“But won’t I be late for rehearsal?” I asked Bailey as we emerged from the 14th Street subway station into the late morning sun.

“Oh, no, they don’t start until 2 o’clock at least. And Billy and Hank will be telling them all about the Ed Sullivan guest spot next Sunday. They’ll be so excited, it’ll be 3 o’clock before any rehearsing gets done. And by then it’ll be time for late lunch!” She laughed as we walked south toward Christopher Street.

“I’ve never been to a beauty parlor just for myself. When I was really young, Mom would take my sister and me to Mindy’s Glamorama in New Milford near the ShopRite on Saturday mornings. I just sat there while they got their hair done. But I did get to read Mademoiselle magazine while I waited.” I stopped dead in my tracks and shivered. “Could I get into trouble? Bailey, they’ll know I’m…you know…not what I seem. They’ll call the cops!”

“Well, not the place we’re going to. You’re the clientele they cater to, if you get my meaning. Pretty much everyone in there will be in drag like you—”

“Stop saying that! I’m really a girl!” Passersby momentarily glanced in our direction but mostly shrugged and resumed their forward progress.

“Okay, I believe you.” She laughed. “The cops can enforce an unwritten rule that can have you arrested if you’re not wearing at least three articles of clothing appropriate to the sex you were officially born as.” A sinking feeling of panic swept over me, and I tried to obscure myself from view by following closely behind Bailey as we walked. “Of course, they only do that to hookers dressed in drag. You’re not planning to do anything like that, are you?”

“No, of course not. I’m a nice girl from the suburbs.”

“Shuggie, you’re a riot.” As we crossed onto Christopher Street, I recalled the time Mom and I watched that production of Wonderful Town on TV (Dad was tinkering in the garage and Connie was playing gin rummy with Grandma). There was a musical number all about Christopher Street that painted a picture of bohemian charm and colorful inhabitants. Of course, this was in the 1950s. And Mom and I had never been to Greenwich Village.

What I saw now was just another dingy New York City street, much like the rest of Manhattan that was outside of the cosmopolitan central region of the island featuring high rise office buildings, posh residential blocks, commercial high streets, and Central Park. The street before my eyes was a stretch of seedy bars and dilapidated shops. In the distance, close by the Hudson River docks, stood the marquee of the Theatre de Lys, where Peter Cook and Dudley Moore were starring in a production of Serjeant Musgrave's Dance. Connie said some guy at work had taken her to the play just two weeks ago. She loved the play, hated her date.

We walked past a bar called the Stonewall Inn, and two doors down, Bailey ushered me into Buffy’s World of Beauty. A bell on the door clinked and summoned Buffy herself. A tall, blowsy blonde of indeterminate age in a beautician’s smock, wearing an excess of makeup that made her face look like a watercolor painting. Now here was someone in drag, I thought. I was just about to bolt when Bailey gently pushed me into view.

“Hey, Buffy, this is Shuggie. Billy’s new discovery.”

Buffy leaned back as if far-sighted and gave me the once over. She clucked her tongue and addressed Bailey.

“Wait a minute, you know our clientele. Why didn’t Billy just take her to Mr. Kenneth or Michel Kazan? He can afford them. I try not to do women’s hair. You know, the business can get really competitive. I’m trying to stay under the radar.”

“Buffy, Shuggie’s a boy.” I smiled sweetly. Which probably confused Buffy even more. “No, really.” At this point, I noticed the other women in the salon. They all seemed a bit on the draggy side.

“Well, slap me with a wet noodle! Oh, honey, you are the sweetest looking girlyboy I’ve ever seen. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I murmured, not knowing what my age had to do with anything.

“All righty, then. Hmm. Doesn’t look like you’ll need epilating. You’re so lucky. Ahh, ears need piercing. Eyebrows need a little threading. Nails! Oh, they’re a mess, girl! Want a little wave in your wig, sweetie? And just a little makeup. Not too heavy. After all, you’re just an ingenue, fresh as the morning dew. Come, come with me. The private room is just about free.” Buffy took me by the arm, and I looked back at Bailey, waving and smiling.

“See you in a bit, Shuggie. I’m going to visit a friend who lives around here. We went to F.I.T. together. Bye!” I didn’t know if I was headed to a pampering session or an ordeal akin to torture. The door to the private room swung open and a middle-aged, portly woman dressed in a severe looking skirt suit stepped out, adjusting her bow half-hat and veil. As she walked past me, I turned to Buffy and whispered “Is that Vivian Vance? You know, from I Love Lucy?”

