Being Samantha Masters

an homage-prequel to Being Christina Chase

Oak Grove

Samuel Masters stared at the clock on the wall in his grandparents’ living room.  8:45pm.  “Where do all of these rugrats come from?” he said aloud, the sound of his voice immediately swallowed by the hubbub of little bodies and shrill voices that filled the modest living room to overflowing.  Sammy regularly was inundated by screaming children; it was just part of being a Levchenko.  At eighteen, on the cusp of finishing his high school education, he felt it unfair that he, a Masters and not a Levchenko, was still dragged into each and every one of these “parties.”  Something about the rugrats being his cousins.  He wasn’t even sure which one of these ‘cousins’ was having the birthday this time.  It seemed like a Levchenko birthday party happened every two or three weeks.  And he was the guy who sat here, stuck with the little kids, praying for the day he could arrange his escape.

He was not just idly daydreaming, either; today he’d received a very exciting piece of mail.  He’d pored over the glossy pamphlet, reading it twice over in the car ride to his grandparents’.  It seemed to be burning a hole into his belly from where it sat in the kangaroo pocket of his soft grey hoodie. He was going to show the pamphlet to his parents, and then everything would change. But first he had to survive this gauntlet.

The cousins all fell into two rough types: there were the big and beefies and there were the little waifs.  Most of the big and beefies were the boys: they could almost field a whole football team, if everybody being the same age wasn’t necessary.  They enjoyed, as they were enjoying right now, the diverting pasttime of pumelling each other into the ground.  There were at least three wrestling matches happening on the living room floor, which tended to overlap and swap opponents every once in a while, especially when Gramma walked through and everyone pretended they weren’t trying to smash each other’s faces in.

Most of the little waifs were the girls, and they were contributing the shrieks and cries that filled the room as the wrestling matches inevitably tumbled onto or close to them.  Sammy closed his eyes as a particularly piercing objection went tearing through the room.

There were exceptions to the boy/girl rule, of course.  There were a few wispy boys and a few beefy girls.  They were just as shrill and violent as the rest.

And then of course there was Sammy, who was neither big and beefy nor a little waif.  He was just sort of there, and unremarkable.  The other thing that set him apart was that while everybody else was somewhere between pasty white to alabaster (even the half-Asian cousins, and Sammy had given up trying to figure out how either Aunt Lisa or Uncle Oliver were related to his own parents), Sammy was ruddy brown.

Samuel was adopted.  And it seemed like every birthday, one of the cousins would have hit the age where they just finally realized that Sammy stuck out, and then they’d ask charming questions like where his “real” parents were, where he was from, and if he was ever going to bring some of “his” food to the family potlucks.

Kids from outside the family were even less tactful about it, and there had been a few years in middle school where some choice phrases had been scratched into his locker.  The town of Oak Grove was not a large place, and everybody knew everybody else’s business.  And so everybody in town knew that Samuel’s parents couldn’t have children of their own and they had to go to the Baby Store to get one.  They knew that he didn’t share any blood with anyone in town.  That he was there by sufferance.  Everyone knew that everyone pretended that he belonged here, just by sticking around so long.

Last week, he didn’t mind it all so much.  Or he did—the cousins were relentlessly loud—but he’d been inured to it.  Resigned.  He believed then that his byzantine family and their little mountain utopia Oak Grove was a prison.  A pretty prison, as his mother was constantly trying to remind him.  But a prison nonetheless.  He didn’t belong here, but the friendly folks of the town were going to grind him down until he fit.

He was going to graduate high school, get a job either making furniture with his uncle or working at the family grocery store with his grandfather, get trapped into marriage by some local girl (not, preferably, a cousin), settle down, and get busy producing Levchenko great-grandchildren.  He’d be folded into the fabric of Oak Grove life until nobody remembered he was adopted, until nobody remembered anything about him, in fact; until he was just another local.

But Today was different.  Today he had the pamphlet.  Today he knew that he could get out.

The party was winding down—you could tell by the rising crescendo of childish screams, indicating that a parent would soon be in to declare it time to find shoes and coats and get ready to get in the car.  Which sounded like this torment was just about over, but then Gramma would insist everyone take leftovers.  Then everybody would spend another half hour as the tupperware got broken out and the food was divvied up and distributed.  Meanwhile everybody would sweat in their parkas, the smallest kids would somehow lose the shoes off their feet, and then parents would root around behind couches looking for them.

Seeing a soft shambling shape approach the living room door, Sammy leapt up to intercept his grandmother.  “Gramma, can I help you clean up leftovers?” he asked, gesturing at the kitchen table heaped high with half-scooped-out casserole dishes.  If the leftovers were packaged early, maybe they could all get out of here that much sooner.  Sammy was feeling downright heroic.

