“Whatever you have to say, make it quick, Connie. These long-distance calls are adding up. I’ve called you from L.A., Denver, Chicago, Detroit, Toronto—”

“Shuggie, shut up a minute! Listen, there are two things you’re not clear on right now. First of all, you’re still a boy, legally and medically. You can’t marry Bobby—”

“Well, not right now. He’s in the army but when he gets out in two years, I’ll have saved enough to get a sex change operation by then. He wrote to me from boot camp and he basically proposed to me. You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

“Secondly, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to marry Bobby, regardless of whether you get the surgery or not. Don’t start crying, Shuggie! Listen to me—”

“How can you say that? Bobby and I have been best friends since we were 4 and 5 years old. If you don’t want to be my maid of honor because you’re ashamed of me, just say so. You’ve never acted like a real sister to me anyway. You don’t want me to be happy, do you?”

“He’s a loser, Shuggie. Plain and simple. He dated Rachel Hanley all through senior year and didn’t give your feelings a single thought, did he? You hid it from mom and dad, but I saw you crying your eyes out in your room when I came home on weekends. Very quietly I could hear you saying his name over and over again.”

“What a great big sister you are! You never came in and asked me what was wrong. You just went on your merry way like I didn’t exist.”

“What did you want me to do? Beat up Bobby? Talk to Dad about your broken heart? Yeah, he would’ve been real sympathetic. Not.”

“You don’t know that. Daddy loves me. He told me last week that he does and…and he misses me. He wants me to come home. He said we’ll talk it over, find a solution to my…problem. You’re just jealous! Betcha he never said those things to you.”

“We’re getting off the subject here, Shuggie. If you’re so set on becoming a real woman, then stop acting like a dumb boy and start acting like a smart girl.”

“Like you? Miss Alberta Einstein?”

“You don’t marry your best friend just because he’s your best friend. Now, let me ask you. This Billy guy, hasn’t he been really nice to you? Like looking out for your career, teaching you about the music business, even arranging special material for you to sing—”

“Duh, that’s his job.”

“Paying you 200 freakin’ dollars a week, rescuing you from a race riot—”

“Bobby was with him—”

“The guy’s obviously head over heels in love with you, Shuggie. It goes beyond being your producer or employer. He can make you a big star and he really cares for you. He knows about your special circumstances and because of his sister, he’s fine with it. What more can a girl ask from a man?”

“Stop it! Stop it, Connie! I’m in love with Bobby, not Billy. I didn’t ask Billy to fall in love with me. And how can you be sure he doesn’t just see me as a gift horse or something?”

“We’re not talking about your looks, Shuggie.”

“Huh?”

“Gift horse? Oh, forget it. It’s your life, Shuggie. You can take my advice or not. I’m looking out for your future well-being even if you think I hate you, which I don’t. I’ll admit I’ve always felt mom and dad liked you best. There, I’ve said it. And with that, I’ll say good night. Just promise me you’ll think about what I said.”

Regardless of what I thought about Connie’s stupid advice, I guess the fact that Billy had just come as close to saying he was in love with me without actually saying those three little words set my mind on fire. I didn’t fall asleep for the longest time after I slipped between the sheets, tossing and turning, alternately crying and laughing over my topsy-turvy life. Then I had the funniest dream. I’d been having a lot of weird dreams lately. Maybe it was the rest area and hotel food? This one was a doozy. When I got my wake-up call from the front desk, there was an image from my dream etched onto the viewscreen of my brain.

I was sitting on a couch in some nondescript room, petting a dog that looked a lot like that collie who plays Lassie on TV. I had a big smile on my face and Billy was sitting next to me on the couch, a big smile on his face as well. He had real long hair, like those hippies we saw in Haight-Ashbury. It was almost as long as mine! But the weirdest thing was my sister Connie sitting on the same couch, a shit-eating grin on her aging face. Yeah, she looked older, like 30 at least. We all looked older. Is that my future? Married to Billy? And I hope Connie’s just visiting and not living with us. Oh, that’s just silly. Even to think about it. Although, I must say, I’ve always liked collies. They shed a lot, don’t they?