The woman turned around and addressed me in an incongruously deep voice. “Yes, Miss. Just call me Vivian. So good to know I have fans among the younger generation.” She extended her gloved hand. I shook it enthusiastically.

“I’ll leave you my autograph with Buffy here. I just know you’ll treasure it as a memento of our chance encounter. I must go now. Toodle-loo.” She walked out of the salon. Breathless, I turned to Buffy. “Was that really Vivian Vance?”

“I try to keep the identity of my clients confidential. Why, aren’t you sure?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy but she kinda looks like J. Edgar Hoover up close.”

“So right under our very noses, Billy and I discovered we had a young filly with a shitload of untapped talent, excuse my French. Shuggie, come on out here and meet the band,” Hank urged in the bourbon-soaked voice he favored in his role as the Francisco Franco of rhythm and blues. Flanked by Bailey and Brianna, I skittered to where Billy and Hank were standing, facing the assembled band, Honey and the three Honeys off to one side, arms akimbo, their expressions ranging from boredom to scowling annoyance.

“Hi, everyone,” I said in as cheery a tone as I could muster. The band and especially Bobby were wearing wide smiles. The drummer even gave me a drum roll as I bowed or curtseyed…it was a little of both. I was pleasantly surprised when Honey Hutch congratulated and hugged me. Viola, the lead Honey, was also quite welcoming, telling me that Hank and Billy had great noses for talent. The other Honeys were a bit stand-offish. I hope I wouldn’t figuratively as well as literally step on their toes.

Having changed into the white capri pants and grey crew neck sweater Bailey had found in the depths of her endless racks of wardrobe, I practically skipped out into rehearsal, I was so excited. Did kitten heel pumps go well with capri pants? No one remarked upon it, so I guess it’s okay. As I lined up with the other three Honeys, Viola moved everyone so that we were evenly spaced. There were more arm movements involved than actual dance moves as we sang. And Billy told me I would be singing the lower notes of each chord, as I had a pure contralto range. The other girls were mostly mezzo-soprano in range. In fact, I later discovered they had all had voice training in church choirs. When I told them I had played alto clarinet in my high school band, they were really impressed. They were even more impressed that I could actually read music. Bobby hovered over us. I think he was trying to be protective of me, knowing that a careless word would spell disaster.

Billy told me, as he handed me a pile of sheet music, I had more than enough time to learn the entire setlist of 12 songs (including 2 encore numbers) the band would play every night on tour. And Hank might add some new songs to our repertoire along the way although rehearsal time would be few and far between. After about 15 minutes of instruction from Viola and Honey, the band vamped into “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” the record that was currently climbing the charts. Although I did come within inches of smacking one of the Honeys square in the jaw as I tried to execute a jazz pirouette in unison with my three line mates, everyone said I did very well! Shadowing Connie as she practiced her ballet moves in her bedroom paid off after all. Even though Dad refused to buy me my own dance togs. That would be tutu much. (Sorry, I had to go there) Anyway, the rest of rehearsal that day proceeded without incident.

Billy stopped Bobby and me as we walked toward the elevators, rehearsals finished for the day. He waited for everyone else to disappear into the twin elevators before reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a money clip pregnant with cash. Peeling off three hundred-dollar bills, he handed them to me.

“I’m sure you’ll want to dress nice for the public. You won’t be on stage or the bus all the time. Buy yourself a starter trousseau. Go to Saks. They’ve got some high-class stuff.”

“But, Billy, I’ve got clothes. Between what I brought with me and stuff my sister can lend me…”

“Consider it an advance on your salary plus what Carole and Gerry owe you. Besides, you’re a starlet now. You can’t wear hand-me-downs from your sister.”

“Don’t argue with the man, Shuggie,” Bobby complained as if I was looking a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks a lot, Billy. Come on, Shuggie, I’ve got a gig tonight at The Village Vanguard.”

“Say hello to Nina for me.” The elevator doors closed.

“Who’s Nina?”

“Nina Simone. A bunch of the guys are backing her tonight and tomorrow night at The Vanguard. They couldn’t get their usual sax player. He’s on tour with Bill Evans in Europe right now. So, they asked me to fill in. You know, Nina told them she thinks she remembers me from when I sat in with Archie Shepp that time.”

“So, when were you gonna tell me?”

“Why, you’ve got plans for tonight?”

“Well…no. Say, can we pick up my sister on the way? I haven’t told her about my new gig. She’ll be over the moon.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she never thought you’d appear on The Ed Sullivan Show before you even graduated high school.”