But Gramma only patted his elbow.  “Of course not, dear.  You have fun with your cousins.”  She nodded vaguely at the children trying to kill each other.  “You show them a thing or two yeah?  You’re so big and strong.”

“I’m… not,” Sammy sighed.  He might have a few inches of height on his beefy cousins, but they could easily make up the difference in sheer power.  And there was nothing quite so mortifying as being pinned to the ground by your younger cousin.  Gramma was already moving away.  He listened as she called over some of the older girl-cousins and set them to packaging up leftovers.  Silver lining, at least: they’d be out of here that much sooner.

With a gusty sigh, he skirted the most tumultuous corners of the living room, opened the front door, and stepped outside.  The January air was crisp and cold; he wrapped his hands around his shoulders.  Down at the end of the long porch, the ladies of the clan sat in a circle of beautifully-carved wooden chairs.  Their conversation was muted, punctuated by the clink of glass and bursts of throaty laughter.  He stepped up to the edge of the circle.

“Hey there, honey,” his mother called, and the murmur of conversation immediately ground to a halt.  His mother was all smiles (and reddened cheeks; there were at least five wine bottles lined up along the side of the house) and gestured him forward for a hug.  “Did you need something?”

Yeah, a break from his cousins.  But he was standing in front of his cousins’ mothers—all of them staring up at him, no longer talking, just putting up with his interruption—which didn’t seem like a very receptive audience for that kind of answer.  “Gramma’s starting to pack up leftovers,” he said instead.  “So party’s wrapping up soon.”

“I should help her,” his mother said, and shot up to her feet, only to wobble and then slowly collapse to the right.  The other moms erupted in peals of laughter, and thin-wristed hands darted out to gently return her to her chair.  “Or maybe I’ll sit,” she amended, and did so.  She smiled again at Sam, without a great deal of focus.  “You should probably tell your father that I’m ready to be poured into my passenger seat.”

Sammy looked across the yard to the barn, which was lit up in the inky night.  More throaty laughter, of a far more baritone variety, echoed out of the structure.  “Do I have to?”

“You know you’re eighteen, now,” Aunt Nina pointed out.  “If you got tired of hanging out with the kids at these things, I think the men would be happy to have you.”

Sammy pursed his lips.  He liked his uncles individually.  He was less enamoured of them in a group.  “Well at least they’ll be sober, right?”

The women snorted softly.  “They’ll be mostly sober,” Aunt Steph corrected.  “They take their turn to drive families home very seriously, but also think we can’t notice if they’ve had one or two.”

But Sam was already heading across the yard, trudging though slushy snow.  It was only a moment before he stood before the barn door.  He could hear the men on the other side talking, laughing.  By the cadence of things, he could tell that his father was telling a story.  He took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

Just as with the moms, the dads’ conversation stopped on a dime.  The five of them looked askance; after a moment, his father said, “What is is, Sam?”

“Gramma broke out the tupperware,” he said, hooking a thumb behind him.  “So party’s almost over.  And mom’s gonna need help getting to the car.”

“Aw, my passenger princess,” Sam’s father chuckled, to the amusement of the other dads.  He nodded.  “I’ll be out shortly, son,” he said with the casual finality that he thought was genial and Sammy knew was a pretty potent shut down.  Dad wanted to finish his story, and to do so in private.

Thinking of Aunt Nina’s suggestion, Sammy screwed up his courage and asked, “Can I stay with you guys until then?”

His dad pursed his lips, but Uncle Olliver said, “Sure, Sam.  Come on in.”

Sammy stepped fully into the barn and shut the door behind him.  It wasn’t exactly warm in here, but it was certainly cold outside.  This had once been Uncle Andrei’s workshop; in recent years it had been turned into a sort of collective man-cave.  It had started with a dart board, and then a sideboard to hold drinks, and then billiards, and then a flat-screen television to watch football.  To Sammy it always seemed just a touch sad.

“What were you guys talking about?” he asked as he approached the line of them.

“Nothing you need worry about,” Sam’s grandfather answered, with a finality that was far less genial.

And that about killed the mood in the barn.  The dads looked uncertainly at each other for a few beats, and then started asking the usual questions: how was school (shitty, but he knew to say ‘challenging’), did he see the last comic book movie (he was so over those schlocky, childish movies, and yes, he absolutely had), was there a girl he had his eye on (not in fucking Oak Grove).  What little conversation was generated by the boring questions and boring answers withered and died.

Sammy shoved his hands in his hoodie’s pocket.  “Sorry for killing the mood,” he said.  He fingered the pamphlet, hidden away.  Later.  That conversation was soon, but later.

The dads all voluably denied that Sam had, as he so clearly had, thrown a wet blanket on the proceedings.

He shrugged.  “Aunt Nina just mentioned that since I’m eighteen, maybe I could ditch the kids and come… talk… manly things.”  He sniggered at how stupid he sounded.

“Drinking age is twenty-one,” grandfather answered stoutly.

