(Copyright 2014)

Chapter Eight: Hope and Despair

Principal Hammond welcomed me into her office, motioning for me to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite her desk.

“You asked to see me, Mr. Pearson?” she asked, eyeing me warily, obviously wondering what my issue was. She had learned in her nearly ten years as school principal that teachers rarely asked for such meetings unless they had a problem.

“Yes, I asked to meet you now because fifth hour is my free period and I have a personal matter to discuss with you,” I said, sitting stiffly in the straight-back wooden chair.

“Oh? Are you having problems with your classes or other teachers?” she asked.

“Not at all, I love my students – well most of them – and the teachers all seem to treat me fine.”

“That’s what I had heard, Mr. Pearson. None of the problems we had talked about when we hired you seemed to have developed. I’m pleased and it’s probably a tribute to how you’ve handled the classes. I was so afraid you might not have been strong enough or firm enough to work with some of our students.”

I grew more comfortable and relaxed in my seat. While I had some problems at first – likely exacerbated by my obvious effeminate mannerisms – they had been largely laid to rest.

“Well what it is then?” Mrs. Hammond asked.

I reached into my shirt pocket and drew out the note from Doctor Pam, unfolded it and handed it to her. The principal took the note from my hand and glanced quickly at its contents.

“What’s this mean?” she asked a puzzled look on her face.

“It means, Mrs. Hammond, that come the end of the school year I expect to begin living as a woman,” I said, trying to sound confident and firm while hiding a terrible tension within me.

She leaned back in her high-backed executive chair, looking at me and saying nothing.

“Well, I’m a bit shocked, although I guess I shouldn’t be. You’ve exhibited plenty of signs such a thing might be coming,” she said finally.

“I know, but I have become convinced that deep down inside I’ve always been female,” I said.

“And, I suppose you’re wondering what this information will do to your chances of gaining a full teaching position here, right?”

“Yes, I guess I expect that I won’t be welcomed back now,” I said.

“You’re probably right, Mr. Pearson, although it wouldn’t be because you were a lousy teacher. You have signs of becoming a great teacher and I would have offered you the next opening that might occur in the English department, but it would be disquieting to the demeanor of the school with you trying to come back as a woman teacher after most of the students and other teachers had known you as a man.”

“I understand,” I said.

Mrs. Hammond paused for a minute, examining her fingers as she touched their tips together.

“On second thought, however, I really like your teaching style and your ability to keep the attention of your students. I’d like to keep you for next year and maybe, just maybe, we might be willing to try to bring you back,” she said, smiling.

“You think so, Mrs. Hammond?”

“It’s not my decision to make, you know. The superintendent will have to agree and the school board may have to get involved and then you don’t know what will happen. If I know the anti-discrimination laws, my dear, you likely are not protected as a transgender woman. But if the final word is ‘no,’ I will be pleased to give you the highest recommendation to any other schools.”

I nodded my head, thanking her. She rose from her chair as if to shake my hand and dismiss me. I remained seated.

“Is there something else, Mr. Pearson,” she said.

“Yes, and I need to inform you of a potential problem involving me right now,” I said.

She sat back down, her demeanor that of a person who wishes not to hear of any more issues.

“What is it?” she said, her voice showing weariness.

“You see, for years I have been dressing as a woman at home and in my private time and two teachers and one student have become aware of that. Although they are supportive of me, I’m afraid that fact may leak out and it might prove embarrassing to the school.”

She looked at me more suspiciously. “How did they find out?”

“I had become friends with the two teachers and I just told them. The student had seen me in a setting outside of school and recognized me; now another student may soon find out and I’m not sure that student will not spread the word.”

“So, you think there’ll be controversy if it leaks out?”

I nodded.

“Mrs. Hammond, I don’t want to cause either you or the school or my students any problem and for that reason I’ll be happy to quit this job immediately if you think it wise.”

I began to cry. The principal grabbed a box of tissues and reached across the desk, placing it in front of me.

“Did you do anything when you were dressed as a woman that was a crime or seriously wrong?” she asked directly.

The forced myself to stop crying and wiped my eyes. I looked directly at the principal and said, “No, I just treated myself to two weekend trips as a woman. It was before I began teaching. That was when I met the student.”

“And you were accepted as a woman on those trips?”

I must have blushed and nodded in the affirmative.

“I’m sure you were very pretty, too.”

“I guess so, but Mrs. Hammond I never had any sex. Everything I did was quite innocent,” I said.

