“Greg! The mail’s here and you have a letter from the College of the Art Foundation of Chicago,” Bob yells up to me. “Isn’t that the one you’ve been waiting for?” I barrel down the stairs and nearly trip as I stop short in front of my brother.

I’m suddenly nervous. Yes, I want to know what the letter says—but by the same token, well, I don’t! What if they didn’t accept me? Worse, yet—what if they did? How would I afford it?

I whine, “Yes, Bob. This is the one! If I’m accepted here, this is the one! But if I am—how will I afford it?” He hands me the letter and says, “Bro, if you get in—and it’s what you want—it’ll all work out!” I sigh, “Thanks, Bob. Getting in is really hard and it’s certainly what I want but it’s way more than I can afford.”

He admonishes me, “Greg! I just told you—we’ll figure it out. Now, am I going to die of old age before you open the letter? Is that it? You’re waiting on my life insurance? That’s your plan?” I know he’s kidding but it still stings. I take the envelope and tear it open. I take out the letter with a shaky hand and carefully unfold it. I start scanning it and read out loud, “Dear, Mr. Jennings… Blah, blah, blah… We are happy to inform you that you have been accepted into the College of the Art Foundation of Chicago!”

I literally scream!

Bob grins and punches me in the shoulder, then says, “See! I told you it would work out!”

I just sigh and say, “Yeah, but where am I going to come up with the tuition—let alone the room and board?” Bob grins and says, “Greg, Little Dude! Settle down! Mom and Dad have the tuition covered—Dad started a special education fund for us each when we were born and it’s specially slated for tuition. It’s done really well, so that’s covered. That’s how I have been taking classes. You will just have to cover your room and board. I know Chicago isn’t really cheap, but I know you can find something that will work. You’ll just have to get a part-time job. But, what about your other decision? I notice it’s addressed to ‘Greg’. Does that mean you decided?”

I shake my head and sigh. I look at him and hold back my tears as I respond, “No, Bob, I haven’t. It was just easier to apply this way.” He shakes his head and says, “Well, Little Dude, you can’t really stay on blockers forever…” I grimace and retort, “I know, Bob!” I instantly regret my tone and calm it down, “It’s just that things are still so complicated!”

I started on hormone blockers when I was fourteen—just before puberty would have hit me based on blood tests. I have always been confused about my gender and even though we couldn’t really afford it, Mom and Dad took me to a specialist who decided I should stay on blockers to give me time to find myself. That was back in the old administration when the world was moving in a direction that was much more accepting of the transgender community.

I was almost to the point of deciding to give living as a girl a trial period when all things ‘societal’ went decidedly south. Call me a chicken, but I don’t trust how it would go in today’s world—hate is on the rise and I really don’t want to be its stomping ground.

With all of that, I have been able to convince my doctor to keep me on blockers, but not for much longer. On top of that came Mom and Dad’s accident, which just further caused me to question things and further helped me convince my doctor. I just couldn’t find a way to commit to anything with all the confusing feelings I had.

After their death, my older brother, Bob, took over my care—putting his own college studies on a slower track. Luckily enough, he decided to go to college right here in Omaha when he started, so he still lived at home. I always felt so guilty that he had to take over my care and put his needs aside. It didn’t seem fair that I would worry about my own internal conflict.

We have enough to live on with the life insurance and other funds—but it is tight. There simply is not enough room in that budget for Bob to make the payments here and room and board for me in Chicago. But he is right—this may be my best chance to do something different with my life.

I placate him, “I don’t know, Bob. I will give it some thought. I need to go to Chicago and see if I can sort some things out, since I was able to graduate early. Maybe I can find that job and someplace to stay that will work out. I will do some real soul searching while I’m at it.” He punches my shoulder again and says, “You know we’re in this together, Little Dude—whether as my brother or my sister. I just worry about you being stuck in the middle.”

I sigh and simply say, “Me too, Bob—Me, too.” The Siren’s Song of giving in to my female side has been getting stronger and harder to ignore, but, like I said, I’m too chicken to go there. I won’t even give in to doing it in private for fear of opening Pandora’s Box.

I sigh again and think about the implications of all of this. If I seriously want to accept the admission, then I have a little over two months to find a place to live, find a job to pay for it and for food, and decide whether I want to let the genie out of her bottle. That would require having a serious discussion with the school. I shake my head and pull up the Greyhound website on my aging laptop.