When Bailey and I came downstairs to have some breakfast, hoping to avoid Billy after our rather heated discussion last night, we were surprised to see Billy and Ray, our road manager, having a loud conversation with the manager of the Asbury Park Convention Hall at a table on the opposite side of the room from us. Ray was shouting and flailing his arms. Billy was trying to restrain him while also barking at the guy. It must be about the concert receipts. Apparently, their numbers didn’t jibe. Bailey and I ate quickly and escaped the escalating dispute.

After we went off in separate directions, I headed to the Silverball Arcade so I could get my last licks at that Batman machine. Our buses weren’t leaving for Brooklyn until after 1 PM. I could spend a solid two hours or more setting a new top score on that machine. I hope it wasn’t already taken by some zit-faced boy. Or worse yet, both machines were being played. A roll of quarters sat comfortably in my purse as I patted its leather exterior. I turned to cross the street and standing next to his bike, arms crossed, staring back at me, was Bruce. He must have been waiting for me all morning.

“Hey, girly, it’s about time you got here. I didn’t think you’d be sleeping in today of all days. Murray the K, right? Man, you’re gonna be on stage with so many cool acts. I’d ask you to get me some autographs, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you like that…”

“I’ll give you mine if you’re nice and promise not to distract me while I’m playing.”

“That’s a start. Need to break a twenty?”

I took the roll of quarters out of my purse and waved it in the air. “No, I’ve come ready for battle.”

“Lead the charge, Major General Sugar Pie.” He saluted me as I stepped through the arcade’s entrance. “You’re in luck, your personal Batman machine is waiting for you. I told everyone who went in, nix nix on the Batman games. Gave ‘em my best Steve McQueen glare.”

“Real tough guy. Scaring a bunch of junior high boys.”

“They’re small but some of them are real wiry.”

When we reached the Batman machine, I gave him a quick nod of my head as if to say, “you can go off and play your own machine now.” Bruce got the message and wandered off in the direction of a Casanova pinball machine. You can guess how you score points in that game.

Becoming engrossed in the game, my mind was clear of Connie’s nagging advice and unsettling thoughts about my future, and I cut a swath through all the major villain modes. I took down The Penguin, The Joker, Catwoman, Mr. Freeze, The Riddler, and secured the Commissioner Gordon target in short order. The clang of bells accompanied by cheers (my own) signaled a new top score for that machine. A couple of the boys nearby gaped in surprise at a girl playing like a champion. One of them shyly shook my hand and asked when I was breaking for lunch. I said, not in an aloof way, that I had prior plans. The kid was about to ask what plans when Bruce appeared at his side and showed him a grimace worthy of Steve McQueen in Nevada Smith. He moved away quickly.

“Looks like you’ve had better luck than me this morning.”

“It’s skill not luck. Speaking of skill, what makes you think you could handle that Casanova machine?”

“My reputation as a ladies’ man is well-known. They call me Kid Casanova back in Freehold. I’m told I can be very charming.” He smiled a smile that turned into a leer.

“Are you serious about dropping out?”

“Yeah, school’s not for me. All I want to do is play music. You don’t have to go to college to be a rock star.”

“Sometimes I feel the same way about school. But I’m going back next week for my senior year.”

“But you’re already a featured performer. It says so on your posters. Man, you must be living the life. Getting paid well, staying in hotels…I saw you on Ed Sullivan! You were the best thing on the show. You and the chimps.” I swatted him on the arm as he laughed raucously. “You’re cuter though. Owww!”

“They were cuter than you, stupid.” I think I hit him harder than I intended because he kept rubbing his arm. “Sorry. I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you hit harder than a guy. But that ain’t possible. You’re all girl. Prettiest girl in New Jersey, I bet.”

“Save the charm for that Casanova machine, mister. Anyway, if I were you, I’d go back to school and graduate. The music business is shit. This summer’s been eye-opening. Get a diploma and some skills you can fall back on. My dad works in a paper plant but it’s steady and dependable. He raised me and my sister with that job. My mom’s a nurse. If things don’t fall perfectly in this music thing, you’ll be sleeping in the back of a surfboard factory for a long time.”

