Undercover Girl - Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine – Secret Desires

The four friends, Amy, Mollie, Latesha and Marcus, dressed as Miranda, had their usual Wednesday “girls-night-out” at Luke’s Place.  Several Wednesday nights before, Marcus had entered the bar dressed in women’s slacks, a blouse, wearing makeup and with his longish hair flowing freely; he was easily accepted as Miranda, the other girls having explained to Luke Bennett, the bar owner, and to the always inquisitive barmaid, Nancy, that the young man known as Marcus had joined them on a dare that he had to be dressed as a female to join them for their Wednesday night outings.   
 
After several Wednesday nights as Miranda, Marcus had been accepted easily as a young woman and now, after four weeks, he took pride in gravitating for more obvious feminine styles and wore a tight denim skirt that ended in mid-thigh, black pantyhose, a violet-colored blouse with a scoop bodice and three-inch heels.   He had invested in realistic looking breast forms (B cup) and through clever applications of blush coloring created an illusion of cleavage.  Because he had little time to fix his hair, he had tied it with a pink ribbon into a high ponytail, giving him the look of a mischievous young lady. 
 
“Hey Amy,” said a young man who was sitting on a barstool as she and Marcus entered Luke’s.   
 
“Hi Emery, how you doing?” She asked in greeting him back with a smile.   The young man dressed in knee-length shorts and brightly colored polo shirt; he was moderately tall and had a slender, sinewy body.  His hair was neat and cut short and he looked terribly attractive. 
 
Marcus recognized the young man as Emery Harrington, an assistant DA that he met while working on the Ethel Mitchell case, one of his first cases in which a young Ethel accused a foster parent of abuse.  Marcus tried to position himself behind Amy, hoping the young man wouldn’t recognize him.
 
“Great now that I see you, dear,” Emery said, flirtatiously.  “And who’s your lovely friend?” 
 
“Miranda, and keep your hands of her; she’s taken,” Amy responded cheerfully. 
 
Emery held his hands up, to fend off Amy’s suspicions as to his motives.  “Just asking and you can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said. 
 
“Wait ‘til I see Paulina, Emery,” Amy warned, apparently referring to the man’s significant other. 
 
“Just being friendly, Amy,” he smiled back. 
 
“Nice meeting you Miranda,” Emery said as the two turned from him and moved to their usual booth in the rear area of Luke’s Place. 
 
“Oh, my God,” Marcus said.  “I was worried he’d recognize me.” 
 
“No chance of that, my dear,” Amy said.  “You’re all girl tonight, but if you keep looking like you do, you’ll soon be too tempting for guys to keep their hands off you.  Or girls, and I’ll get jealous.”  
 
The two joined Mollie and Latesha in the booth; the other two had left one side free so that Amy and Marcus could sit together.  Both were aware of that Amy and Marcus had been in a relationship and that Marcus had begun to wonder if he was transgendered.  Mollie and Latesha seemed unconcerned about the unusual nature of the growing love affair; nor did they worry whether it might result in Marcus receiving undue favors from the team leader of their part of the agency.  They respected Amy’s fair-mindedness and her commitment to providing the best care possible for the agency’s children.
 
It was agreed that their “girls-night-out” evenings were to be free of shop talk, but Marcus asked if they might take a few minutes to talk about Jefferson Turner.  He hadn’t heard what Latesha might have learned from her time with Jefferson earlier in the day. 
 
“We learned nothing,” Latesha replied.  “He cried a lot and said he didn’t want to go back to the Harrisons.” 
 
“Did he say why?” 
 
“No, just that he didn’t like them, but wouldn’t tell us why,” Latesha said.  “He said they didn’t hit him or anything like that.  He just said it wasn’t a good environment for him.  And he kept asking when you’d stop by.” 
 
“Both Marcus and I feel that something weird is going on in that house,” Amy volunteered. 
 
“I know,” Latesha agreed.  “And, oh yes, he kept wondering how the other two foster kids there were doing.  Melody and Larry.” 
 
“OK, that’s enough for tonight, girls,” Amy said.  “Let’s get our drinks.” 
 