It’s about a ten-hour trip from Omaha to Chicago on the bus and within my budget. I order a ticket for this coming Monday and then search out hotels that I can afford. After some digging, I find one that I can swing—barely. If I can get a job pretty quick, then it should work out. I make a reservation and shut down my laptop. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

For better or worse—Chicago, here I come!

I get off the bus after the overnight ride and stretch. After getting my bag, I figure out the best way to the hotel via public transportation. At least the hotel is within walking distance of the school, so that’s the vicinity that I’ll be looking for a place to live—and a job.

After I finally arrive, quite some time later, I look at the run-down building that is my hotel and go inside. It’s still early in the morning, but I’m hoping I can at least drop off my bag, which luckily is not a problem, so I go back out to venture into the streets of Chicago and see what I can find.

I walk over to the campus to get a feel for the lay of the land. After what seems like just a short time, I’m surprised when my stomach growls loudly and I look at the time. It’s already two o’clock!

I start walking back in the direction of my hotel and see a quaint little Bistro and Bakery with heavenly smells coming out of it. I also notice the “Help Wanted” sign in the window and sigh—I have no experience in anything they would be looking for.

I walk in the door, lured in by the smell of strong coffee and yeasty confections, and smile at the old-fashioned actual bell that announces my arrival. I look around the little shop and see that it’s empty.

There are several bistro tables set around the floor and a large wall of refrigerated and glass display cases with all sorts of cakes, cookies, and confections. Behind the cases the wall is lined with baskets filled with breads, buns, and bagels—and industrial coffee and espresso makers. Think of a quaint (i.e., non-plain vanilla) Panera’s—or a Parisian Café—and you would be close.

I walk up to the display cases and start looking at all of the wonderful delights as my mouth starts to water. I don’t even notice the young Goddess that comes in behind the counter, until she asks in a cheery voice that is as melodious as the bell over the door, “Hi! Can I help you find anything?”

I look up and ask with a goofy smile, “Umm… Is it too late to get anything for lunch?” She waves her hands towards the tables and replies, “Of course not! Take a seat anywhere and I’ll bring you a menu.”

I select a table both close to the window and the counter and take a seat so that I have a view of both. She comes over and says, “Hi, again! My name is Melody, and I’m the owner of this little shop. Welcome!”

She hands me a menu and I smile back and say, “Hi, Melody. I’m Greg and am new around here. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of money to spend, but I couldn’t resist the smells coming out of here!”

She giggles and says, “Well, I just so happen to have an overabundance of ‘Lunch Special’ ingredients left over. Do you like Club Sandwiches?” I nod and she says, “OK. Coming right up! What would you like to drink?” I reply, “May I just have some water? I think I’ll splurge on some of that heavenly-smelling coffee later.”

She just nods with a smile and disappears behind the counter to fill a large glass with ice and water. She brings it to my table and disappears again—this time through a door behind the counter. I assume it leads to the kitchen.

About ten minutes later, she comes back out with a plate piled high with a stacked bacon turkey club sandwich on fresh sourdough bread and loads of potato chips. She sets it down in front of me and says, “Enjoy!”

She seems to pause in undecided thought a second and then asks, “Do you mind if I sit a minute? It’s been crazy and I could use a quiet minute and you look like you could maybe use a friend?” I gesture towards the other chair at the table and say, “Please! I would love that!” Who in their right mind would deny this Goddess that request?

To my surprise, she goes and puts up the closed sign and locks the door. I look at the clock and see it’s three o’clock and remember that the sign said the bakery closes at three. She goes behind the counter and pours herself an iced tea and comes back to sit at the table with me. I start to protest that she’s closed and I should leave, but she just pointedly nods her head at my sandwich and says, “Eat!”

I nearly have to unhinge my jaw to take a bite of the sandwich. I moan in pleasure as I chew it—the bread is heavenly. She smiles in response to my clear compliment and asks, “So, you said you’re new around here. What brings you to town?”

I finish chewing my bite and wipe my mouth before answering, “I’m here to go to the Art Foundation. Right now, I’m looking for a place to stay that I can afford and a job to pay for it.” She nods and says, “I see. What are you going to major in?”

I shrug and say, “Well, I want to do something around painting and drawing. But I also have an interest in photography and the area of gender/sexuality that they offer. I’m still working on that.” I shrug again with a smile and take another small bite of the sandwich.