“Or do it wearing a dress…”

It was a five-minute walk from Connie’s apartment to the corner of Waverly & 7th Avenue, where The Village Vanguard, one of the most famous jazz clubs in the known universe, stood, its marquee announcing, “Nina Simone Tonight.” Connie insisted that Lauren come with us, even though Lauren loudly declaimed that she found jazz boring. Which is why she was carrying the new Harold Robbins novel in her over-sized purse. After Bobby left to go backstage, we settled into our table off to the side of the room, behind the prime seating. Lauren happily confirmed that she would be able to read by candlelight when she started to lose interest in the music.

We sipped our drinks (yes, I had my non-alcoholic Shirley Temple again) and chatted randomly, waiting for the early show to begin at around 7PM. That was when Connie told me she was spending the weekend back home in Bergenfield. Mom was going to be home alone with Grandma since Dad was going bear hunting in Wildcat Ridge with Bobby’s father. They would be away until late Sunday night.

“Speaking of Dad, what are you going to tell him about why you’re going to be on national television, singing in a dress?”

“Dad can’t know! Make sure Mom doesn’t plan to tell him either. I’ll tell him…I’ll tell him I’m getting paid $100 a week to…to assist the road manager on tour. You know, answer telephones, take dictation, secretarial stuff.”

“Shuggie, Dad’s a little dense but even he won’t buy that story. $100 a week is what he makes at the paper plant. Besides, since when does a road manager need a secretary?”

“Look, have Mom tell him I’m doing just that. He knows Mom wouldn’t lie.”

At that moment, the band shuffled onto the stage and started tuning up. An emcee came out and introduced Nina Simone to a nice round of applause. She settled herself behind the piano and the concert began. I waved to Bobby but he pretended to ignore me. I guess jazz musicians have to always appear cool and detached on stage. Nina opened with her well-known version of the Screamin’ Jay Hawkins song, “I Put a Spell on You,” and grabbed her audience straightaway. From there, she segued into two of her most popular songs, “Little Girl Blue” and “My Baby Just Cares for Me.”

About 40 minutes into her set, Nina stopped to introduce the next number. I glanced at Lauren. She was reading her novel. I think her lips were moving.

“At this time, I’d like to play a request. Not from the audience but from our tenor man, Mr. Bobby Messina. It’s dedicated to a special girl he knows. And it’s a song originally done by the great Bessie Smith. It’s called “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl.”

We couldn’t stay for the late show so, after saying good night to Bobby (and meeting Nina Simone!), the three of us walked back to Connie’s apartment. My feet barely touched the ground. I was floating on air. Leave it to Connie to burst my pretty balloon.

“Dad’s not gonna like it when he sees you on television. I just hope, for Bobby’s sake, he’s out of ammo after this weekend.”

When I arrived at the hospital after school, my grandma was fast asleep. Which was unusual. Just the day before, she had listened in rapt attention to the latest installment in my summer saga. She had even asked me to bring her some rice balls because she couldn’t stomach the hospital food. The nurse on duty said she’d had a bad day, so fatigued that she kept lapsing into sleep. I left the rice balls by her bedside, alerting the nurse to offer them to her when she woke up. I hoped she’d feel better tomorrow when I came by after school. On the bus ride home, I thought back on what happened that Sunday after I became a Hank’s Honey.

I was lounging in Connie’s pink terrycloth bathrobe, sipping my second cup of coffee, when the phone rang. Speak of the devil, it was Connie.

“Shuggie, it’s me.”

“Who?”

“Cut the comedy, Shuggie. Mom and I are about to leave the house. We’ll be there in 45 minutes. We’re taking you shopping for clothes. Mom insisted.”

“I can shop for clothes by myself. Actually, Bobby’s coming over in a bit. We’re gonna have lunch and then take a stroll through Saks Fifth Avenue, just like Billy suggested.”

“Bobby? Oh, come on, Shuggie. What would a man know about fashion? You need a woman’s point of view. Besides, Mom says she’s dying to shop at Saks. We’ve never been! Gotta go. See you in 45.”

She hung up. Oh well, off to the salt mines. Jeez, it’s hard work getting all gussied up to face the public. At least Lauren isn’t here to hog the bathroom. She left already to attend Sunday service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Strange, I thought she was Jewish.

Once Mom and Connie arrived, the four of us headed uptown to do our own big game hunting at Saks. Connie was at the wheel since Mom gets too nervous driving in New York City. Mom went through her mental list of all the kinds of things I needed to buy: dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, lingerie…

“Mom, how much can I buy with $300?”