She looked at me. “Do you think you can finish out the school year staying sufficiently male?”

“Yes, definitely,” I said.

“OK, I would like you to stay. However, if any problems develop or it becomes a big public issue, you may have to leave. I understand your situation, but I have to answer to the superintendent and the school board, too,” she said.

“I understand, Mrs. Hammond,” I said, rising from my chair to leave.

“I will share this with the superintendent today, and see what he says.”

I nodded and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she said. “Did you have a girl’s name?”

I turned to look at her, surprised at the question. “Yes, it’s Julie.”

She smiled: “It fits you, dear. Thank you for telling me about your plans and best of luck.”

*****
I left her office with a growing hope that I could begin my transition quietly and unobtrusively, and I was able to sleep that evening more peacefully than I had done in the last week. For some reason, I even felt I may have saved my career as a teacher. That feeling of hope fueled me in the next day of school, helping me to put more enthusiasm into my teaching and as a result bringing out similar responses from the students. All in all, it was one of those marvelous days in school that teachers experience every so often that makes the job worthwhile.

My euphoria crashed as I left school that afternoon. As I rounded a corner of the school building after having exited out of the teachers’ door I heard a voice yell out to me: “Julie.”

“Julie’ came the voice again, more insistent and louder.

Instinctively I turned, having recognized the young voice of Randy and realizing he was calling out for me. Several students were gathered in a group nearby and they turned to watch me put my hand up to my mouth in horror as I saw the husky form standing several yards away. I turned to move quickly toward him, mouthing the words, “Quiet. Not here.”

“So it is you, Julie?” the boy said, a triumphant look on his face.

“Here and now I am Mr. Pearson to you,” I said in a quiet voice, hoping that I wasn’t overheard by the nearby students; two of them I realized were students from one of my classes.

My heart began pounding as I looked at the young man who had grown and matured in the few months since our Christmas Eve meeting. His face looked more handsome than ever and the several days’ growth of his beard of blondish hair added to his allure. The fear of being exposed at that moment in the schoolyard and my excitement at seeing this marvelous hunk of young manhood combined to raise my anxiety.

“How could you do this to me?” he said, adding with an exaggerated sarcasm, “Mr. Pearson.”

“Randy, I’m sorry,” I began slowly. “Walk with me and if you got time we can stop at a coffee shop near the train station and I’ll explain it.”

“I can’t believe this,” he said, walking alongside me as we headed down the sidewalk. I noticed the students eying me strangely as we walked by. One of them, Julie Stein (how ironic!), said: “Have a good evening Mr. Pearson.”

“You, too, Julie and Eddie,” I said in reply, including the name of the other student from my class.

“Wasn’t that weird? I saw that girl wave at me when I first yelled out your name,” Randy said.

As we walked toward the coffee shop, I couldn’t help but feel weird. I wanted anyone watching us to see only a teacher and a student innocently discussing classwork; yet, I knew that Randy’s mature looks and my always youthful appearance might show us up as friends. Perhaps, too, the students who saw Randy and me outside of school might conclude that I was a gay man meeting my lover who might or might not be underage. I knew the students of the school were continually speculating over my effeminacy, often concluding wrongly that I was gay. Whatever they were thinking, I knew, was not flattering.

“You shouldn’t have come to the school, Randy,” I said.

“That was the only way I could see if my suspicions were correct, and I see they are. I got excused from my last hour and came over here to see ‘Mr. Pearson’ for myself. After I saw you at the tournament, I almost called you ‘Julie’ there, but Carmen kept dragging me away from you. I knew she was hiding something.”

“Randy, I’ll tell you all you want to know, once we get settled at the coffee shop,” I said, hoping to take control of the situation.

“You better confess,” he warned.

“I will, but Randy I want you to know I was impressed with your participation in the forensics tournament,” I said, hoping temporarily to change the subject.

“Thanks, Mr. Pearson,” he said, again using the sarcastic tone.

“Really, Randy, you did a great job in formulating your arguments and you must have done good research. You’re a bright young man with a promising future.”

“Don’t think you’re going to get off by flattering me,” he said menacingly.

We found a small table for two in the busy coffee shop; Randy got a latte and I got a double expresso and we shared a plate of cookies.

“You’ve heard of transgendered women, Randy?” I asked when we had settled down with our drinks.

“Is that what you are?”

“Well, right now, I’m under treatment of a specialist who thinks I am. I’ve always thought I should have been a girl.”