***** 
Marcus had grown comfortable as an androgynous young man with effeminate mannerisms.  Most days he wore unisex clothing to work, women’s slacks or jeans and colorful blouses.  He kept his hair moderately long and neat, always fixing it into a ponytail during his work hours.  He wore studs in his pierced ears.  Underneath it all, he wore colorful cotton panties, largely because they felt comfortable.  Rather than a male undershirt, he always wore one of his camisoles.  
 
Most co-workers and colleagues seemed to accept him, as did all but a few of the foster parents he dealt with.  As far as he could tell, the foster kids in his caseload were indifferent to his mannerisms and his style of clothing.  The one exception was a boy named LaGrande Marquis who had assumed the role of being a tough guy complete with dreadlocks and goatee that he had fashioned out of a beard he had grown quite early in his young life.  He wore his jeans so they slid down, often exposing the crack in his buttocks.  
 
“What do I need this fairy princess for?” he said disdainfully when Marcus held his first meeting at the boy’s foster home. 
 
“LaGrande, don’t be rude,” the boy’s foster mother, a husky woman with deep black skin.  She had two other teen boys as foster kids; her own children were adults and no longer in the house.  The agency had always considered Mrs. Jenkins to be particularly good with teen foster children; it was always hard to find adoptive parents once a child hit teen years.  Often, the state and children’s agencies are forced to place teen foster kids in less than satisfactory homes; thus, foster parents like Mrs. Jenkins were highly valued by the child protection system. 
 
“I’m nearly seventeen.  Why do I need a fag like this telling me what to do with my life?  What happened to that slit that used to come?  She was hot,” the boy snarled. 
 
“LaGrande Jackson Marquis!  Watch your tongue,” Mrs. Jenkins yelled back. 
 
Her tone silenced the boy, who merely nodded, and then discreetly flashed Marcus the finger.  It was not discreet enough; Mrs. Jenkins saw the gesture. 
 
“LaGrande, I saw that.  One more bit of disrespect toward Mr. Whiting and I’ll take your sax away from you for a week.  Got it?” 
 
The boy nodded and then turned his head down.  He was silent, but Marcus feared that the boy had shut himself out of the conversation, that he’d sit there and grunt for the rest of the visit.  It would be a useless visit, he thought. 
 
“I’m sorry Mr. Whiting,” Mrs. Jenkins said, turning to Marcus.  “What was it you wanted to discuss?” 
 
“No problem, ma’am.   I really just wanted to get to know you and LaGrande better since I’ll be your caseworker,” he explained.  “I’m sorry for the change in social workers, but Latesha, your former worker, was assigned elsewhere.  I only hope I can do half as well as she has done.” 
 
“We all liked her,” she said.  “I don’t know why we can’t keep workers for a longer time.” 
 
“I understand,” Marcus said. 
 
While Mrs. Jenkins had silenced LaGrande and sought to make him more communicative, Marcus was aware that she also was suspicious of his ability to be an effective social worker.  He knew his effeminate manners and lilting way of talking would mark him as submissive and perhaps easy to intimidate, but he was convinced he could overcome his outward appearance to serve his assigned families well. 
 
“So, LaGrande, you play the saxophone?” Marcus asked, quickly changing the subject. 
 
The boy looked up at Marcus, the first time he faced Marcus directly.  “Yes, I’m in the jazz band,” he mumbled. 
 
“And he’s great, one of the best they’ve ever had at Emerson High School,” Mrs. Jenkins said. 
 
“Who’s your favorite sax player?” Marcus asked. 
 
“Several.  Sonny Rollins and Lester Young,” the boy said. 
 
“Cool.  So, you like bebop?” 
 
“I guess.” 
 
“Have you ever heard of Frank Morgan?” Marcus asked. 
 
“No, who’s he?  Is he dead?” 
 
“Yes, he’s dead, but he played both a warm, lovely sound and also the up-beat, fast stuff.” 
 
“Why don’t I know about him?” the boy asked. 
 