She gives me a searching look as I finish the bite and asks, “Would you be interested in a job here?” Thankfully I had swallowed the bite or I would have choked on it. I clear my throat and say, “Well, I’m not sure I have any qualifications that would apply here. And, I mean, you don’t even know me! Don’t get me wrong, I would love a job, but…”

She laughs and says, “I can see we’re going to get along great! So, tell me—what qualifications do you have. How old are you, Greg? You hardly look old enough to be out on the streets by yourself—let alone in college. I don’t mean that in a mean way!”

I blush a little and curse my looks. The fact that I graduated early, together with the effects of the hormone blockers, make me look more like I’m thirteen or fourteen and not the near eighteen that I am.

I sigh, “No offense taken. I get it. I have a…medical issue…that makes me look younger than I am. I also graduated early. To answer your question, I will be eighteen next month. As for qualifications—well, I know how to be a good student. My parents passed away two years ago and left my older brother and me enough money to live on fairly comfortably, so he made me concentrate on school and not get any jobs. I guess my tuition is also covered by some fund my father set up for me, but there’s not enough left over for my room and board here without me now getting some sort of job. I just assumed it would be stocking shelves somewhere—or flipping burgers at a fast-food restaurant.”

She nods and asks as I put a couple of chips in my mouth, “Are you good at art?” I smile and take my sketch pad out of my bag and hand it to her. I finish my sandwich as she demurely sits back and intently looks through my sketchbook—including a few quick sketches I had done this morning of the campus.

She sits quietly concentrating on the sketches as I finish my sandwich and munch on my chips. When my plate is clean, she looks up and says, “Greg, these are wonderful! Now, I have to ask… You said you have a medical issue? It’s not anything serious is it?”

I close my eyes and curse myself again—I opened myself up for that one!” What do I do now? I look at this Goddess sitting there, exuding femininity from every pore, and wonder if that could ever be me. I decide that I have to be honest with her. If it costs me the chance of any sort of working here, at least I was up front. What if somehow she were to offer me some sort of position—sweeping the floors maybe—and I actually to go through with registering and living as a girl?

I sigh and take a deep breath before opening my eyes and answering, “Well, I guess that depends on your point-of-view, Melody.” I blush and continue, “This is something that only a handful of people know, and I generally don’t talk about, period.”

I take another deep breath and the plunge, “I…I…I’ve been on hormone blockers since I was barely fourteen. That’s why I’m sort of ‘stuck’ at that stage of development. Once I make a decision on what—or who—I am, then I will either develop as my body intends, or as my mind does. That could potentially involve female hormones if my mind makes itself up to go in that direction.”

I sit back and wait for the explosion. I’m actually surprised at the next question, “You mean you’ve been on blockers for four years? And your doctor is OK with that? You’re not doing that on your own, right?”

I shake my head, “No! I’m under a doctor’s care! Honest! And, no, she’s not happy that I’m still stuck in indecision. There are many reasons for that. But I’m fairly sure that I’m going to give living as a girl a try. That would mean going in and letting the school know that I want to register as Angelique and not Gregory. I’ve been trying to get up the courage before applying for any positions, since it could be awkward.”

She nods and says, “Yes, I get that. Especially in today’s environment. So, you’re going to be Angelique? That’s a pretty name.”

I blush and say, “It was my great-grandmother’s on my mother’s side and what I would have been named if I had been born a genetic girl. And, I still haven’t fully decided. That’s a pretty big step.”

She gives me a look and nods, then says with a sigh, “Yes, it is. Look, you should know that being transgendered is not an issue for me, at all. For starters, I am bi, myself. This little piece of paradise is mine—fair and square. I own it lock, stock, and key. Now, how would a twenty-year old girl like me be able to afford something like this? My ‘eccentric’ aunt willed it to me when she died. I never knew her to be anyone but my favorite Aunt. Unfortunately, she was shunned by my mother—her sister. I never knew why as a young child and only found out when I moved in with her. I only found out why when I was disowned by my own mother because of my close relationship with my aunt. You see, she transitioned in her early twenties. She taught me to be open-minded and see people for who they really are—on the inside. Unfortunately, she passed away last year from complications of some surgery she had to have.”

I sit there, slack-jawed, and grab her hand without thinking, “Oh, Melody. I’m so sorry. What your aunt went through is largely why I never moved forward with doing what’s in my heart—after this President came in and…the world seemed to rush backwards in time in terms of tolerance…I just couldn’t!”