“And you think that excuses you from dressing up like a girl and tricking me?” he accused me.

“Oh Randy, I wasn’t tricking you. At least that was wasn’t my plan.”

“You’re so fucking pretty and feminine,” he said, his voice exasperated.

“I didn’t want to trick you and I tried to avoid you, but you kept popping up.”

“What did you do, spend every weekend like a whore? God what a pervert you must be. You shouldn’t be teaching kids.”

“Lower your voice,” I ordered, aware that he might be overheard, even over the heavy fog of noise that echoed throughout the shop.

“My God, what are you?”

“Randy, first of all, I don’t go out every week like a whore, as you say. When you saw me on the Fourth of July weekend that was my first time out as a girl in public. My first time, I assure you.”

“But then we saw you on Christmas, too.”

“And that was only my second time, believe me.”

“Hah. How can you lie like that to me? After how we kissed.”

“Honestly, I had only gone out twice in public by Christmas, largely ‘cause I was having a lonely weekend. My mom had just died and I was all alone and depressed. Only when I dressed up pretty did I feel happy, so I decided on those two trips to Point Pleasant.”

Randy nodded, as if perhaps he wanted to believe me.

“I asked you,” I continued, “Do you understand what transgendered means?”

“Only that it refers to guys who like to dress up as girls, and I suppose to cover those girls who wanna be guys.”

“Well, it’s more than that,” I said.

I explained that transgendered persons are those who feel they were born in the wrong gender, that even though they may have a penis and a beard they might indeed feel inside that they were female and that those beliefs were too hard to overcome. The opposite is true of girls who believe they were boys. I explained how my gender specialist was treating me and what steps I would have to take to change my gender.

“By July first, if all goes according to plan, Randy,” I said, “I’ll be living fulltime as a woman and if I can get a teaching job I’ll be known to the kids as Miss Pearson.”

“Wow,” he said, looking at me.

“I know it’s a big step, but I think Julie is the real me.”

“I only see Julie even now as I look at you,” he said. “I want to kiss you right now.”

“Randy, no. Get those thoughts out of your head. You’re still a minor. I can’t see you anymore. Besides I have a boyfriend and you met him Saturday night.”

“That guy?” he said disdainfully.

“What’s wrong with Hank?”

“He’s not good enough for you. I can see he’s just a jock!”

“You don’t even know him, Randy. Yes, he’s a jock but he’s also smart and caring.”

“Oh? You really like him?”

“Yes, I really like him.”

Randy shook his head. He seemed to go into deep thought. I sipped on my expresso that by now had cooled off.

“Answer me something,” Randy said after a moment. “When you’re done with all these operations and all will you be a total woman? Will I – or that Hank guy – be able to . . . ah . . . you know . . . ah go to bed with you and have sex?”

I smiled and nodded my head.

“You mean you’ll be a woman with a pussy?” He blushed as he asked this question, perhaps due to his use of the crude term, indicating his probable ignorance about how to define a woman’s vagina.

“Yes, with a pussy,” I said smiling. “The only thing I won’t be able to do is conceive children.”

“The only thing?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“I hope you understand,” I said.

He took his eyes off me, and appeared to be gazing at the cookie plate. Neither of us had touched the cookies, something that I felt was strange. Randy was obviously a typical teenage boy, the type that has a bottomless stomach. Finally, he took one of the cookies. I watched him, worried about his reaction. My explanation seemed to have quieted the anger he had been nursing since we met outside of the school.

“I guess I understand it,” he mumbled, his mouth still full of the large bite of chocolate chip cookie. “And you’ll become real this summer, right?”

“Not totally, since my operation will have to wait at least another year,” I said, pleased the conversation had settled down.

“But by the time I’m eighteen and legal you’ll be a woman?” he said it as a question.

I nodded.

“Then we can date again,” he said.

“Oh Randy, you mustn’t think about that. A lot can happen in two years, maybe Hank and I’ll get married or I’ll move away or find another boyfriend or you’ll find a nice girlfriend. Who knows?”

“But Julie, it’s still a possibility. Eight years age difference is nothing,” he said, continuing to address me in my female name even though I was dressed as Mr. Pearson.

“Anything’s a possibility, Randy, but that’s something neither you nor I should expect,” I said. “Now, given all that I think it’s best we break this up and we each go about our business. I’ll get back to my teaching and you get back to your studies and your sports and find yourself a sweet girl and move ahead to a nice future.”