Marcus took a moment to consider how best to relate the story of Frank Morgan, who had spent thirty years in jail due to troubles he encountered as a young man in Los Angeles, resuming his career as an older man. 
 
“He had the smoothest sound you ever heard, man, even when he was doing some of his exotic riffs,” Marcus said after he told Morgan’s story.  “If he hadn’t have screwed up as a kid when he was your age, I think he’d have become as well-known as your Sonny Rollins or John Coltrane or even Charlie Parker for that matter.” 
 
The boy didn't say anything at first.  He looked suspiciously at Marcus, as if the sissy white man sitting opposite him was just telling him a phony “do-gooder” story.  “What’s that got to do with me?” he finally said. 
 
"Think about it, LaGrande, I’d hate to miss out on your talents if you had to spend thirty years in the slammer.   I love a great sax.”   
 
“That’s not a true story.  You just made it up to lecture me,” the boy said. 
 
“Well, it’s true and I’ll drop off one of my CDs of Frank Morgan, and you can hear it and read about it for yourself,” Marcus offered. 
 
“You can drop it off but I might not listen to it,” LaGrande mumbled. 
 
"OK, then, but I’ll drop it off tomorrow.” 
 
“Suit yourself,” the boy said, returning to his sullen demeanor. 
 
Marcus got up to leave the room, discouraged that he had been unable to break through the boy’s seemingly uncaring, rebellious attitude.  “Let me walk you out, Mr. Whiting,” Mrs. Jenkins said. 
 
“Wait,” LaGrande said before they could leave.  “You won’t forget that CD, will you?” 
 
“No, LaGrande, I’ll drop it off after lunch tomorrow,” Marcus said. 
 
“That’s your choice, ‘cause maybe I won’t even listen to it,” the boy said, returning to his sullen manner.  
 
The two left the room and Mrs. Jenkins stopped Marcus after they had progressed to the front door.  “He’ll listen to it, I’m sure,” she said. 
 
“I don’t want to force him to listen,” Marcus warned, worried the woman might employ some form of discipline to get him to listen. 
 
“Don’t worry, Marcus,” she said using his name for the first time in their meeting.  “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, but he’ll listen.  He loves his sax that I can tell you.” 
 
“That’s half the battle to being a good musician, loving the instrument,” Marcus said.  “The other half is to play it a lot.  Don’t call it practice, though.  If you can, give him all sorts of opportunity to play it, or to practice.” 
 
She nodded as if she’d agreed with him. 
 
“I think you did him some good, Marcus,” she smiled for the first time that day. 
 
As Marcus left the foster home, he felt lighter than he had at any time during his short span of work at the agency.  He wanted to twirl and turn like a ballerina as he skipped along to his car.   Only, he didn’t; after all, he had to remind himself that he’s a man. 
 
***** 
Latesha and Mollie announced at the next girls-night-out session that the two of them had joined a softball team that scheduled its games on Wednesday night conflicting with their weekly get-togethers.  Because of various conflicts facing each of them on other evenings, it was decided that Amy and Miranda (it was expected that for these outings that Marcus would be dressed as Miranda) would attend the games and cheer the team on, gathering later for after-game drinks. 
 
Mollie had suggested that perhaps Amy and Miranda might want to join the team.  “We still have some vacancies,” she announced. 
 
“Not me,” Amy protested, claiming she had never played the game. 
 
“How about you, Miranda?” 
 
“You wouldn’t want me on your team.” 
 
“Come on Miranda,” Mollie pleaded.  “I bet you’re good.  You were a guy once, weren’t you?” 
 
Marcus reddened.  Reminded that he was male embarrassed him since he had absolutely no athletic skills.  He had been teased and taunted for “throwing like a girl,” which he did, and for his “pussy” swings at the plate.  Rather than face constant humiliation, Marcus had simply stayed away from playing baseball or basketball with boys. 
 
“No way,” Marcus said.  “Your pitchers throw too fast and that ball is hard.  Why do they call it softball?” 
 