Sammy did a poor job of hiding his smirk.  “I thought you guys were dry tonight.”  Suddenly no one wanted to meet his eye.

Finally his father said, “We’ve been dry for the past ninety minutes.  We may have started the evening with a few modest drinks, but we are very capable of driving home.”

“I am not,” grandfather said with a belch.

“You’re not driving,” Uncle Andrei reminded his father with a roll of his eyes.

Sammy nodded and started slowly drifting backwards towards the barn doors.  “I get it,” he said, bobbing his head.  “Okay.  Well I’m gonna go pick out the biggest desert tupperware before anybody else nabs them.”  He turned to go.

“Hey Sam.  Samuel,” called Oliver, breaking away from the other dads to come plant a solid hand on the boy’s shoulder.  He didn’t stop Sam’s movement toward the door and instead walked alongside him.  “Listen, don’t let it bother you.  Next time why don’t you hang with us from the start?”

“Next time it’s your turn to drink,” Sammy pointed out, trying to keep the sour note out of his voice.  “You still want me kicking around?”

“Maybe the birthday party after that, then,” Oliver conceded with a smirk.  As the barn door rose before them, he tugged Sam to a stop.  “Look.  You’re at a rough age.  I sympathize.”

“I don’t think it’s my age,” Sammy sighed and, what the hell, decided to confide in his uncle.  “I don’t think it’s going to change.”

“I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” Oliver sympathized with a rough shake of Sammy’s shoulder, “but you’d be surprised how fast things can change.  Sometimes so fast you never even see it coming.”

Sammy nodded morosely.  “Yeah,” he said, for lack of anything better to say, and slipped out the door.

It was almost an hour before Sammy finally trudged out to the family Lexus, two paper bags of leftovers in each hand.  (“Here, you take more,” Gramma insisted, “So big and strong!”)  He fumbled for the back door handle, paper bag straps digging into the hook of his fingers, fingertips trying to coax the latch open.  No matter how he twisted, however, the door refused to budge.

For a moment he considered putting the bags down, but the half-melted slush on the ground would seep through the paper bags in a moment.  He tried lifting the bags to put them on top of the car, but the weight was too great and the bags too tall for him to manage.  With a disgusted grunt, he dropped them back to his sides and waited for his parents.

His reflection in the car window stared back at him, sneering in shared frustration.   A spiky mop of dark hair sat above his, let’s be honest, unremarkable features.  He wasn’t sure if he still had a bit of a baby face or if his general lack of physical fitness qualified him for a fat face.  His dark eyes just sort of sat there, swimming in facial features that never really came together.  He just looked like a generic brown kid of indeterminate age.

He’d attempted a moustache last year, which he’d hoped would give his face a little definition and maybe make him look a little older.  Like the brown late-teens characters he saw on television (for lack of a comparison here in town).  But it hadn’t made him look older, just the same age but pathetically trying to look older.  Despite the hairs being dark and thick, everything came in patchy, which did not anchor anything, face-wise.  So he’d abandoned it.  Most days he just sported a mess of stubble, now.

He looked away.  Where were his parents?  They were supposed to be right behind him.  Saying endless rounds of goodbyes, probably.  It took forever to escape Gramma’s house.

Finally the front door opened and disgorged his parents, his mother pressed up against his father with that lovestruck smile she  sported so often.  He strutted along, supporting her only-slightly-weaving steps, with the proud air of a man with a prize.  They carried on like this all the damn time.  His parents were so immeasurably embarassing. 

After some shuffling, bag-juggling, and other jostling, the food was stowed and passengers buckled in.  His father twisted around to look backwards as he pulled down the gravel driveway, his hand on the back of the passenger seat.  His mother lolled dreamily in her seat, shifting slightly to press her forehead against her husband’s forearm.

Worried that his mother might be too sloshed for him to make his pitch, Sammy asked, “Just how hard did you hit the wine, mom?”

She gave him another broad, warm smile.  “Not as hard as it looks.  I’m also tired, and relaxed, and happy.  Those flavours complement a nice pino grigio.”

“Can I… show you something?” he hazarded, fingers inside his hoodie and caressing the edge of the pamphlet.  “Or should I wait till tomorow?”

His mom’s eyebrow rippled at the surprise request, but she sat up a little straighter.  “What is it?” she asked, sounding more coherent as she pulled herself together.

“Um, this came in the mail…” Sammy pulled the pamphlet out of his pocket and gingerly held it forward.

Having reached the road, Sam’s father turned to face forward.  Glancing sideways at the pamphlet, he said, “Samuel, it’s pretty dark for reading…”

“That’s why we have these, dear,” his mom said and snapped on the reading light.  She took the pamphlet.  Sammy watched her eyebrows rise.  “Preview Days?  At Columbia?”

The car swerved slightly and his father swore.  “What?  Did you send away for this, son?”