“What?” he said. Suddenly, he grew angry; his eyes flashed and his face turned red. “I should act as if nothing happened? I should forget all my love for Julie, my months of heartache when I dreamed about being with you? You want me to forget your kisses, like they were nothing? How can you ask me that? You loved my lips, I know you did.”

“Randy, Randy, please lower your voice. People are watching us.” I warned.

“I don’t give a damn. You led me on. You are a fraud. A freak. A sissy man. Oh, damn, I don’t know what you are.” He began crying.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get up a hug him, pressing his lovely head with its unruly cowlick tightly against my breast and comfort his tears. I hated to see him in such torment and realized that I had caused him such pain.

“Randy, Randy, please calm down. Maybe I am a freak and that’s why you should have nothing to do with me. Go and get on with your life.”

“That’s so easy for you to say,” he said. He looked at me, his eyes red and moist. “I wanted Julie so badly and now I learn she was just a fairy tale. I hate you.”

“That’s OK. You should hate me. Maybe I did lead you on, but I didn’t know I was doing it. You kids were so welcoming for my company and I just found it so nice to be with you. Randy, even if I was a real woman then it wouldn’t have mattered. You were still sixteen and I was nearly twenty-four. It wouldn’t have been right.”

“God, I hate you and you shouldn’t be teaching kids. You’re such a freak. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

With that, he got up, gathered his backpack, turned his back from me and marched out the door. I watched him go. I felt so sad. Was I really such a freakish, evil person who would turn a perfectly fine boy into a wretched, sorrowful and perhaps vengeance-seeking body of hate?

I stared at the door of the coffeehouse, my mind holding the picture of the back of Randy stalking out, hoping that somehow the boy would consider how fruitless his infatuation with Julie might be and that he could jettison Julie from his consciousness and move forward into a happy, successful life. It was only while on the train, heading home that I realized that Randy might well let his despair turn into a vengeance in which he would announce to the world that I was a perverted, sexual predator unfit to teach high school students. For some reason, his possible vengeance did not seem to concern me. What I worried about was my role in helping to turn this lovely boy into a forlorn seemingly hopeless individual.

*****
Jon Edwards was alarmed at my announcement when I called him that evening to tell him I would be asking Mrs. Hammond to accept my resignation as being effective the very next week.

“What? You’re quitting? You don’t need to do that. We’ll support you,” he protested immediately.

I had called him partly because he was a friend and also because he was on the teachers’ union bargaining committee. He was also known as an advocate for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender rights. My concern was not to get anyone to “defend” me should I decide to try to continue teaching but just to see if I was going about it the proper way.

“I’ve made up my mind, Jon,” I said. “Look, it’s probably likely my cavorting about as Julie will become public soon, and I don’t want the attention, nor do I want to cause embarrassment to the school or you or anyone else.”

“Jason, I wish you wouldn’t do that, but why do you think ‘Julie’ will become public?”

“Never mind about why, it just might. Anyway, I don’t want a fight. I’ve got some money in reserve and I’m pretty sure I can get my old job back so I’ll survive.”

“I know the union can’t formally save your job, but we could make a strong case of discrimination and you’d have the whole LGBT community behind you,” he argued.

“Can’t you see I just don’t want to become such a big deal? This way I can transition into being Julie without a lot of fuss.”

“Won’t you miss teaching?”

“Of course,” I said. “I loved the kids; they were just great and I really think I was making a difference.”

“I know you were. You’re a born teacher.”

That night I went to bed, more confused than ever. I had left the coffeehouse convinced that I would quit teaching and revert to my old, lonely existence; it was with that determination I called Jon, whose wisdom and counsel I knew I’d respect. He was my best friend and certainly caring; yet, he was advising me to jump into a possible turmoil that could turn ugly and create a controversial environment within the school. What was I to do?

It was a sleepless night. The next day, I went to class still wondering whether I should announce I was quitting or to tough it out.

My third hour class had been the most difficult to handle. It was the class which contained Thomas and his cohort Demetrius; both students had sought to use my effeminate mannerisms to embarrass me. Somehow, I had gained control of the class and it had become the class I looked forward to, even though I knew some days they might get unruly. Perhaps I liked the interplay that Thomas and Demetrius created; their comments were often made with a wry wit, and I found I could play off their quips in a way that maintained class control without being offensive to the students.

