I tried to frown at my image, but the expression looked suspiciously like a pout.

Jack directed me on what to measure and how. Waist, hips, bust and chest were the important ones, I suppose, for women’s clothes. I managed to get a close estimate of my height using a pencil mark for the top of my head against the wardrobe.

Five-foot-eleven in my sneakers was about what I had been, but I’d gone from average for a guy to very tall for a girl. The other measurements were more embarrassing. No wonder I attracted attention with a 37.5-24-38 hourglass shape.

“Excellent,” commented Jack. “And according to the math, you should wear a 32DD or 34D bra, probably depending on style.”

“A bra?” I whimpered. But there was no denying it after a glance in the mirror. I needed a bra, not so much for support—my bosom was insanely perky—but my nipples were entirely too…enthusiastic, not to say outgoing. Friendly was Jack’s word.

I tried to frown at my image, but the expression looked suspiciously like a pout.

“Are you about done in there?” Jack called through the door. “I called and canceled my date. Target is open till ten, so we have time, but… you know….” He trailed off as I opened the door. He waggled an eyebrow and commented, “You look like a Robert Palmer song.”

“I what?” I hoped I was frowning at him. “You mean those skinny models with too much makeup?” I looked over my shoulder, tempted to step back into the room to look at my reflection again, but I resisted. Instead, I shook my head at him, “Flattering me is not going to get you anywhere.”

“Ha,” he said like he didn’t believe me. Then he handed me a purse.

“What?” I tried to hand it back. “I don’t need this.”

“Yes, you do. Trust me. You don’t want to be sticking your hands in the pockets on those jeans where guys can see you.”

I blushed. I’d been doing just that all afternoon, practically. I squeezed my eyes shut and winced. Looking the purse over, I found it had a long, thin strap for putting over my shoulder and a simple flap for an opening. It was a burgundy color with golden metal bits. “Where did you get this?” I asked.

“A girlfriend left it here months ago, then went to Hawaii. I took her ID out and her keys, but left her stuff like lipstick, tampons, nail clippers. Stuff you might need,” he explained, moving toward the outer door.

Tampons? Yike!

I put the purse strap over my shoulder and moved toward the door while he held it open for me. “Um, thanks, I guess,” I muttered. On the stairs down, the purse tried to get away by slipping off my shoulder, but I seized it and put it back. “Who would think there was something to learn about how to carry a purse,” I muttered.

Jack laughed and held the gate to the courtyard open for me. We went out to his Mustang, still parked on the street, and again, he opened the door for me and held it. “You don’t have to… I mean, it’s just me, Jack,” I said.

“Get used to it,” he told me. “If you don’t let guys hold doors for you, they’ll think you’re a bitch.”

I nodded, thinking wryly, he’s right. I sighed as I buckled up. “I’ve got to find out how to change back.”

Jack drove a block down and made two right-hand turns to get onto the street back to Target. “Well, I’ll help, but only because you’re a friend. Because, otherwise, well, there just aren’t enough beautiful girls in the world. And if you change back to being a guy, there will be one less.”

I stared at him. Finally, I asked as he pulled into the parking lot at Target, “Does this line of bullshit work on the girls you usually date?”

He laughed. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But no bullshit, Billy. You are gorgeous.” He jumped out of the car, but I didn’t wait for him, getting out on my side all by myself.

He stood there at the front corner of the Mustang watching me. “Your purse,” he said before I closed the car door.

I reached back inside to grab it. “Damnit,” I muttered.

We made our way across the crowded parking lot to the entrance. This was one of the smallest Targets I had ever seen. Lot space is at a premium in the village, I suppose, but there seemed just as many people as any bigger store might want.

“You need everything,” Jack commented as he grabbed one of the bright red shopping carts.

“I’m going to get changed back just as soon as I can,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow, so I don’t want to go nuts.”

He looked doubtful. “Buy enough stuff for a week,” he suggested. “Keep the receipts, and you can bring some of it back if you don’t need it.”

“Eh,” I murmured, not wanting to agree with that logic.

He steered us toward a display of slacks and jeans. “I’m assuming you don’t want dresses or skirts,” said.

“Got that right,” I agreed.

“Uh-huh. But you only have the one pair of jeans that fit, and one shirt. You should get two pairs of pants and four or five tops, at least.”

“I don’t think I need that many,” I protested.

“It won’t hurt to have them,” he countered. “Look, didn’t you say you have more work tomorrow? Acting work?” He paused, stepped back and looked me over. “I think you’re going to continue to have work. Looking like you do, they’d be crazy not to put you in front of a camera as often as possible.”

“That camera,” I began, “that was the problem….”

He interrupted. “You can act, can’t you?”

“Of course I can act,” I said, annoyed.

“I think you probably can,” he said. “But as a girl…?”

Well, that did make me pause to think. But he handed me a pair of jeans, blue with bright pink seams and rhinestones on the pockets. That distracted me. “Jack, I’m not going to wear something like this!” I shook the pants at him.

“Why not?” he asked.

“They’re much too girly!”

“Ah,” he said, looking smug. “So you aren’t that sure you can act, after all?”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack gave me a lop-sided smile. “Think of it as a challenge. You’ve been cast in the role of a hot, sexy girl. Can you do it?”

“I—that’s—you!” I spluttered.

He pointed at a full-length mirror. I stared at my reflection for a moment, then put the sparkly jeans back on the table and picked out a plainer pair, glaring at jack.

“Ooo,” he said. “Stretch denim. Your ass is going to look so good in that.”

A lady I hadn’t noticed before standing next to me remarked, “You can kill him for that.” She added, “It’s the Texas exemption. ‘Some men need killing.’”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I told her.

Jack just laughed at me and dropped a pair of hot pink stretch slacks in our cart.

“You—I—that!” I squeaked.

“You know where he sleeps, don’t you?” the lady said thoughtfully.

I nodded. “We’re roommates,” I admitted, darkly.

She nodded. “There you go then. I like scissors myself, right under the left shoulder blade.”

Jack and I both stared at her. She cackled like a loon and moved off, calling back, “If he hasn’t put a ring on your finger by the end of the month, you know what to do.”