“You sound like my dad.”

“I’m sure your dad loves you just like my dad loves me. He wants the best for you, that’s all.”

“Aww, come on. I’m sure Billy can take you away from all of this. This death trap. Smalltown New Jersey is not where I want to spend my salad days. Being his girlfriend—”

“I’m not his girlfriend! I told you that. It’s totally professional. My boyfriend is at Fort Dix right now…” We were silent for a minute, and I turned back to the Batman machine. I didn’t want Bruce to see my eyes welling up with tears at the thought of being apart from Bobby for two long years and the chance that he might not ever come back.

“Hey, you never told me your real name. It can’t be Sugar Pie. Nobody’s named that.”

I don’t know how it came out, but I whispered “Bobby Gene.” It wasn’t in answer to his question, yet he took it that way.

“Bobbie Jean? Bobbie Jean! Yeah, that fits you. I’m going to write a song about you. I’ll make you famous. Or…more famous than you’ll already be.”

“Fine. Great. Can you…uh…just leave me alone so I can play this machine again?”

“Oh…okay. Can I…uh…can I—”

“What? Can you what?” He grabbed my shoulders, turned me around and planted a lingering kiss on my lips. I struggled and finally pushed him off me.

“Kiss you. Can I kiss you.” He stepped backward toward the front of the arcade. “I won’t forget you, Bobbie Jean. Look for my song. You’ll hear it on the radio and remember me too.” He ran out onto Ocean Avenue, picked up his bike ad rode off.

I couldn’t help but laugh. A kid playing a machine nearby shrugged his shoulders, looked out the window at Bruce’s receding figure and clucked, “What a jerk.”

Billy and I had managed to avoid speaking to each other all day. We even sat half a bus length apart on the one-hour ride to Brooklyn. Honey tried to act sincere when she congratulated me on being Billy’s next ‘big’ discovery. I told her I was going back to school after tonight, the last date on our tour. She almost spit out her coffee.

“You’re kidding, right? He’s already got your European tour next summer planned out. Hank tells me Billy’s already recorded two surefire Top 40 hits that he’s got warming in the can, just waiting for the label to ink you to a 3-album deal. That’s crazy money for a teenager. I never finished school myself. Do I look like I needed a diploma?”

“I promised my folks I’d graduate. And Billy’s just talking shit. He’s got like five other projects he’s working on. I’m just a summer fling—”

“Oh, girl, I heard he wants to talk to your father after the concert tonight. That sound serious. I’ve known Billy for a couple of years and this is the most serious I’ve ever seen him about a girl…”

“There’s nothing going on between us. A least not on my part. You know how I feel about Bobby and now that he’s in the army…well, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I cheated on him—”

“A smart one? Look, sweetie, Bobby’s a nice boy but that’s what he is…a boy. Billy’s a grown man with the money and power to give a girl everything she could possibly dream of. Fame, fortune, furs, diamonds…and shoes! Billy’s not bad looking neither.” She looked at me with the expression of a prosecuting attorney who’s never lost a case.

“You don’t understand, Honey. Me and Bobby have something that’s…forever.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought Hank and I had.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

The first words that Billy spoke to me were at the Brooklyn Fox soundcheck. With so many acts on the bill, time was limited for the afternoon session and most of the groups decided to forego it. Hank and Honey preferred sitting on the air-conditioned bus while Billy wanted to run through my solitary number two or three times to get it perfect. Billy was explaining to me that he’d enlisted two extra musicians to fill out the arrangement he’d written. They were from Bob Dylan’s backing band that had just finished a European tour in the Spring. With Bob’s recent motorcycle accident canceling his concert dates for the foreseeable future, they were searching for work. Their most recent gig were playing behind Tiny Tim (“Tiptoe Through The Tulips”) in small clubs and bars along the Eastern Seaboard. Billy got in touch with them while we were in Atlantic City. They had just played some dates at a lounge in a hotel on the Boardwalk.