As the class entered that morning, I was still in turmoil about whether to quit. The class homework assignment called for each student to compose a couplet that would incorporate the iambic pentameter format, which I knew they’d had trouble understanding. I honestly expected that only about one third of the students would have completed the assignment.

“Now, class,” I said after the bell rang, “which of you has a couplet they wish to read?”

To my surprise, every student, yes, every student raised his or her hand.

“All of you?” I said, stunned.

“Yes, and can I go first?” asked Thomas, always the mischievous one.

“Ok, Thomas,” I said warily, still worried that the boy would have some disruptive scheme in mind.

Thomas stood up, and the class went silent. He read in a lilting voice:

“Often I wonder would there ever be
Such a teacher who might understand me.”

“Into the classroom came just the ‘teach,’
Mr. Pearson, by name, he’s a peach!”

The class applauded. About half of the couplets that were read aloud that morning showed a praise and liking for “Mr. Pearson.” OK, many of them failed in understanding iambic pentameter, but they all tried. I had tears in my eyes before half of them finished. I never made it to Mrs. Hammond’s office. I would return the next week to continue teaching.

*****
I spent a lonely and uneasy weekend. Since Hank would be ignoring me, I had no plans for the weekend, except to grade papers and work on my lesson plan for the following week. The truth was that I had let my transgendered confusions interfere with my teaching and had fallen behind both on grading the students’ work and on planning for the weeks ahead. As it was I had only a vague idea about what I’d do in class in the immediate week ahead. While Mrs. McGuire had left me her lesson plans for the semester, I had strayed from them, largely with great success, and, as far as I could tell, I still covered the relevant materials.

Jon called me about mid-morning on Saturday, suggesting we take in a movie that night, but I thanked him and declined.

“I think if I concentrate on my schoolwork, Jon, it’ll help me take my mind off my worries,” I told him.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “I’m hoping you get through these weeks without any problems, but remember, I think a lot of us are behind you if it does come out. And I heard that your students like you, too.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” I said.

For most of the weekend I wore a pair of beige Capri pants and a sleeveless blouse; I tied my hair back in a schoolmarm-like bun and put on a pair of simple pearl earrings. I felt just like a woman who would be lounging lazily about the house as I leisurely plunged into my schoolwork. That night, I put in a DVD of the 1995 transgender movie: “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar.”

Yet, periodically, the fear came: Would Randy in his pique expose me, tell of my liaison with him that would certainly imperil my hopes of a teaching career?

*****
My fears were unfounded, since as the weeks until the end of the school year went by, I heard nothing, and even though the students were growing restless as the end of the school year neared, they continued to be interested in my classes.

“You really have a gift of teaching,” Harriet Simpson, a veteran English teacher, told me. “I hope they are able to find a spot for you here.”

Miss Simpson had been in the system over twenty-five years, having won great praise for her role also as the drama teacher. It appeared her life had been devoted solely to teaching. She must have sensed that I too had a lonely personal life for she invited me to join her to see a play being performed by a community theater group in which several of her former students were performing.

We must have been a strange looking couple, Miss Simpson a tall, angular, graying lady and me a slender, effeminate young man. Perhaps others might view us as a mother-son combination. Soon, I learned not to worry about appearances; Miss Simpson proved to be a fun-loving companion and we found ourselves laughing together many times. She had witty comments to make about things we might be observing and that seemed to bring me out of my shell. Now, along with Jon Edwards, I had found a third friend among the teachers. I couldn’t be happier, except that many times I wished I could have been their young woman companion.

Eventually, I told her about Julie; instead of showing shock, she merely said: “OK,” and she dropped the issue right then with a short bit of advice. “Just be yourself, honey, and you’ll do fine.”

My mind was further laid at rest two weeks after my encounter with Randy when Carmen Mendoza stopped me after school and told me she didn’t think Randy would say anything about Julie.

“I think he’d be embarrassed to admit to his buddies that he was fooled,” she explained.

“I didn’t want to fool him, Carmen,” I said. “It just seemed to happen, but I was wrong, I know that.”

“Besides, I think he still likes you,” she said, smiling.

“I like him, also, but we just can’t be more than acquaintances.”

“He knows that, I’m sure.”

*****
The last weeks of the semester flew by, the hours being filled with preparing for final tests, grading papers and finishing up lesson plans. There was little time to fret about my future, about the life-changing step I would begin in earnest during the summer. Each night and during weekends at home I switched quickly into my Julie mode, putting on shorts and a tank top as the weather warmed. Rarely did I put on a skirt or dress; yet, I felt totally female, dressing as a normal young woman would when spending time alone at home.

