoring the sparkling reflection of a nearly full moon dancing upon the light waves of the water.

Nonetheless, even with all of the tossing and turning I did when trying to get to sleep that night, the shower revived me and I felt ready to attack the cold and go shopping. How dearly I would have liked to shop for dresses or skirts, but I knew that day I'd have to rebuild my male wardrobe in anticipation of a job offer coming through.

I knew my walk and mannerisms had grown more effeminate in the recent years, particularly since my mother died, leaving me alone. I had never been able to connect up with any boys or men as I grew. I always felt alienated from them. I'd played with several girls growing up, and even gained close friendships with a few of them. In high school, I chummed around a lot with two girls, going to movies, coffee shops or shopping until they discovered boys – real boys – in their junior year. Now, my best friends were some of my co-workers at the nursing home, but of course I only saw them on the job; most were older women and married.

Even the boots I put on to head out for shopping were meant for women; I had begun wearing my mother's leather boots that were warm, fit me perfectly and were great protection in the cold and snow. They had a short heel and I had no trouble with them since I had been wearing heels often when dressed en femme. My padded winter coat – with a hood – was dark red in color and supposed to be unisex, but it had a definite womanly look. Repeatedly I was addressed as “miss” or “ma'am” when wearing it. I guess it defined me as well as anything. Not quite a woman, but certainly not a man.

*****
I was dressed appropriately masculine, I thought, for my first day at Admiral Farragut High School, having donned dark pants, a blue shirt with a plain dark blue tie and a gray herringbone jacket. I knew it was a bit more formal than what I suspected most teachers wore, but I felt such an outfit might enhance a sense of authority. Nonetheless, I didn't think it would since I was approaching my first morning at the school with fear gnawing at my gut. I was walking into a deep unknown.

To make matters worse, the morning had dawned as a clear, numbingly cold day. The prospect proved to be realized and I was chilled to the bone as the cold penetrated though my parka, thanks to a head-on brisk wind, during the walk from the train station to the school. My hiking boots – which I had purchased over the weekend to show my masculinity – crunched in patches of snow as I walked.

Fortunately, I was spared the chore of entering through the main door in a mix of students waiting to go through metal detectors. Mrs. Hammond instructed me to enter through a door off the teachers' parking lot.

“Not in here, young man,” an older man told me as I entered. “Students go around the front.”

He was seated at a small desk just inside the door, obviously placed there as a security check. I realized that with my soft looking face and longish hair he must have mistaken me for a student. I had hardly any facial hair, and needed to shave but twice a week, and as short and slight as I was I guess it was easy to believe I was a student. At least he called me “young man” instead of “miss.”

I stuttered in reply, phlegm rising in my mouth as the fright of the moment engulfed me, “But . . . ah . . . ah . . . I'm a teacher.”

“I don't know you. Where is your badge?” he said gruffly.

“I'm a new substitute, for the English teacher,” I said.

“Oh, they told me someone new was coming in. Let me check my papers here,” he said, putting down the morning newspaper he was reading and fumbling about the desk. I waited patiently.

“You must be Jason Pearson?” he asked.

I smiled and nodded in the affirmative.

“Welcome to Farragut, Mr. Pearson, and good luck here,” he said. He directed me to the office; I had the feeling the guard felt sorry for me as if I would be in for a hard time. His greeting of “good luck” seemed ironic.