“No, it just came in the mail,” he repeated patiently.

“How on earth do they know I have a college-age kid?” his father groused.

“Facebook data mining,” his wife answered readily and without looking up.  She put a smile on her face.  “Well this is very nice, Sammy.  Do you… want to go?  To Columbia?”

Sammy knew, like everyone in the car knew, that nobody at his high school expected Samuel Masters to go to college, let alone a prestigious one like his father’s alma mater.  He had, in fact, assiduously avoided the topic since last year when his mother started dropping hints.

“I’d like to go see it,” Sammy answered, which sounded like a compromise in his head.  “I know I don’t have the best grades—”

“Columbia’s a very competitive school,” his father cut in, “with a very competetive applications process.”

“And I’m a legacy,” Sammy pointed out.

“I don’t think they really do that anymore, son.”

“Well I’d like to find out if they do,” the kid pressed his point.  “I’d like to see what it looks like, I want to see what the classes are like.  College is different than high school, right?  Maybe what I didn’t like about high school won’t be a problem in college.”

And maybe, Sammy thought but did not say, he could go see the City.  Maybe he could see, not just what school looked like, but what life looked like.  Real life.  Not the podunk knock-off that they had up here on the mountain.

His father leaned over to look at the pamphlet illuminated by the reading light.  “It’s not going to work,” he said, all genial finality again.  “That weekend your mother and I are in San Fransisco for the trade show.”

This Sammy knew, was in fact planning on.  Sammy wet his lips.  This would be the hardest part of his pitch.  “I thought maybe I could go on my own.  An uncle can take me to Dover, and then it’s just a bus ride to the City.”

His parents looked worriedly at each other, and then his mother looked back and him.  She had the distinct look on her face that she didn’t want what she had to say to hurt his feelings.  “Oh honey, I don’t think… I know you’re eighteen, and you’re an adult, but… New York is… a hard place.  And you’re not, well… very worldly.”

“You lived there, on your own, when you were my age,” Sammy responded with frustrated heat.

“And that wasn’t a very good idea,” she answered quickly, without any of her own heat.  “Your grandfather and uncle had to come rescue me.”

His father was nodding at the road as it rolled underneath the car.  “Your mother’s right.  A weekend in the City, all on your own?  You could get hurt.  And we’d be on the other side of the continent.”

“I take a bus, I go to campus, I take some tours and stay overnight in a dorm, and then I get back on a bus—”

But his father was shaking his head.  “Samuel, I know that sounds simple, but… you’ve no idea what the City can be like.”

I know, he muttered to himself.  That’s why I want to go.

“Maybe we can go as a family some other time.”

Sammy gestured helplessly at the pamphlet.  The magical pamphlet that was supposed to make this plan look safe and easy.  “But all the presentations and things are during Preview Days.  We’d miss all of it.”

“You can’t make a trip to the City all on your own,” his father told the rolling road.  “You need somebody who knows the place, who can look out for you, who can keep you out of trouble.”

“Ooo!” squealed his mother, rather suddenly, and then sniggered.  She looked sidelong at her husband.

He hazarded a quick glance at her.  “Oh no, what now?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I already don’t like it.  What?”

Instead of speaking directly to his father, his mother turned her slightly-tipsy smile onto Sammy.  “You could visit your uncles.  You’ve got a cousin who lives there.”

“My what?”

“Christina—” his father growled warningly.  Use of the first name, Sammy noted, was not a good sign.

“Your father’s brother, his husband, and their daughter,” his mother explained simply.  “One of them even teaches at Columbia, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” his father grated.  “He does.”

Mom shifted back into her seat and stared up at her husband.  “Richard, dear.  Your son wants to see your alma mater.  I know you two have history, but for your son, you can call your brother and ask for a favor.”

Sammy had known he had an uncle on his father’s side; he knew that he was a university professor.  He hadn’t known he was gay married, or that he had a kid.  And he didn’t know he lived in the City.  This changed things.

His mother was watching his father, waiting for the right moment to press her advantage. “It would make your son very happy,” she added.  “It would make me very happy.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed.  “And I already know you’re going to work on me until I agree to do it, so I’m just giving up now.”  He looked up to the rear-view mirror to make eye contact with Sammy.  “Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“The City is dangerous,” Uncle Andrei lectured, his mammoth hands wrapped around the steering wheel.  He never looked up from the road, but somehow he was also looking at Sammy in the passenger seat.  “There’s criminals, there’s drugs.  The streets are full of cars and nobody looks where they’re going.”

“I’ll be careful, Andrei,” Sammy grinned, trying to cajole his uncle into a better mood.  Usually Andrei was the chill one.  Now he was… disturbingly intense.

“There are crosswalks,” his uncle went on.  “You use them, okay?”

That one caught Sammy off guard.  “I mean… sure?”