“Good question,” Mollie answered, holding up her right hand which contained a taped fourth finger which she had jammed in a practice game.  She played catcher, a position prone to bruises and torn fingers. 
 
“At least you two girly girls can cheer for us, right?” Latesha said, smiling. 
 
Mollie and Latesha played for the Flashes who were sponsored by the local chapter of the National Association of Social Workers; the two had joined the team in mid-July, after two of the team’s key members had married in June and found their marital obligations interfered with softball.  The team played at a popular athletic facility with four well-lighted softball fields, two hardball diamonds, tennis courts and basketball courts.  The Flashes wore Navy blue uniforms with the word “Flashes” and a lightning strike emblazoned in gold on the front.  Their shorts exposed their sinewy thighs and they wore sleeveless tops.  They wore white socks trimmed in blue and gold that reached to just under their knees. 
 
Marcus marveled at how muscular the girls’ legs and arms appeared.  Even their pitcher, a tall chunky young lady they called “Crusher” for her crushingly fast pitching style, had beefy arms that were solid and firm.  No way, Marcus knew, could he join with this group of young women with his puny, soft, almost dainty body.  
 
Latesha quickly had become one of the team’s most valued players due her obvious hitting skills and graceful and accomplished catches in centerfield. 
 
“Did you ever imagine that our stylish, well-dressed Latesha could be such an athlete?” Amy asked Marcus as they sat in the second row of the five-tier bleachers that were erected behind the benches of each of the two competing teams. 
 
“She’s really good,” Marcus agreed.  “I never thought she’d do anything so physical.” 
 
“Nor I, since it might ruin her makeup,” Amy said, laughing. 
 
Marcus saw how by end of the third inning that Latesha was perspiring as she ran in from centerfield glistening in moisture in the warm, muggy night.  What particularly impressed Marcus was the spirit of the girls on the Flashes team, quick to congratulate and hug a girl for a particularly good play or to encourage a girl who might have struck out at the plate or made an error in the field.  He enjoyed the togetherness of spirit shown by the girls and hoped someday that he might be fully accepted into such a family of femininity.  
 
***** 
On his way to work the following morning, Marcus dropped off his CD of Frank Morgan’s “Easy Livin’” album for LaGrande Marquis.  The boy’s foster mother, Florence Jenkins, met him at the door. 
 
“I don’t know if it was your visit or not, Mr. Whiting, but LaGrande seems to be a changed boy,” Mrs. Jenkins said.  “He’s off to school now, and he went without a fuss.” 
 
“That’s great, ma’am, I think deep down under all his resentment there’s a good kid,” he said. 
 
“I do, too, and that’s why I keep taking these kids in, even though it so often feels hopeless.”   

“All we can do is to try, Mrs. Jenkins.”   

***** 
As the weeks went on, Marcus visited Jefferson at Hope Place whenever he could.  Normally, he would stop by about seven o’clock, though sometimes he’d visit after work in the late afternoon or early evening.  He was pleased to see the boy was attending school regularly, largely because Tatiana, his caseworker at the shelter, had arranged for him to transfer to the School for the Performing Arts, a specialty high school. 
 
Though Jefferson still refused to talk about the two times he was found dressed as a girl late at night, he began to open up to Marcus about other things. 
 
It was on the third visit that Marcus found the boy in his room deep in concentration.  He was looking at what appeared to be a makeshift scrapbook made out of a school notebook.  Jefferson quickly closed the book as Marcus entered; the boy’s face reddened and Marcus wondered if perhaps the boy was looking at porn.  After all, Jefferson was fifteen years old, and such perusing might be normal for a boy his age. 
 
The notebook was bulging; obviously, Jefferson – or someone – had pasted many items into the book, expanding it to twice it’s normal size.  Marcus did his best to look like he never saw the boy guiltily shut the book. 
 
“How you doing, Jefferson?”  Marcus asked, hoping he had disguised his interest in the notebook. 
 
“Cool, Mr. Whiting,” Jefferson replied.   
 
“Great, had a good day myself,” he said. 
 
“Mr. Whiting, I wasn’t looking at anything dirty or anything wrong, sir, really?” 
 