“Hey, Billy! Billy! We’re here.” Two guys who looked to be in their early twenties came rushing toward us, instrument cases in hand. One of them almost clobbered Smokey Robinson with his guitar case. He quickly apologized and then lifted his head to see who he had hit. He stood stunned for a moment before the other guy dragged him away.

“Just in time too. If you’d been five more minutes, I think Smokey there would’ve jumped the line and made us wait another hour to do our run-through.” Billy introduced them: Robbie Robertson, a guitarist, and Garth Hudson, who was going to play saxophone. There was some mention of them being Canadians, so I told them I’d been in Toronto recently and gone to see Jackie Shane.

“Oh, yeah,” Robbie said. “He’s a solid sender. We even crossed paths with him on the chitlins circuit when we were with Ronnie Hawkins—”

“You mean she. Jackie’s a woman.”

“You know, we were never really sure what he or she was, right, Garth?” Garth just nodded. Billy interrupted our chat and told us to assemble on stage with the rest of the band.

“So, this is something Wexler’s gonna have Aretha record?” asked Robbie.

“Carole and Gerry wrote it for them, but I got permission from Carole to let Sugar Pie sing it this one time for Murray’s show. Let us go through it once. I’ll call out the chords. I’m sure you guys can pick it up pretty quickly.” Billy and I stood by the microphone while everyone plugged in their instruments. I asked Garth if he wanted a stool to sit on, what with that heavy looking baritone saxophone strapped to his chest. A man of few words, he just shook his head.

Billy turned to me. “Right after we come off stage tonight, I want to speak to your parents. I know a nice Italian place close by where we can sit down, have a bite to eat and talk things through.” I felt like turning Billy down but it would be polite to accept and I’m sure Dad was itching to talk to Billy anyway. I’m just hoping it doesn’t get really embarrassing. I just nodded affirmatively.

“Okay, this is in the key of C Major…”

Murray the K was a big deal in New York City. A popular DJ on Top 40 AM radio, he rocketed to fame by attaching himself to The Beatles, unannounced and probably unwanted, when they arrived in the U.S. for the first time to appear on Ed Sullivan in January 1964. His breathless around-the-clock live reports on The Fab Four’s every step while in New York City made his career. For most of the ‘60s, he parlayed his notoriety into promotion of sold-out holiday shows at Brooklyn’s Fox Theater. Three times a year, around Easter, Labor Day, and Christmas, he presented a dozen or so hitmakers in marathon evenings of youth-oriented live music. It was as much a celebration of his “hipster” persona as it was of the artists on stage.

It was about three hours into the show when Murray the K introduced me to the packed house. Mitch Ryder and The Detroit Wheels had just finished their 4-song set with a rousing rendition of their hit, “Sock It To Me Baby.” The applause was just petering out when Murray trotted out on stage. I was surprised when he announced me as a solo act, just Sugar Pie. I was expecting to come out with Hank and Honey, sing my one number, and leave the stage. But Billy winked at me and gently pushed me out ahead of the rest of the band. The audience murmured, obviously not sure who I was. Then, a smattering of applause surged forward from the back of the house. I almost laughed out loud when I recognized Connie giving me a one-person standing ovation. I don’t know why others were applauding. Maybe they’d seen me on tour?

As I peered into the dark recesses of the back of the theater, I saw a shadowy figure standing by an open door that led into the lobby. He was wearing an Army dress uniform, a garrison cap on his head. I couldn’t make out the features on his face but my imagination ran wild, thinking about Bobby. Did Bobby get a weekend pass from Fort Dix? My heart skipped a beat. Then, Billy counted down and I had to concentrate on my performance. I sang this song, “(You Make Me Feel Just Like) A Natural Woman” to Bobby, wherever he was that night.

The crowd jumped up and gave us a loud, wild ovation. I cried both from the overwhelming approval of the audience and relief that the tour was over. I could go back to being plain old Shuggie from Bergenfield. Was it what I really wanted? Well, no, but Dad had said enough to make me think they’d begin to accept the fact was really a girl, not the boy my superfluous body parts seemed to signify. I would get counseling, start a hormone regimen, save up to get surgery, and wait for Bobby to come back from The War and marry me. As I ran off stage, I looked back to see if that shadowy figure was still there. He was not. I crashed into Hank in the wings of the stage. He and Honey were waiting to be announced by Murray.