Andrei shook his head.  “You don’t understand.  Everybody else?  Who lives there?  They just walk out into the street.  Into crazy traffic.”  He took one hand off the wheel to point a thick finger at Sammy.  “You don’t do that, okay?  You go to the corner.  You wait for the signal.  You only cross at the crosswalk.”

Sammy couldn’t help but laugh.  “I know how to—”

“Make eye contact with every driver you walk in front of,” Andrei insisted.

Sammy gave up and nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” his uncle said, clapped him heavily on the shoulder, and then went back to driving.

A few miles passed before Sammy asked, “You’ve been to the City, right?”

“Many times,” Andrei nodded, and then thought better of it.  “Well.  A few times.  I don’t like being there.  It’s noisy.  It smells.”

“Mom said you… rescued her?” he prodded gently.  “From when she was living there?”

His uncle smirked at the road.  “Your mother is headstrong, like the rest of the family.  And when she was young, she thought she had to go it alone.  Do everything herself.  Get whatever job she could, pay her own rent.  Be independent.”  He put a sneering spin on that last word.

Oh great, more of this stuff.  “You’re independent,” Sammy pointed out.  “Or is that only for big manly men like us?”

Andrei spat out laughter.  “That’s good, ha.  That’s funny.”

Sammy scowled.  He knew he wasn’t big or manly, but his uncle didn’t have to rub it into his face.

Andrei looked sidelong at him and his expression of amusment dropped when he saw that he’d somehow hurt his nephew. “I am independent now,” he explained carefully.  “But I lived in my father’s house until I was twenty-four.  I always had a job at the family store whenever I wanted it.  My father gave me the whole barn to use as a workshop for years—years!—before I went professional.  And then the only reason I was ever able to make money with my furniture was because of your mother running the business.”

“Because she’s your receptionist?”

“That’s a joke,” Andrei scoffed, with a roll of his eyes.  He glanced over at Sammy, then did a double-take.  “You know that, right?  The family says that because… oh never mind.  Old joke.  She’s not the receptionist or the secretary, she’s my partner.  She handles all the numbers, all the advertising, all the logistics.  And now she does that for the grocery store, too. Don’t underestimate your mother.  Things don’t turn out well for those who do.”

Sammy hid his smirk by looking out the window.  He didn’t mind hearing his mother praised so highly.  For most of his life she’d presented as an unassuming housewife, focused on the feminine arts and domesticity.  But maybe that was just the side that he saw at home.

“Yes, I have a house and I pay my own bills,” Andrei went on.  “But I didn’t do all that the moment I turned eighteen.  And the only reason I can do it now is because I didn’t try to do it then.  I relied on family.  That’s what we’re here for.”

Sammy bobbed his head.  “Yeah.  Speaking of which, thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome, but you don’t get what I’m saying,” Andrei pressed.  “You need your family.  And your family is at home.  In Oak Grove.  Not where you’re going.”

“But I do have family there—”

Andrei snorted.  “They may be related, but they’re not family.  Hank Masters turned his back on his family to go be a big-city doctor.  He doesn’t understand how a real family works.”

“Did you know him?” Sammy asked in surprise.

“A little,” his uncle said.  “He was two years ahead of me in school.  Theater kid.  Loud.  Worked in… ugh, the store that was where Abby’s place is now, I forget its old name.  Anyway.  He surprised everybody when he left for college.  And then he never came back.”

Sammy nodded.  That sounded like a great plan, actually.  Leave and never come back.  No more Oak Grove, no more sticking out like a sore thumb, no more smothering family.  Suddenly Sammy realized that his uncle’s gaze was again on him.  Oh.  “I’m going to come back, Andrei,” he stammered.  “It’s just a weekend.”

“It’s just a weekend now,” his uncle grumbled.  “But you go there for school?  Spend four years away from family?”  He shook his huge head.  “It’s no way to live, Sammy.  And it does things to your head.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.  “I’ll miss you, too.”

“Ha,” Andrei spat again, and reached over to playfully whack the back of his hand against Sammy’s shoulder.  He did his best not to wince.

The winding moutain roads started to straighten out as they drove into Dover.  Stop signs increased in number and then increasingly got replaced with traffic lights.  It certainly wasn’t a big city, but Dover actually had a skyline, and soon they were driving between rows of buildings more than tracts of forest.  The GPS informed them that the bus depot was just a few minutes away.

“Listen, Sammy,” Andrei said tentatively.  His eyes remained on the road, but Sammy got the distinct impression that his uncle wasn’t just being safe: he didn’t want to look him in the eye.  “You should go see Columbia.  But if it doesn’t work out—”

Sammy heaved a sigh.  “Nobody thinks I can get in.”

“It’s not that,” his uncle insisted, but he still didn’t make eye contact.  “Just.  If it doesn’t work out, you know there’s always a workbench at the warehouse for you, yeah?  I can teach you everything you need to know.  It’s a good job.  It’s a good life.”