Marcus laughed.  “Don’t worry, Jefferson.  That’s your business, as long as you’re not looking at how to build a bomb or something like that.” 
 
“No, no, no,” the boy said quickly.  “Just something I like.” 
 
“Can’t see anything wrong in that.  A boy has a right to his dreams.  I always was dreaming about something I’d like to do, but maybe I couldn’t.” 
 
“Really, like maybe going to New York to see a play or something,” Jefferson asked eagerly. 
 
“Is that what you’d like to do?” 
 
“Sort of, I guess.” 
 
“You want to be an actor, Jefferson?” Marcus asked.   
 
“Maybe, but not really, more like . . .ah . . . ah . . . you won’t laugh, will you?” 
 
“Of course not, whatever it is if it’s legal go for it,” Marcus encouraged.  “We have to have our goals, Jefferson.  That’s a good thing.” 
 
“Mine are kind of different or maybe weird.  Please tell me you won’t laugh.” 
 
“Why should I?  We all have dreams,” Marcus said. 
 
“What are yours?” the boy asked. 
 
Marcus smiled.  “Oh, mine’s a silly one,” he said. 
 
“What?  Tell me,” the boy pleaded. 
 
Marcus paused for a second; he hesitated to tell Jefferson his long-standing dream, but thought that perhaps if he did, the boy would open up and tell us why he was out late at night dressed as a girl.  He drew out his cell phone, and began clicking through a series of pictures, found one, smiled to himself and then showed the picture to Jefferson. 
 
“Wow, she’s pretty,” Jefferson exclaimed.  “Who is she?  Your girlfriend?” 
 
“No, look a little closer, maybe you’ll know her,” Marcus said. 
 
Jefferson scrutinized the photo more closely and suddenly his eyes lit up.  He looked at Marcus and smiled broadly. 
 
“That’s you! It’s you.  You’re so pretty.” 
 
Marcus smiled.  “Yes, that’s kind of my secret.  I sometimes wish I had been born a girl and I occasionally dress up as a girl named Miranda.  Does that seem wrong to you?” 
 
The boy shook his head, “No, you’re just like me.” 
 
“You feel better as a girl, Jefferson?” 
 
“Uh huh.  Don’t you?” 
 
“I don’t honestly know, but I feel more like myself,” Marcus replied.  “When I’m trying to be a boy, it’s hard.  It’s like I’m on my guard all the time, trying to prove to myself that I’m a normal boy.” 
 
“Me too.  I’m so glad you told me, Marcus. Maybe I’m not such a weirdo and freak,” Jefferson said.  He began to sob softly. 
 
“It’s tough being yourself when it’s not being what everyone thinks you should be.” 
 
Jefferson took a tissue that Marcus handed him smiled.  “I like being Margot.” 
 
“Margot?  Why?” Marcus wondered about why Jefferson chose a name that was far from typical for an African-American girl and also one that is usually identified with an older generation. 
 
“For Margot Fonteyn.  You know, the great ballerina,” Jefferson spoke excitedly. 
 
Marcus had heard the name, but had no idea about Fonteyn’s greatness.  He had never watched any ballet, except short excerpts that appeared occasionally on variety shows on television; then, he turned away, feeling he’d best not show an interest in ballet since it was associated with femininity and sissy boys in the typical male mind. 
 
“Really, you should see her,” Jefferson eagerly continuing.  “There’s a YouTube clip of her dancing the Pas de Deux from Act Four of ‘Swan Lake’ with Rudolf Nureyev and she’s on pointe for just about the whole four minutes and so graceful.  To dance like Fonteyn, wow!” 
 
The boy got up from his seat and began to dance about his room, raising arms gracefully as he twirled about.  The boy was lost in his dance, as if he were the famed ballerina. 
 
“Oh, how I wish I could go on pointe, but I need special shoes for those and they’re so expensive,” he said when he finished. 
 
“You’re very graceful, Margot,” Marcus said, using the boy’s chosen girl’s name. 
 
