I heard the click clack of my white lace-up go-go boot heels as I walked hurriedly toward my first period Calculus class. Cradling my schoolbooks in my arms like a baby against my budding breasts, I was paying the least attention I could to Rachel Hanley’s blather as she tried to keep up with my pace.

“I mean how did we all convince ourselves that you’re a boy instead of a girl? Although I knew all along! You’re much too pretty to be a boy…”

Suddenly, Vice Principal Masterson jumped into our path, a broad smile on his face. “Hold it right there, Miss Brennan!” Rachel slammed into me as I stopped in mid-stride, and I almost dropped my books.

“But, Mr. Masterson, I’ll be late for class.”

“Not today, Miss Brennan…or should I call you Sugar Pie?”

As if having emerged from the borders of a comic strip panel, dozens of my fellow Bergenfield High students started chanting “Sugar Pie! Sugar Pie!” I blushed deeply, deeper than the rouge I had over-applied to my cheeks this morning.

“Today is Shuggie Brennan Day at Bergenfield High School and you, Miss Brennan, are our Special Guest of Honor! Hooray! Hurrah!” The throng of students joined in the cheers. Rachel took the books from my arms and gestured for me to bow to the crowd. When I looked up, I saw a figure in Army dress uniform carrying a huge bouquet of roses walking down the hall toward us. It was Bobby!

“Hey, babe. Guess what? I didn’t get killed. Here’s some roses for my sweet Sugar Pie.” I took the bouquet and inhaled deeply. Then Bobby crushed me in his brawny, boot camp toned arms, kissing me within an inch of my life. Rachel cooed beside us, “What a lovely couple.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother patting my head. “I hope they serve Hawaiian pizza for lunch today in the cafeteria.”

“Shuggie? Shuggie? Earth to Shuggie…”

Why is Billy Schechter in my high school? Oh, yeah, he must be here to induct me into the Bergenfield High Alumni Hall of Fame.

“Earth to Shuggie!” Groggily, I opened my eyes to see a blurry Billy Schechter standing above me, an electric guitar strapped across his shoulder. I was slumped in one of the 3,600 seats of an empty Asbury Park Convention Hall, having apparently fallen asleep while waiting for our afternoon soundcheck. And dreaming. A lovely little dream. I was momentarily angry at Billy for cutting my dream short.

“Get yourself a cup of coffee. You need it. Listen, I’ve got a new song for you to do. Just got off the phone to Carole and Gerry. It’s perfect for you. We can learn it in time for Murray the K on Friday.”

“Oh? Yeah, sounds great. You know, Billy, I’ve been thinking about after Friday. After the tour’s over—”

“I’ve been doing some thinking about that too. I’ve got big plans for you, girl. I want to talk to your parents. Maybe after the concert Friday. They’ll be there, right?”

“I’m going back to school, Billy. I promised my Dad. I really ought to honor my promise. They…they love me. Daddy told me he missed me—”

“Your father’s a real problem. Kind of like my Dad was with my sister. Well, he still is.”

We were interrupted by the band on stage finishing their soundcheck. Some local group of teenage boys calling themselves The Castiles and wearing what looked like waiters’ outfits from an Italian restaurant like Paulie’s on Washington Avenue back home in Bergenfield.

They were enthusiastic, loud, and not that good…to my ears. Billy said he saw something in the lead guitarist, a 16-year-old named Bruce Springstein, who wrote their songs but wasn’t the singer. Their last number was “Baby I.” Though his guitar wasn’t plugged in, Billy was playing along, improvising an E minor pentatonic riff.

As they shuffled off the stage, Billy motioned Bruce over to us. In his outfit, he looked like he was about to take our dinner order. The only things missing were an apron, a server notepad, and a stubby pencil behind his right ear. Shyly, he shook Billy’s hand and waved to me when we exchanged introductions.

“Here’s my card, Bruce. Give me a call when you’ve got a demo for me to hear. Make sure it’s an original song not a cover. I like your energy on stage…” As Billy droned on, Bruce kept staring at me, occasionally nodding to whatever Billy was saying.

“Do you sing, miss?” Bruce asked me abruptly in the middle of Billy’s extemporaneous speech about the record industry.

“A little. Do you?” I returned his serve.

“I’m concentratin’ on my guitar playing right now but, yeah, I guess if Dylan can sing, I can too.” He laughed as Billy patted his shoulder, wanting to dismiss him before he and I got into a long conversation.

