On reflection, it must've been the dumbest thing I'd ever done in my life up to that point. I had to live next door to this guy and his family; how could I have been crazy enough to think I'd get away with it? In a perfect world, I suppose I would have been 'straight' with him from the start; told him I was biologically male (even though my genetic condition gives me a highly feminized appearance) and that he'd simply caught me fooling around in a ten dollar dress I'd bought at the Salvation Army. He was a regular guy, he'd understand my position. Probably laugh at the mistake and invite me over to watch the Semi Finals on ESPN.

Well...maybe not. But who knows? As I later discovered, Pete Fuller had about the sweetest nature to be found on God's green earth, not a malicious bone in his entire body. I might have saved us both a hell of a lot of trouble by just coming clean.

The truth was, I didn't know the guy from Adam. In the course of events, he proved himself a stand-up dude and a better friend than I'd ever known, but at the time he was just some big lummox who'd wandered in off the street while my back was turned (and my prim young fanny bared, let's not forget that little detail). I had no idea what I was dealing with here; he could have been an escapee from a psych-ward for all I knew. I mean, he walked in holding a Starbucks mug, for chrissake.

It was too late to change my story, anyway. I'd started out with a little white fib, telling him that I'd been rehearsing for a school musical. And it wasn't a complete lie; Lainsbury Hall was putting on a Bastille Day review in July, which included a Moulin Rouge number in the grand finale. I'd been conscripted for the Montmartre sequence, along with four other volunteers from the tenth grade.

I've heard it said that no good relationship begins with a lie, and in light of what followed that first meeting, I can vouch for the accuracy of the statement (although things worked out fine in the end, at least for Pete and his folks). My sole defense throughout the whole fiasco was that I never acted out of malice, never willfully set out to hurt anyone. I know that's no real excuse, but at the end of the day, my behavior was prompted by circumstance rather than spite.

Still ...

"I haven't seen you around," The Boy From Next Door said as we walked into the kitchen, "you go to Chamberlain High?" I wasn't aware of it at the time, but I had already decided – subconsciously at least – to break the cycle of deception before it gained too much momentum. I stepped over to the pantry, throwing him a backwards glance. He'd halted by the kitchen table, hands sunk into the pockets of his jacket.

"No, I don't," I replied to his question, folding open the louvered doors, "I go to Lainsbury Hall over on Bridgeport Street." No need lie there, he was probably unfamiliar with the general territory anyway. I reached into the pantry, mind racing ahead of my mouth as I tried to anticipate his next question.

"Oh, yeah, Lainsbury Hall ..." he repeated, scanning his memory for any references to a Bridgeport Street, "that's the private school, isn't it? The one out by St Andrews."

"The same," I nodded, turning to face him, sugar bag in hand, "sounds like you know Chamberlain pretty well." I was a little surprised by his knowledge of the local geography. He'd only moved in a couple of days ago, from what he'd told me.

"Yeah, I do. Been here my whole life. My folks and I used to live in the Westside before we bought the place next door." He was standing in the window, his brown hair tinted gold by the deepening afternoon sun. Square-jawed and blue-eyed, he must have had at least a dozen girls hanging off his arm come Friday night. Cheerleaders most probably.

"The Westside?" I asked, putting the sugar on the table and extending my hand for the starbucks mug, "I thought it was mainly nightclubs and casinos out there."

"Yeah, it is", he agreed, passing me the mug without conscious thought, "my Dad owns the Windjammer Tavern down in Pitt Street. We used to live upstairs, over the main bar, but then we decided to move out here to the burbs."

I'd heard of the Windjammer. One of the Westside's more upmarket establishments, it was best known for its entertainment center, which included a gamesroom and a theatre restaurant. Live bands played there most weekends, and it was the venue of choice for a wedding receptions and civic functions, despite the Westside's sleaze-dive reputation.

"Your father owns the Windjammer?" I asked, pouring the sugar into the mug and spilling a little on the table, "you must be the most popular guy at Chamberlain High."

He contemplated this for a few moments, then smiled: a wide, easy smile, quite unlike the penitent grimace he'd given me previously. Like I said, at least a dozen girls come Friday night. They'd just about melt in their pants before that heart-stopping grin.

"Yeah, a quarterback with a singles bar; every senior's fantasy." He laughed as if he'd never considered it before (which, in fact he hadn't), and I caught myself laughing with him. I was struck again by how open his face was, how warm and free of teenaged cruelty. The fear and doubt I'd experienced earlier had dissipated entirely; so had my first impression of a blundering, witless lout. It was almost possible to forget I was wearing suspender stockings beneath my skirt.

We stood looking at each other across the room, a table full of sunlight between us. I guess that's where it started: that tiny burst of spontaneous laughter, followed by a long second of relaxed silence. I discovered that I liked him. Very much. Strange how a friendship can form in the quiet spaces between two sentences.

"So ... you play football?" I asked, apropos of nothing.

"Yeah, I run defense for the Chamberlain Rebels. Although I seem to spend more time on the benches than on the field lately"

"Hard to believe," I said, measuring the spread of his shoulders. He shrugged his response, then surprised me by changing the subject.

"What about you? You play any sports?" He sounded genuinely interested.

"Studied gymnastics since I was ten," I answered, telling him the complete truth for the first time that day. I was impressed: I'd never met a jock who didn't bulldoze straight over the conversation once they got started on the virtues of the game. The Boy From Next Door was a rare find indeed.

"Cool," he said, and a look of recognition seemed to pass over his features, "hey, didn't Lainsbury win the state gymnastics finals last year? You weren't on the team, were you?"

"No, I wasn't. I'm good, but not that good". Which was a pity, Lainsbury's gymnasts wore cute little pleated skirts with long white socks. I could almost see myself flipping over into a handspring during the introductory routine, exposing my flawless white briefs to like a million people. Cheerleaders and cancan girls. The thought brought the hint of a smile to my lips.

We laughed again, although he had no idea what I was giggling about. And for one perfect instant, reality seemed to peel back, replaced by the illusion I'd generated within myself. I was no longer just some freak tarted up in a garter-belt and a tawdry satin dress. I was a girl: a pretty, teenaged girl who been caught flaunting her undies when she thought no one was watching. Laughing it off in the kitchen with The Boy From Next Door.

I looked down at the Starbucks mug on the table, wondering what to say next. My uninvited guest was still standing on the other side of the table with his red-gold hair glinting in the sun. His errand was complete; we had no further business with each other. His mother was probably wondering what was taking him so long. But paradoxically, I didn't want him to leave. I was enjoying myself; enjoying the attention he was paying me, the thrill of discovery and exposure. I was excited, more excited than I'd ever felt before. It was magical, it was enchanting, and I didn't want it to stop.

"You ...wouldn't like some milk and cookies, would you?" I asked hesitantly, feeling like a bobby-soxer in a 1950s situation comedy. A vague premonition whispered through my mind, a soft warning echoed over some great distance: What are you doing? What in god's name are you doing? It was a small, insignificant voice, drowning in the flood of arousal rising through my system. I had no trouble dismissing it from my thoughts.

"Yeah, sure," he answered without a second thought, as if afternoon tea with the local hermaphrodite was the most natural thing in the world. He sat down at the table, hunching comfortably forward on his elbows. I walked back over to the pantry, petticoats skittering as I moved.

"Chocolate chip OK?"

"Nothing Better," he replied.

And so it began.

To be continued...

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