Sammy bit back his immediate response (Oh hell, no.) and forced a smile.  “Yes sir.  I mean.  Thank you for the offer.”  He could feel his head nodding and ignored the feeling that he was drowning, getting pulled down into the depths, from where he’d never escape.

“And we have the apartment over the salon,” his uncle went on.  “We rent it now, but when the current lease ends, we could move you in there.”

Sammy gulped.  This was getting serious.  “You don’t have to put the Andersons out on the street for me.”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” his uncle said, the corner of his lip curling upwards.  Gossip?  From Andrei?  “But they are expecting.  And I say from experience that that apartment is very nice for a couple, but too small for a family with kids.”

“Well, good for them,” Sammy muttered.  He rubbed his hands up and down his upper arms.  The heater was blasting; how was it cold in here?

“Just think about it,” Andrei urged as he pulled into the bus depot parking lot.  “You have options.  You have family.”  He pulled into a parking space and the truck lurched to a stop.  “It’s a good life.”

Yeah, just not the life Sammy wanted.  It wasn’t his life.  It was, in fact, Andrei’s life, from twenty years ago.  Sammy had no desire to be a carbon copy of his uncle.

By the time he collected his backpack and got out of the truck, Andrei was already walking towards the waiting buses, Sammy’s electric blue rolling suitcase in hand and sleeping bag under his arm.  “I can carry my own luggage,” he sputtered, running a few steps to catch up. “Also that has wheels.”

“I’ve got it, it’s nothing,” Andrei shrugged, and leveled a finger at one of the buses.  “That one’s yours.”

They crossed the parking lot as Sammy pulled up his ticket on his phone, and then it was time to board.  Awkwardly, Sammy turned to his uncle, phone in hand to match the suitcase in Andrei’s.  “Um.  Thanks for the ride.  I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.”  The suitcase and sleeping bag were slung under the bus and a moment later Sammy was crushed in a hug.  “You remember what I said, okay?”

“About the crosswalks?”

When Andrei spat his laughter while hugging, Sammy got extra crushed.  “Yes.  And also about the job, and the apartment, and family, okay?”

Sammy peeled himself off of Andrei’s chest.  “Yes, sir.”  He looked back at the steps into the bus.  “Well I guess this is it.  New York, here I come.”

“Stay safe,” his uncle said, backing away.

The steps up into the bus were steep and short, and Sammy had to go halfway down the length of the vehicle to find a window seat on the right side.  He dumped himself onto the hard cushion and looked outside to wave goodbye.

Andrei was coming towards the bus, Sammy’s blue roller bag in hand.  But hadn’t he already loaded it under the bus?  A tall Black girl was trailing behind him, kind of pretty but looking vaguely discomfitted.  “No, it’s fine,” his uncle assured her.  “It’s nothing.”  She watched as he strode forward and slung the bag under the bus.  Ah.  Her roller suitcase.  And Uncle Andrei’s weird proclivity for carrying everybody’s bag.

Sammy caught Andrei’s eye and waved.  His uncle returned the wave with a smile.  “I suppose when the universe gifts you with a body like that,” Sammy muttered into the window, “the least you can do is help people with their luggage.”

Movement caught Sammy’s eye and when he looked up, the girl was boarding the bus.  He gulped involuntarily.  She wasn’t kind of pretty; she was gorgeous.  And she also appeared to be seething angry.  “I’ll carry your bag, little lady,” she growled at nobody, “you’re obviously weak and incapable.  Let me, a big strong man do it for you.”

Sammy considered saying something, apologizing for his uncle, even commiserating with her.  Andrei insisted on carrying his bags, too, so it wasn’t just because she was a girl.  But before he could figure out what to say, the girl turned and seated herself on the other side of the bus, five or six rows ahead of him.  He barely caught sight of her popping in a pair of wireless headphones, and then she slumped against her window, settling in for the long trip.

With a contented sigh, Sammy did the same.  Soon he’d be out of the mountains and finally on his own in the City.

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-prequel to Being Christina Chase

Like You

“Wakey wakey, sunshine,” giggled a voice, coupled with a gentle shake to Sammy’s shoulder.  He wasn’t in bed.  He was on something… not quite hard.  Something smelled weird.  He started, suddenly full awake.

A tall white girl was leaning over him, smirking.  Stark white-blonde hair tumbled around her pale, open face; her lean body was encased in a fluffy white crop top.  Sammy’s brain informed him that he’d been woken up by an angel.  Sammy told his brain that it was being stupid.  “Uh.  Hey.  Are we there yet?”

The girl giggled again.  “Yeah, you’re the last one off.  I’m Rowan.  Your cousin.  They let me come wake you.  You almost ended up parked in the bus lot until morning.”