“See you tonight, Bruce. Right now, Shuggie and the band have some rehearsing to do. Remember to call when you’ve got that demo.” Billy turned to me as Bruce caught up with his bandmates near the exit to the Hall.

“Get that coffee and let’s start putting your set together.”

On Thursday morning, the last day of our three-night run at the Asbury Park Convention Hall, Billy joined Bailey and me for a late breakfast in the coffee shop of The Asbury Hotel, where our whole contingent was staying. Since my part of the concerts were now over before Hank and Honey did their full hour and a half set, it was a lot easier for me to just collapse onto my hotel bed and get my full share of beauty sleep. Even so, I kept yawning in Billy’s face as he discussed the band’s final date—The Murray the K Labor Day Show at The Brooklyn Fox Theater Friday night. We were on a bill with a dozen other acts, many of them bigger than we were, like The Miracles, The Drifters, The Young Rascals, The Moody Blues, Jay & The Americans…you get the idea. Billy was confident but nervous. Bailey put her arm around my shoulders.

“Shuggie’s your secret weapon, Billy. When the audience hears her sing—”

“She’s only doing one number. Everyone on the bill gets 20 minutes, 30 tops. Otherwise, the show would actually go on until Labor Day on Monday.”

“Are you sure Carole won’t mind me singing that song? I mean it was written for Aretha Franklin and she hasn’t even recorded it yet. Won’t Atlantic Records be awful mad?”

“Until Aretha records and releases it, it’s fair game. Besides, Carole was ecstatic about you performing it in Brooklyn, her old stomping grounds.”

Bailey excused herself from the table and said she was going back to our room to get more sleep. She hadn’t slipped into bed last night until 3 in the morning. Apparently, she’d hooked up with one of The Castiles, our opening act. She swears it wasn’t the guitar player, Bruce. Ha ha.

“And why would I care if it was him?”

“Oh, come on, girl. You’ve been looking at him with stars in your eyes for two days. He is kind of cute. A little too young for me though.”

“Oh, so it was the drummer, eh? How old is he? Drinking age at least?”

“He’s all of 21, my dear girl. And I mean all of it.” With a laugh, she turned and walked out of the coffee shop.

“You like Bruce? He’s even younger than you.”

“No, Bailey’s just teasing. Anyway, what’s it to you?”

“Nothing. Just being protective, that’s all. I mean Bobby was someone you knew your whole life. You can’t trust any of the guys you meet in this business.”

“I trust you, Billy.” I drained my coffee cup and dabbed my mouth with my napkin. Good thing I decided not to wear lipstick this morning. My hair could use another pass or two of a brush though.

“What’s your plan for this morning? Lounging around the pool with Hank and Honey? Everyone else is still in bed.”

“Don’t laugh, Billy, but Asbury Park is world-famous for its pinball arcades. I’m thinking of walking over to Ocean Avenue and finding me a Batman machine to play.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Bobby and I used to play pinball all the time when we weren’t in school or practicing.”

“I keep forgetting you’re 17 years old.”

“You can come along. You must have played some pinball in your day.”

“Uh, that’s a definite no. It was all music and baseball in high school. I was either going to be Sandy Koufax or Bobby Darin. So far, I guess, I’m neither.”

“You’re a huge success, Billy. I read in the Daily News that you’re the youngest millionaire record producer in the history of the business. That’s a lot better than throwing baseballs for a living.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel that young anymore. The parade’s catching up to me and getting ready to pass me by. But, enough self-pity, let’s go play some pinball.”

“Really? You wanna come? They’ve got a Beatles pinball game that’s pretty cool.”

“I think I’ll just watch you play.” We ambled out into the warm September 1st morning. Ocean Avenue was just a 5-minute walk from the hotel.

Along the length of Ocean Avenue there were half a dozen pinball arcades, the largest being the Silverball Arcade, which is where I was headed.

Right outside the entrance to Silverball, that kid from The Castiles, Bruce, was leaning a bike against a telephone pole. When he turned around, he saw us and waved.

“Hey, Sugar Pie, Mr. Schechter. Top of the morning to ya. Funny meeting you here.”

“Say, aren’t you afraid someone’ll swipe your bike? Don’t you have a chain or lock or something?”

“What? Steal this piece of crap? They’re welcome to it. It’s worthless. Actually, I swiped it off some dude while he was dozing on the beach.”

