It was a hot July day as I trudged up the hill to my fifth stop – the one furthest from State. The first decided that more money would be had by signing up with Airbnb, two others had been taken by the time I got there (so they said), and the fourth shut the door on me without explanation. Maybe I looked too scruffy.

When I got to the mail box, I could see the house through a tangle of eucalyptus, oleander and roses. It was a 1920s craftsman with short weeds and dirt in place of a lawn, about 100 feet back from the road. As I walked toward it, the roar and rumble of traffic lessened – partly absorbed by the trees and bushes, partly replaced by the whir and rattle of a swamp cooler.

I climbed the steps, pushed the button and heard what sounded like a fire bell in the back. The rusticity of the place struck me as the clip clop of heels approached. The door opened to reveal a brunette in blue shorts and a floral top through the screen. She was in her thirties.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hello, I’m Morgan Ross. I called about the room you’re renting for $100 a week.”

“Alice Beckworth.” She looked me over for a few seconds. “Are you a boy? I thought you’d be a girl.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot, but I’m not.”

“I wasn’t sure,” she smiled. “You see, I’m renting a girl’s room. It was my sister Barbara’s. I doubt you’d want it.”

“I’ve been dragging my suitcase all over town, and I’m really tired. So, I’d like to see it, if I may.”

She unhooked the screen and pushed it open. “The least I can do is offer you some cold lemonade … and you’re welcome to look at the room, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

It was a relief to walk into the cool, damp air. I followed her through to the kitchen. It had a modern refrigerator, but the rest seemed as old as the house – glass front cupboards, spindle chairs and a enamelled steel table. The stove even stood on legs and had a match box on the side.

“This was my grandmother’s house. I moved in just after the New Year.”

“Its charming.”

“You think so?”

“I really do.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m sure. … I like old things. … They make you feel connected.”

“Here’s your lemonade. Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m 18 – as of today.”

“Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, Ms. Beckworth.”

“Alice, please.”

“Thanks, Alice. … Anyway, yesterday I was a foster child, but today I’m an adult … and my foster family stops getting paid. So, I’m out – looking for a place to stay.”

“That’s rude of them.”

“I think so. … I have a scholarship to State in September. … I get a stipend for room and board as well as tuition and books. In the meantime, I have enough cash for a couple of weeks and I’ll get a job at Mickey D’s or some such to cover the rent after that.”

“Well, the rent is nice, but I don’t really need it. I was hoping for a girl to give me a little company. I work from home, mostly – computer security.”

“I’m sorry I’m not a girl. … Maybe I should go so you can have a girl instead?”

“No, I can’t put you out. You seem nice enough, and I like talking to you. Finish your lemonade and I’ll show you the room.”

The room was most of the second floor, such as it was. I mean the roof cut in on both sides and it had no closet – only a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers. There was a white metal-frame bed, with a pink and lavender quilt, numerous floral pillows and a beautiful bisque doll. The walls were pale pink, the throw rugs plush, and the furniture, including a dressing table, white with gold trim. Degas ballerinas adorned the walls. A computer desk and office chair at the far end broke the feminine decor.

“The mattress is brand new – top of the line memory foam. … Well, what do you think?”

I sat on the bed to try it. “It’s beautiful! I like Degas. Your sister must have loved it!”

“She did.”

“Where is she now?”

“She died when she was about you age. A hit and run. They never caught the guy.”

“I‘m so sorry!”

“It was a long time ago. … So, is the room too beautiful for a boy?”

“Oh. You’d be surprised by the rooms Family Services put me in. So, no, it’s fine. I love that it means something to you – as it must have to your grandmother.”

“You’re sensitive for a boy. … You’ll take it?”

“Gladly! How many weeks do you want in advance?”

“One will do.”

I reached in my sock, took out five 20s and handed them to her. “Here. I’ll get my suitcase and unpack.”

“Oh, dear!”

“What?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t packed up Barbara’s things yet. I mean, it seems silly, but it’s hard … even now.”

“I understand. Look, as you can tell from the size of my suitcase, I really don’t have a lot of stuff. It’ll all fit in one drawer. I’ll just empty one and put her things in the other drawers.”

“No, I’ll do it,” she said softly. “You get your bag.”

When I returned, she had the middle drawer of the dresser half empty. Shorts and tops were piled on the floor. I helped her distribute them to the other drawers.

“I’ll try to do more later. Let me help you with your things.”

I was embarrassed by how shabby my clothes were, but I let her help because – well, I got a maternal vibe from her that I hadn’t felt for six years.

“Look, Morgan, I know it’s not your fault, but you don’t even have enough underwear for a week, and what you do have should be tossed. I know they aren’t very manly, but I found these panties Barb must have bought – they’re white and look like boys’ except they don’t have a fly. I think they’ll fit you. They won’t fit me. Why don’t you take them?”

It would have been rude to say no, and I didn’t have to wear them. “Ah, sure. Thanks.”

She handed me a 6-pack of Hanes Her Way panties. I didn’t expect what happened next. “Here, I’ll toss these for you,” she said, taking my tattered jockeys. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. … If you need more, help yourself – top drawer.”

“Ah, thanks,” I blushed.

“By the way, you could use a bath. You can have Barb’s robe. It’s in the wardrobe. She’d want you to have it. There’s a hamper in the bathroom. I do laundry every Monday.”