“You’re my cousin?” he croaked.  “But you’re so…”

“Amazing, I know,” she grinned, and primped her hair.

All his life, Sammy’s cousins were younger than him.  The eldest among them was four years younger than he was.  “Cousin” was wedged in his head alongside “little kid” like they were the same concept.  He’d been preparing for this weekend for six weeks, and in all that time he’d assumed that there’d be some rugrat to contend with.  He’d told himself one annoying little cousin was better than fifteen of them, swarming all over.  But now…

“We should go,” his older and very pretty cousin reminded him with a gentle smile.

Groggy, Sammy pushed himself up to sitting straight, then scooted sideways into the aisle.  “I, uh, didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“And yet,” she laughed, and started striding down the aisle to the door.  “Come on, my dads are waiting outside.”

Sammy trailed after her, trying not to stare at her butt, which bounced along in tight white jeans shorts.  This was his cousin; he shouldn’t look at her like that.

“Sound asleep, like a little baby,” Rowan declared as she hopped off the last step and onto the pavement.

Sammy followed, sneakers hitting the ground for only a moment before he staggered backwards.  An overwhelming stench rolled over him: spent motor oil, cracked asphalt, old chewing gum, and what was almost certainly an undernote of urine.  “Urk,” he coughed, and shook his head.  “Wow.  That’s… a smell.”

“You get used to it,” chuckled a barrel-chested man waiting on the curb.  He had Sammy’s blue rollerbag at his side, one hand resting on its telescoped handle.  He’d attached the sleeping bag by its straps.  “It’s good to finally meet you, Samuel.  I’m your uncle, Henry.”

“Sammy,” he corrected mildly, blinking.  Somehow the smell had got into his eyes.  “Just call me Sammy.”

“Sammy it is,” his uncle nodded.  “And this is my husband, Gideon.”

Another man, much shorter and leaner than Henry, stepped forward, arms outstretched tentatively.  “Pleasure to meet you, Sammy.  Do you hug?”

“Uh, yeah?” he responded, and shuffled forward to hug his uncle.  His gay uncle.  He’d of course hugged uncles before, but they were all straight, and they liked women and women’s bodies, and now here he was, hugging an uncle who liked men, and men’s bodies and… He told his brain to stop thinking about it like that.  “Sorry, I’m still a little muzzy.”

“Don’t worry, ‘a little muzzy’ is the ideal headspace for riding the subway,” Gideon grinned, linking arms with Sammy and guiding him down the long line of empty bus terminals.

Sammy just barely caught himself from voicing his surprise that they were taking the subway back to his uncles’ place instead of driving, as well as his initial impulse to say, “I’ve never been on a subway.”  He was in New York, now; of course they were going to ride the subway.  That’s what you did in the City.

As they descended white-tiled steps into the subway station, Henry started patting his pockets.  “Oh, um.  Sam…mmy.  We grabbed one of these for you.”  He held out a plastic card.  “Subway pass.”

“Old school,” Rowan grinned, pulling out her phone and tapping it to the turnstyle reader.  “He wasn’t sure if you’d have a phone, Country Mouse.”

Sammy took the card and made his lips form a grateful smile.  “Thanks.  I mean, I do have a phone, but that was thoughtful.”

Henry went about demonstrating how to use the subway pass, which was so straightforward a child could do it.  He pointed at the card.  “That’s good for as many trips as you like for the next two weeks, so you can go anywhere in the City that you like.”

Gideon followed after the both of them, gently adding, “Although your parents are kind of expecting you to stick to campus and the Upper West Side.”

“Pssh,” Rowan snorted.  “Like there’s anything good there.”

“I was kind of hoping to see the City a bit,” Sammy admitted sheepishly.  The four of them walked a little ways down the platform and then came to an unspoken but mutually agreed-upon stop to wait for their train.

“Maybe you could take Sammy out for some night life after dinner,” Henry suggested to Rowan, bushy eyebrows raised.

Rowan’s face blanked, and then she looked over at Sammy as if slotting him into any scenario adequately described as “night life” broke her brain.  “Um.  He’s underage.”

“So are you,” Henry shot back archly.

“Yes, but I have a really good fake ID,” she responded with a laugh, “and I have tits.  So I get in everywhere.”

“So maybe you could drag him along,” Gideon suggested gently.

Sammy couldn’t help but grin at the thought of his cousin—his older cousin—his older, honestly kind of hot cousin—taking him out to sample the city nightlife.  “I mean, I would love that, but it’s only Thursday.”

Rowan blinked, and then looked uncertainly to her fathers.  “I don’t understand.  Why would that matter?”

Gideon chuckled and placed his hands on Rowan’s shoulders.  “My dear, dazzling urbanite,” he chuckled.  “Outside of the City,  most places are dead empty on weeknights.  Out there, people only go out on the weekends.”