“Really?”

“I’m only half-kidding. So, what’s your game? Are you playing one of the two-man machines?”

Billy snickered. “I’m just here to watch Sugar. Don’t play pinball myself.”

“Mind if I watch too? Aren’t too many girls I know that good at pinball. It’s all in the wrists, you know. Let’s see your hands.” He took my hands in his, turned them over and whistled. “Are your wrists strong enough?”

“They’re built up from all the sweaters I’ve been knitting for Christmas. And brushing my hair a hundred strokes twice a day—”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. No offense. Can I watch anyway?”

“Sure, if I can find a free Batman machine.”

“It’s pretty early in the day. Both of their Batman machines are probably available. After you.” He opened the door for me and I stepped in. “Oh, age before beauty, Mr. Schechter. After you.”

“Very funny, Bruce. You can cut the Mr. crap. Call me Billy. And it’s youth before wisdom. Go ahead.”

Bruce was right. The machines stood there in the huge room shiny and mostly silent with a handful of boys hunched over their games oblivious to us when we walked in. I spotted one of the two Batman machines in the far corner and reached into my purse to grab a handful of quarters. Billy stopped me.

“I’ll get change for a twenty. Will that be enough?”

“More than enough for the way I play. I get lots of replays—”

“A girl with braggadocio. I like that.” Bruce smiled as Billy went to the cashier in the front of the shop. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a quarter for you to start. Who knows how long it’ll take Billy to get change. When’s the last time some 15-year-old kid had to break a twenty?”

I was debating whether to go straight for the Commissioner Gordon target or go through the various major villain modes.

“Start with The Penguin. Or maybe Catwoman since she’s the weaker sex…” Bruce teased.

“Hey, don’t backseat driver me, will ya? By the way, how come you’re riding a bike. You’re 16, don’t you drive?”

“Can’t afford a car. And my Dad won’t let me drive his since I sort of dropped out of school—”

“Sort of?”

“Well, I’m not planning to go back for my junior year next week. Me and Dad had a big fight about it, and I have to sleep in the surfboard factory on Cookman Avenue. My cousin works there, and he gave me the key to the backdoor. I just have to make sure I’m up and out before the boss man comes in to open the place.”

“That’s tough. Oh shit, I overshot. These flippers need to be looked at.”

“It’s your wrists, girly.”

“No, it’s not, manly boy-man.”

“One of the backup singers told me you’re only 17. Is that right? How come you’re out on the road without parental supervision? Isn’t that verboten?”

“My father gave his approval. Anyway, I started this tour with my boyfriend.”

“Billy’s your boyfriend? Man, talk about robbing the cradle.”

“No, silly, my boyfriend was the sax player in the band. But he’s not with us now. He got drafted. He’s in boot camp at Fort Dix.”
“So, you’re single?”

I ignored his question, trying to concentrate on the game.

“You guys from the area then?”

“Bergenfield.”

“That’s cool. If you’re going back to school, maybe we can see each other sometimes. My band plays around the shore mostly but, hey, it’s only an hour up The Parkway from here to Bergenfield—”

“How long does it take by bicycle?”

“Good one. Maybe I can afford a car in a couple of months if our bookings trend up. Opening for you guys should give us some more visibility.”

“Fuck! Game over. You’re distracting me!”

“It’s the wrists. Here, I’ve got another quarter somewhere.” Bruce reached into both pockets of his jeans and came up with a set of keys and a beat-up looking wallet but no coins.

“Here you go, Sugar.” Billy appeared out of nowhere and handed me a clutch of quarters. “Is he bothering you?”

“No, he’s just being a jerk. He thinks just because I’m a girl I can’t be good at pinball.”

“Bruce, don’t you guys have soundcheck at one?”

“Yeah, Billy, but it’s not even noon.”

“You’re riding a bike. It might take a while to get to the Hall from here.”

“It’s like a minute ride. Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. See you later, Sugar.” He replaced his keys and wallet and shuffled out of the arcade, his metaphorical tail between his legs.

“He’s just a kid, Billy. He was attempting to flirt with me, that’s all. But he was distracting me from my game.”

“Good thing I got back when I did. I won’t distract you. Let’s see if you can beat the top score on this thing.”