Looking in the mirror all I could see was a young woman in a casual outfit, looking soft and feminine. Fortunately, I had no sinewy muscles in my arms to betray my physical gender; my legs were slender and lovely with their thin ankles, smooth curved calves and somewhat fleshy thighs.

There was no question: My decision to transition was the proper one.

*****
During exam week, Mrs. Hammond left a note in my mailbox in the school office, asking that I meet with her at 2 p.m. Tuesday. Apparently she had checked my exam schedule and knew when I’d be free.

“Have a seat Mr. Pearson,” she said cheerfully, inviting me to sit in a hard wooden chair opposite her desk. “May I get you something to drink?”

I mumbled a “no,” wondering why the woman was being solicitous. Was she trying to soften the blow in which she’d tell me my services were no longer needed?

“Let me get straight to the point,” she began. Mrs. Hammond had a reputation of being a no-nonsense administrator, which was a trait I found to be most appealing.

“OK.”

“I will say right from the start that you have proven to be a most effective teacher. It’s something we rarely see in a beginning teacher. You know I was worried about you. You seemed to be such a . . . oh how should I say it? . . . a delicate individual and I was afraid some of the students here would devour you alive. Perhaps it was my intuition, but I felt I could take a chance on you, and from all reports you passed with flying colors.”

I began to feel hot and I’m sure I was blushing. I hoped it wouldn’t show.

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

“Anyway, Mr. Pearson, I’m planning on offering you a contract for the next school year, that is, if you’re willing to teach freshman classes, which will be mainly grammar and writing classes. They won’t be easy, since the kids usually hate that stuff. It’s the only English assignment I’ll have free next year; Miss Langley is getting married and leaving the city.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hammond, I’d love to try it,” I said. “I was hoping there’d be a position here. I’ve grown fond of this school.”

“You’d be a great addition to our staff.”

“Mrs. Hammond,” I said.

“Yes?” she replied, obviously sensing a problem arising from the tone of my voice.

“You’re still offering me a contract, even though I’ll be Ms. Pearson next year?”

“It’s still my intention to offer you a contract,” she said. “As you know, the final decision will come from the superintendent’s office. It’ll be a month or so before you’ll know for sure, so you might begin to shop around for another position. I want you to understand that what you told me does not alter my intention to offer you a contract.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond,” I said.

She rose from her desk and moved to shake my hand. I accepted it, and she smiled at me.

“Julie? That’s to be your name?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, Julie, I know you’ll be a lovely woman, and if the superintendent agrees and we hire you I know you’ll cause a bit of a stir here in September.”

“I know, and I would like not to cause a stir or to hurt the school in any way.”

“Julie, sometimes a bit of controversy is good for the soul,” she said smiling.

“Thanks for saying that, but I told you my plans so that you could still choose not to offer me a contract,” I said. “I would only hope that as I sought a job elsewhere you’d give me a good reference.”

“That I’d be happy to do. You deserve it, but I think we could weather the storm. But let’s see what the superintendent says. And just so you don’t get too concerned, we won’t be sending out contracts until mid-July, particularly to new teachers. But, either way, you’ll be informed.”

With that she gave me a hug. It was a sisterly hug such as only two women can share.

*****
My two closest friends on the faculty, Jon Edwards and Harriet Simpson, were happy to hear that the school was seriously considering offering me a contract, even after I informed the principal that I would be transitioning.

“I always had good feelings about Mrs. Hammond,” Harriet said when I told her the following day in the teachers’ lounge.

“I did, too, even though she always seemed to have a rather cold personality,” I said.

“Don’t let that fool you, honey. She’s got a heart of gold, but in the principal’s job I guess you’ve got to show some toughness. I’m not so sure about the superintendent. He talks a good game, but I think he’s a weasel and if he gets even the slightest bit of criticism, he’ll seek to wiggle out of offering you a contract.”

I nodded, recognizing that might be the case. Harriet and I had become fairly constant companions, usually attending a play or movie over the weekend, enjoying a dinner together and shopping. Once school was over for June, we began spending more time together, going out at least twice a week. We seemed always to gravitate toward activities that mainly attracted women, and I enjoyed the experiences. Of course, in our public outings, I always dressed as a male, though I hardly sought to hide my effeminate mannerisms.