“Whoa, Shuggie, where’s the fire? Are you okay? Honey, she’s crying.”

“Why the tears, sweetie?” I couldn’t speak so I just shook my head and ran to the dressing room.

My father leaned over the table and, in a stern but proud tone, declared to Billy, “I don’t take charity, Mr. Schechter. Jerry Brennan takes care of his own. Eriko and I might have to take out a second mortgage, but we’ll figure it out.”

“Daddy, Billy’s not trying to insult you—”

“Mr. Brennan, I’m not treating this like a charity case. In fact, I won’t be spending a dollar of my own money to get Shuggie the counseling and medical support she needs.”

“She’s…I mean he’s a senior in high school. How the hell is she...uh…he going to pay for that if it’s not her…his parents? Damn, this is so confusing.”

“Your daughter is a major talent, Mr. Brennan. She’s already recorded a handful of tracks that could be released tomorrow and be Top 40 hits. I’ll see to it that she signs a 3-album deal that would more than pay for her medical needs as well as pay off the note on your house to boot. She’s a goldmine!”

“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Schechter, that, sooner than later, people will find out Shuggie’s not a girl—”

“Jerry! Not so loud. There are people looking at us.” Mom sank into her chair.

“Sorry, honey.” He continued in a softer voice. “Look, she’ll be the object of ridicule if that ever comes out. They’ll kick her out of school. Bergenfield’s not the cosmopolitan melting pot that New York City is. They prefer their boys to stay boys and girls to stay girls.”

Our waitress placed our food on the table. We were eating family style as was customary in traditional Italian restaurants. Mom frowned when Connie and I jousted with our spoons trying to shovel the veal cutlets onto our plates. “Children! Behave! Don’t shame us in public!” Connie kicked my shin under the table, and I winced, dropping my spoon noisily onto the dish of veal parmigiana.

“Care to have some Sambuca, Jerry? Remember the fine Sambuca we drank at Jilly’s? I take that as a yes.” Billy signaled the waitress and ordered a bottle of Sambuca for the table. “Mrs. Brennan, you should give it a try. It’s a sweet, fruity liqueur from Sicily. Goes down very smooth.”

“Should I, Jerry?”

“Just a nip. I have a feeling you’ll be driving us home tonight.”

“Oh, Dad, just a half a glass, okay?” Connie implored. “You know Mom hates driving in the city.”

“Back to the matter at hand, Jerry. The records will be released under her stage name Sugar Pie. No one will connect a high school senior in New Jersey to Sugar Pie. We’ll control all information about her. The press will be fed a back story that my publicity people can cook up. I’ll be protecting her identity every step of the way. I give you my word.”

“I’m beginning to think you could pull this off but I want you to know I’m not going to let you try to seduce Shuggie with promises of money and fame. She’s 17 and she already has a boyfriend. Bobby Messina.”

“Daddy!” I kicked Connie’s shin under the table reflexively. She groaned into her napkin. “My relationship with Billy is strictly professional. Right, Billy?”

“Of course.” Billy winked at me, thinking I was the only one who saw. But Mom caught the wink. She frowned. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Brennan. I see the potential for, dare I say, millions. Shuggie will tell you. She’s seen me up close these past eight weeks. I have a one-track mind. You’re a hunter, Jerry. You understand. When you’re on the trail of a bear…”

“Dad, you didn’t run out of ammo this summer, did you?” asked Connie, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, Billy, Dad’s a good shot. A really good shot.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Pun intended. So, it’s a business proposition. Quid pro quo. Shuggie gets her counseling and medical care; I get to produce another string of million-sellers. It’s a square deal, capisce?”

“I’ll drink to that…uh…should I call you Billy?”

“Please do, Jerry. We’re all on the same page here. Let’s make a toast to your daughter’s future happiness.”

Dad turned to me and read the frown on my face. “Something the matter, sweetie?”

“Yeah, Connie ate up all the veal.”