“I’ve got your father’s Diner’s Card with me. He’ll never know. I take care of all the finances. He doesn’t even bother.” She smiled broadly behind her Foster Grant sunglasses as Connie rolled down her window to scream at a car that almost side-swiped us as it cut in front to make a right turn at 42nd Street.

“New Yorkers are savages! And they’re awful drivers,” Connie complained as she waited for the light to change.

“That car had New Jersey plates, Connie.”

“Whatever. Say, Mom, do you think Dad would let loose some change to get me a car this Fall when I go back to school? Nothing fancy. Like a VW Bug. With my savings from this summer and if I get a part-time job, I could easily swing the monthly payments.”

“Mr. B would have to come up with at least two, three hundred for the down payment,” Bobby said after doing the math in his head.

“Well, Shuggie could lend me $300…”

“No way, José.”

After spending half an hour finding a parking space, the expedition marched into Saks Fifth Avenue, the ultimate upmarket department store on the ultimate high street in Manhattan. This was way more pricey than Bonwit Teller or Lord & Taylor. Even Macy’s! The Ladies’ Wear department looked more like a salon than a clothes shop.

Bobby stayed a safe distant from us as we descended upon the racks of dresses like a pack of hyenas spotting a fresh carcass in the tall grass of the noonday veldt. Connie and Mom pulled dresses and held them against me, one after the other. They shook their heads and resumed picking through the racks. Alarmed by our behavior, a short, thin man in a three-piece suit rushed over to us. He reminded me of Don Knotts, albeit better dressed.

“Ladies, ladies! Can I help you? I’m Jeffrey, manager of the Ladies’ Wear department?” he seemed to ask instead of declaring. Connie stepped forward and waved her hand the length of my person.

“May I present my sister, Shuggie Brennan. She is a singer in Hank and Honey Hutch’s band, who will appear on The Ed Sullivan Show next Sunday night.”

“Oh my! We have a star in our midst! This is so exciting. But you’re so young. And this must be Mater. Or are you another sister?” My mother blushed and smiled sweetly, waving at Jeffrey. “What a lovely family. And who is this strapping young buck…er…man?”

“Oh, that’s just Bobby. He’s in the band. Plays saxophone. Just tagging along with us.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It wasn’t my idea for him to come along. But you might show him some nice suits in the Men’s Wear department? He’s clueless about fashion.”

“Well, in that case, perhaps I could help him out. Come, come, young Robert. Let me show you some of our Pierre Cardin double-breasted suits. They’re all the rage now among the entertainment set. This way.” He took Bobby by the arm and literally pulled him away. “Ladies, Gloria here will give you assistance should you require it.”

“Looks like you’ve got some competition there for Bobby, sis.”

“Oh, Connie, Bobby doesn’t swing that way. He’s not interested in guys.”

“She said.” Connie had five dresses draped over her arm. “Come on, Mom. Fitting rooms are over there. Let’s get this show on the road. Lingerie, shoes, earrings, jewelry to go. Chop chop.”

“Mom, these dresses are all $50 at least. Will we have enough to get everything on your list?”

“Stop fidgeting, Shuggie. Don’t worry. I told you I brought the Diner’s Club card. You know, your hips are getting very…womanly.”

“Does this dress make me look fat?”

Connie snorted out a laugh. “I feel like we’re in a sitcom on TV. I just hope Dad believes you Mom when you tell him that little white lie about Shuggie doing secretarial work on the tour.”

“I’ve thought about it and the best way to present this to your father is to say you’re the Assistant Road Manager. He’ll accept that. Sounds like a more manly job, you know.”

“Mom, you’re a genius! I bet you he’ll even be proud of me. Assistant Road Manager. Has a nice ring to it. Mom, it really is a little tight around the hips.”

“I think it looks just fine. There’s a mirror right out there. See for yourself.”

Mom was right. I especially liked the three dresses we all agreed upon. I couldn’t stop posing in them with “Wild Thing” by The Troggs playing in my head.

“Shuggie? Where are you?”

When we heard Bobby’s voice, we came out of the fitting room into the salon area. I was wearing the Mondrian print dress. Bobby stood there in a Cardin double-breasted suit.

“Hey, Shuggie, you look wild. Absolutely wild.”

“Uh huh, so do you.”

I could have melted into the floor right then and there. Fortunately, I remained intact. The cleaning bill for an Yves St. Laurent dress is probably more than Dad would even consider.