“I was so happy that Tatiana got me into the arts school.  I’ll be in dance.  Maybe they’ll let me dance the girl parts, I hope,” he said. 
 
Jefferson reached over a picked up the notebook he was examining when Marcus entered the room.  “Look at this,” he said, opening the book to a picture of four girls in white tutus dancing together holding hands. 
 
“The dancing snowflakes.  I’d love to be the sugar plum fairy, too, but I’d have to be really good for that.   Margot used to be the sugar plum fairy all the time.” 
 
Marcus took the boy’s slender hand in his own, marveling at how his own smallish and dainty hands matched Jefferson’s.  
 
“I hope you get to do that someday,” he said.  “But won’t they want you to dance boy roles?” 

“No, I’m a girl and I want to dance as a girl,” the boy said resolutely. 
 
“Is that why you were out late at night as a girl?” Marcus asked, abruptly changing the subject, hoping that Jefferson would finally confess about his strange activities. 
 
“No, I didn’t want to be out there.” 
 
“Then why did you go out at night like that?” 
 
“I can’t tell you.  I’ve already said too much,” Jefferson said.  His demeanor suddenly changed and he looked frightened. 
 
“You can tell me, Margot,” Marcus said.  “I’m not here in my official capacity.  I’m not your caseworker.  I just want to be your friend.  You can tell me and I won’t break your trust, unless you say it’s OK.” 
 
“I can’t. I can’t.  I’m sorry.  They’ll . . .” Jefferson his words were interrupted by uncontrollable sobbing. 
 
Marcus let the boy sob; he held the boy’s hands in his.  Finally, he said gently, “They’ll do what, Jefferson?” 
 
The boy’s crying continued for a few moments before Jefferson muttered, “It’s nothin’.  It’s nothin’.” 
 
Before he left, Marcus hugged the slender boy.  He whispered, “You’re a beautiful person, whether you’re Jefferson or Margot.  You’re protected now.” 
 
The boy’s sobbing subsided.  “Maybe,” he said. 
 
Marcus left the room, convinced the boy was frightened about something. 
 
***** 
The next morning, Marcus called Tatiana at Hope Place, questioning how closely the staff at the shelter was watching Jefferson. 
 
“The boy is terribly scared and I’m worried he’s growing more depressed,” he said. 
 
“I assure you, Marcus, we’re aware of Jefferson’s situation,” she replied.  “As I’ve told you before, we’ve got him tagged as potentially suicidal and his room was covered twenty-four hours a day with a video camera. Anything that he could use to hurt himself has been removed.” 
 
“You can’t watch him constantly, I know, but he seemed to be down last night.” 
 
“Actually, Marcus, we think he’s better, now that he’s at the Performing Arts school.  You know he made friends with Elias and that seemed to help.” 
 
“Yes, but I understand Elias been sent to a new foster family, and I think Jefferson misses him,” Marcus said. 
 
Elias was a sixteen-year-old transboy that had been completing his stay at Hope Place when Jefferson was admitted.  The agency had a special unit for children who favored alternate lifestyles; usually the youngsters were gay, but there had been transgender children there as well.  Most of the children in this unit had been found on the streets, often having been abandoned by their families due to their sexual orientation and behaviors. 
 
“Marcus, you know, virtually all the kids we have in the alternate unit could be considered suicidal and we keep all of the materials that they could use to hurt themselves well out of reach.” 
 
“Jefferson really likes ballet, I noticed,” he said, changing the subject. 
 
“Yes, and we’ve made it possible for him to use a room to practice and Elias had started practicing with him.  Jefferson wondered if I could find a short skirt that he could wear like a tutu and I’m bringing one of my old skirts from home for him.  He does make a cute girl, you know.” 
 
Marcus hung up the phone, pleased to hear that the Hope Place staff was encouraging Jefferson’s dance desires.  He felt it offered a lifeline to the boy and help to get him out of his depression.  Nonetheless, he worried that Jefferson was still frightened about something.  It largely stemmed, he felt, from the boy’s two night-time adventures as a teen girl into questionable areas.  Why was the boy out there?  What was he scared of?