She nods with tears in her eyes and asks, “Well, Angelique, would you like to work for me? With your artistic talent, you could learn to be a huge asset to me in the decorating department—you know cakes and things. If you decide to go back to being Greg, I won’t mind—but I do think you should experience being the girl that I could clearly see in you the minute I saw you. How long do you have before you have to register?”

I feel dizzy all of a sudden. She saw the girl in me? What does that mean? And… I jerk as I focus back on her question and say, “I have another four weeks before I have to finish my registration. It would likely be good to talk with them before that, though, to make sure that there aren’t any problems… And… Are you sure? I would love to work here, but like I said, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

She smiles and says, “Hon, my Aunt taught me. If I could learn, anyone can! I think this calls for a piece of cake and some coffee, don’t you?” I dumbly nod, still in total shock.

She goes behind the counter and cuts two pieces of some sort of layered chocolate cake with a whipped-cream-looking frosting. She asks, “How do you like your coffee?” I smile and say, “Strong and unpolluted, as my Mom used to say.” She giggles, “A girl after my own heart! Come grab the plates and I’ll get us some of the good stuff.”

I go over and pick up the plates with the huge pieces of cake on them. On closer inspection, I can see that there are cherries between the layers. Melody brings over the coffee and sits down. She says, “That is my Aunt’s recipe. My great-great-grandmother came from Germany—the Black Forest, to be exact. This is an old family recipe that she brought with her. Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte—Black Forest Cherry Cake. The coffee is also made in good German tradition with specially dark-roasted beans.”

I eye the coffee and wonder if a spoon would stand up in it—or if you would need a hammer to get it down into it. I like strong coffee, but this seems to go a bit beyond just ‘strong’!

I take a bite of the cake and think I have died and gone to heaven! I moan again and say, “Melody, this is delicious! I thought that bread was good, but this is sooooo goooood!” I take a sip of the coffee and my eyes bug out and I feel a sweat come on from the instant caffeine overload.

I cough a little and choke out, “And the coffee is good, too!” She laughs and says, “You’ll get used to it, girl! You’ll need it working around here. The bakery side requires some early hours. I roast my own beans, so I can make sure it is done properly!”

We finish our cake as she quizzes me about my life back home and tells me about growing up with her aunt raising her from when she was twelve and her mother threw her out because of her ‘perverted’ views.

Before I know it, it’s four o’clock and I feel guilty about keeping her late. She lets me out the front door and asks, “Can you be here at three in the morning? I’ll show you some of what you would be doing, and you can decide if you want to try the job. It’s not for everyone—that’s why I have been having problems finding someone. It could maybe work for you in school, though. I would be willing to work around your hours.”

I laugh and say, “I’ll be here—as long as you have some of that battery-charger coffee ready. I can’t promise I will have bells on, though!” She surprises me when she gives me a girly hug and says, “I will see you in the morning, then, Ange!”

I walk the couple of blocks back to the hotel with my mind in a whirl. I check in and go to my room. It’s not much, but it’s clean and the bed is not too lumpy. I sit on it and get my phone. Before I can change my mind, I call my endocrinologist’s office back in Omaha. To my surprise, Gina, my doctor, is available to talk since she had a cancellation.

I tell her about my decision—the one I had somehow unconsciously made on the walk back—to give Angelique a try. She promises to get me an appointment with a local endocrinologist she knows and get back with me.

I thank her and try my psychiatrist. I don’t know what the Gods and Goddesses are up to, but I actually get her, too. After about thirty minutes, she promises to email me the paperwork I need to register as ‘transgendered’ and ‘in transition’ at the school. She also promises to give me a referral to a good clinic here in Chicago and get an appointment set up for me.

I just hang up with her when Gina calls me back and asks, “Can you be available for an appointment tomorrow at four? I have you set up and Frankie is willing to give you your first round of hormones after our discussion.”

I’m taken aback—this is going faster than I anticipated! I sigh and say, “Sure, Gina. I can be available—but you know my financial situation.” I can feel her smile as she says, “Don’t worry about that, Angelique. You just be there and give Frankie a hug for me.” She gives me the address and hangs up.

I’m lying on the bed in shock after my conversation with Gina when my phone dings. I check and find that I have an email from Dr. Wellington, my psychiatrist. It has the attachments she promised and informs me that I have an appointment with a local psychiatrist at two on Friday. I feel like I’m going to throw up from a severe case of the nerves. What have I done?

I call Bob and have a long talk with him before setting my alarm for two thirty in the morning and turning out the lights.