Alice was right. I must have smelled disgusting. I stripped to my jockeys. Barbara’s robe wasn’t overtly feminine – a yellow waffle weave. I opened the panties, held one to my waist to check the fit, and put it in the robe pocket.

There was one bathroom, on the ground floor. It had a clawfoot tub and no shower. A small doily-covered table held a soap dish, shampoo and other bath supplies. Washcloths filled its second shelf. Under the soap dish was a note that said, “Try a handful of bath salts.” I poured some into the tub, started the water and put my last jockeys in the hamper – pretty sure that I’d be wearing panties for a while. I don’t spend money I don’t need to.

Did I say that I have long hair? Well I do, and that’s the reason – I mean saving money. The county gave me a personal allowance for haircuts and other needs (like underwear), but skipping haircuts and making do with tattered undies helped me save what I was now spending on rent.

Foster home baths were rushed showers. Someone else always wanted to use the bathroom. So, I relaxed and soaked in the scented salts until the water cooled. For years I’d only used soap on my hair. (My foster parents didn’t “waste money” on shampoo.) It left my hair dull and limp. So, I gladly took advantage of the shampoo and conditioner. It was lilac, but who cared?

Maria, a girl at my last place, told me that I shouldn’t rub my hair with a towel, but wrap it and then blow it dry. So that’s what I did. The results were amazing! My hair’s naturally wavy, and when it was dry and combed out, it looked like I had a perm!

No one would see, so I put on my new panties, tucked myself away and looked in the mirror. Except for my flat chest, I looked every bit a girl – a pretty one. It wasn’t like I wanted to be a girl, but still, knowing I was pretty felt good. Weird!

All of a sudden, I felt embarrassed at the betrayal of my manhood. I untucked myself and immediately tented my panties. I wanted to relieve myself, but was afraid of reinforcing my girlish feelings. So, I put on my robe and went up to put on male clothes.

I passed Alice’s office on my way to the stairs.

“Oh, Morgan.”

“Yes?”

“You look nice. Come in so I can get a better look. … You smell nice as well. You have beautiful hair, dear. You should wear it loose like that all the time.”

“Ah, thank you, but I look like a girl with it this way.”

“Why should that matter?”

“Because I’m a boy?” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

“It’s not like you’re lying about who you are. Looking at you lifts my spirit. You’re like a flower that’s blossomed – and it’s wonderful! God created you to bring joy into the world. Don’t hide your beauty. It would be throwing away a gift.”

“Well, that’s fine, but if I go out like this, I’ll get beaten to a pulp as like as not.”

“That’s easy. When you go out you can put your hair back in your dreary ponytail. When you’re home you can let your beauty shine.”

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Oh, yes!”

“It doesn’t bother you that I’m a boy who looks like a girl?”

“I wish you’d stop thinking in terms of boys and girls and start thinking in terms of being who God made you.”

“That makes sense, but it’s confusing.”

“I suppose it is. Let me ask you this: Do you like how your hair looks now? Honestly?”

“Honestly, I do,” I blushed.

“Well, then, since we both like it, why not wear it loose at home?”

“Okay, as long you don’t tease me.”

“It’s a deal!

“I’m making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner if that’s okay. It should be ready about 6:00.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I went upstairs and hung up my robe. I caught a glimpse of an under endowed tomboy in the dressing table mirror as I set my phone alarm. I was wondering why I liked wearing panties as I fell asleep.

When my alarm went off, I put on clean jeans and a pale blue polo shirt that was too big for me. (It was a hand-me-down from a fifteen year-old who’d out grown it). In the kitchen, Alice was opening a can of pasta sauce, dumping in frozen meatballs and boiling spaghetti.

“It’s not fair for you to do all the cooking, Alice. I don’t have a job yet, and my mother taught me to cook before she died. Maria, a friend at the last place I stayed, taught me some Mexican dishes as well.”

“That’s very thoughtful, Morgan. We can talk about it over dinner. … Meanwhile, could you open the salad greens and slice a couple of tomatoes?”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re only 18, but if you like, we could celebrate your birthday and arrival with a glass of Lambrusco.”

“What’s Lambrusco?”

“An Italian red wine.”

“I’ve never had wine, but I’ll give it a go. Thanks.” I could hardly say no to celebrating my birthday.

We discussed my cooking skills over dinner. Most of what I could make was winter fare – chili, soups, pot roast, enchiladas and so on. The only summer dishes I knew, other than hot dogs and hamburgers, were chef, potato and pasta salad. Alice liked pasta salad, so I’d make it for the weekend. We’d buy the ingredients the next day.

“You know, Alice, this is a very special day for me. Yesterday I had little control over my life, and today I feel free. I have my own room. I took a bath that lasted more than five minutes, and I have a new friend.”

A tear appeared in her eye. “I have a new friend as well! Let’s drink to it.” She poured me a couple more inches of Lambrusco and we toasted.

“If you’ll wait in the living room, I have a surprise for you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

She brought out a small cake with 18 candles and sang happy birthday. I cried. She gave me a hug. After a plate of cake and ice cream, I went up to bed, exhausted.

Since it was warm, I just wore panties to bed. I couldn’t help running my hands over the fabric. They felt much better than jockeys. What did that – and my new hairstyle – say about me? Whatever it was, it excited me to a spontaneous climax. I’d had wet dreams, but this was the first time it happened while I was awake. I felt guilty, but after all, I was only wearing panties to save money.