Our third and final concert at The Convention Hall was before a third straight sell-out crowd. Bruce sidled up to Billy backstage and needled him with the claim that The Castiles were the reason for the overwhelming turnouts. “We’re local legends,” Bruce said. Billy crossed his arms and stared at him. “You’re getting on my nerves, kid. Do me a favor and lose that card I gave you.” One of the other Castiles became alarmed and tried to smooth things over. I turned back to the stage and watched Hank sing his newest addition to their setlist, a musical attempt at appeasement with Honey, “Everybody’s Gotta Pay Some Dues.”

But as soon as the applause subsided for Hank’s song, Honey launched into her own musical response. A flinty and somewhat ambivalent view of the pitfalls of relationships, namely theirs. Honey saw the continuation of their professional and personal partnership as an open-ended question: “Too Many Roads.”

Since the drive from Asbury Park to Brooklyn was little more than an hour, Billy had us stay in our hotel Thursday night. We would board our buses after lunch in plenty of time to check in at The Brooklyn Fox Theater around 2 PM. Thus, I found myself sitting with Billy in the hotel lounge at midnight, nursing my ginger ale while he downed at least three whiskey sours.

“Are you nervous about the Murray the K show? You shouldn’t be. Hank and Honey look like they’ve got it together musically if not personally.”

“I’m not worried about them. They’ll work it out between them or not. If I had to bet money, I’d say they’re splitsville by next Spring. But they’ll be alright. They both have enough talent to make it solo.”

“So, then what?”

“I’m at a crossroads in my career, Shuggie. And in my life.”

“You’re what? 25, 26? You’re hardly going through a mid-life crisis. Look at me. 17 years old and I have no idea what you’re talking about. I couldn’t imagine myself achieving half of what you’ve accomplished already in the next 8 years.”

“I’m also worried about you, Shuggie. Are you sure about going back to school and back to being a boy?”

“I made a deal with Dad. But I think he’s starting to bend my way. He sees now I’m not really a boy and never was. I’ll finish school, get some counseling, hopefully get prescribed the right hormones. I hear you can get sex change surgery in Europe.” I winked at Billy but in the shadows of the lounge he probably couldn’t see it. “It’ll take money I don’t have and neither does my father. I’ll work and save enough. In two years, Bobby will be back from the army. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. We love each other. I know that for certain.” There was silence between us for a long time before Billy spoke.

“You really don’t care about your singing career?”

“It’s been a gas, really, more than I could ever imagine, this summer. But it’s not my dream. It never was. My dream is to be a woman.”

“I can make both dreams come true for you, Shuggie. If you’ll let me. I can get you a recording contract on my word alone. And that’ll pay for your surgery down the road.”

“And what’s in it for you, Billy? You could be throwing good money after bad. Who says anyone would buy my records? And what if they found out about me? You know Jackie Shane. She could’ve been on Ed Sullivan, but they wouldn’t accept her for what she is. How would it be different for me?”

“I’ve got enough connections in the industry that what happened with Jackie would never happen with you. People respect and fear me in the business. But what I’m trying to say is I care about you. I want you to find your happiness. Not like my sister who had to endure so much.”

“Are you saying you’re in love with me, Billy? No, you can’t. I’m…I’m 17.”

“When I look at you, I don’t see your age. I see a young woman on the cusp of real greatness, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon—”

“I’m a boy!” I said, making sure no one overheard me.

“I see the real you, Shuggie.”

“I’m going to wait for Bobby.”

“Bobby can’t help you realize your true identity and make you a star. I can.”

“Yes, but I love him…forever. Excuse me, Billy, I don’t want to have this discussion.” I stood up, turned, and ran out of the lounge, choking back tears.

I called Connie from my hotel room. Bailey wasn’t back yet. The drummer again, I suppose.

“Connie, it’s Shuggie. Sorry to call you so late.”

“It’s alright, Shuggie, I was watching TV anyway. Remember those chimps that were on Ed Sullivan with you? Yeah, they were on Johnny Carson tonight. I think the one who jumped into your arms is still pining for you.”

“That’s funny, Connie. Look, is it all set for tomorrow night? You’re going to make sure Mom and Dad come with you to the show, right?”

“Of course. You sound weird. Something wrong?”

“I just wanted to make sure you three were all there tomorrow. It’s going to be the last time I ever sing in public.”

“As a girl?”

“No, as anything. Boy, girl, anything. I’m going to just pursue my one and only dream.”

“And that would be?”

“To be Mrs. Bobby Messina.”

“Oh, Shuggie, we need to talk.”