“Ew, but that’s when the bridge-and-tunnel kids show up.”

Henry snorted.  “How exactly do you think your cousin got here, if not a bridge or tunnel?”

“That’s different,” Rowan declared, and stepped around her father to hook an arm around Sammy’s neck.  “Sammy isn’t gonna try and claim New Yorker status despite having a 201 area code.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he grinned at his uncle, leaning into his cousin.  “Even if I knew what that meant.”

Before anyone could explain or the vague suggestion of late-night plans could be confirmed, wind rose up out of the tunnel, shortly followed by a moaning wail.  A minute later, their train pulled into the station.  The doors opened, a few people got off, and they got on.  The car wasn’t even a quarter full, so they had their pick of seats.

Once they were settled in, Gideon explained, “We’ve got dinner waiting at home, and you can borrow Rowan’s bed tonight—”

Sammy frowned.  “Wait, where will Rowan be sleeping?”

“My dorm room, of course,” she giggled.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were in school,” he stammered.  “Wait, are you at Columbia?”

She bobbed her head.  “Pre-med, just like Daddy.”

He grinned.  “Like Daddy but not like Daddy.”

“Oh no,” she said with a shake of her head, not even registering Sammy’s comment as humor.  She pointed across the subway to Henry.  “This one’s Daddy.”  Then she pointed at Gideon.  “This one’s Tate.”

“Tah teh?” Sammy echoed, frantically trying to switch tracks from a joke gone awry to projecting respect for his gay uncles’ lifestyle.

“Close enough,” Gideon laughed.  “It’s Yiddish, which I only barely speak.  Kind of a family joke that went too far and just became our common parlance.”

“Anyway, they’re the dads,” Rowan summarized dismissively.

“And the dads will feed you dinner, put you up for the night, stuff you full of bagels tomorrow morning, and deliver you to Preview Days in time for registration.”  Gideon grinned.  “Henry can take you, since he’s got a morning class.”

Henry nodded in agreement.

“That’s right, you teach at Columbia.”

“We both teach at Columbia,” Gideon put in.  “I just also teach at SUNY and CUNY and occasionally Marymount and NYU. But Henry has tennnnure.”  He stretched out the word teasingly; it was clearly a very old joke.

The tenured professor coughed to change the subject.  “After Preview Days, we can take you back to the Port Authority for your bus.  Although by then I’m sure you’ll be an old hand at taking the subway and won’t need us.”

“But we’d still like to say goodbye,” Gideon added with a smile.  “If only to assure your parents that you’re safe and sound.”

“In the loving embrace of Greyhound,” Rowan smirked.

Their stop came up and the four of them filed out of the subway and up the stairs.  It was still a couple blocks’ walk, but at least the stench seemed to have abated (or, Sammy feared, he was already acclimating).  Both sides of the street were lined with stoops and townhouses, a sight with which Sammy was familiar thanks to countless movies and television shows.  He couldn’t help but grin.  He was really here.  He was really in the City.

His uncles’ townhouse was almost indistinguishable from the others, although it had a cheery rainbow flag in the window.  Henry led the way up, blue roller bag in tow.  Once the door was unlocked, they all filed inside.  In the foyer, he held out the bag to Sammy.  “Rowan, why don’t you take your cousin upstairs to your room.  Dinner in half an hour.”

“Right this way, Country Mouse!” cried the girl, bounding up the wooden stairs with long familiarity.  Sammy hurried to hoist his suddenly heavy bag up after her.  Where was Andrei when you needed him?

Rowan’s room was, like Rowan herself, immeasurably cool.  The walls were a deep purple—except one wall, which was a rich butter yellow under a lattice of black wooden slats.  An accent wall, supplied something in the depths of Sammy’s brain.  The light fixtures on the walls were all dark gold, angled down for indirect lighting.  A computer desk sat beside the door, the bed to the right and a large, half-emptied closet on the left.  The other wall, though, was all windows, looking out onto the street.  A big reading chair sat in front of it, with a little table at its side.

Sammy stepped up to the window to gaze out at the townhouses and budding trees.  He couldn’t help grinning.

Two of the window panes, in the upper left and upper right corners, were covered by stripey banners.  Baby blue, pink, and white, then the pink and blue again.  They didn’t match the rest of the decor, but Sammy figured they were some sentimental remnant from a baby shower or something.  You put something up in the corner like that and you can forget it’s there; then it sticks around for years.  He lifted a corner of one banner to better see down the block, and shot his cousin a smirk.

She responded with the most hesitant smile he’d yet seen on the girl, and then a shrug.  Was she embarassed at the old decorations stuck in the corners?  “Your room is… really nice,” Sammy said, trying to shove compliments at her to make her feel better.  “Like, it’s out of a movie or something.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, now with genuine satisfaction.  “I mean I mostly just stole the look from a pinterest board, but the three of us tore out all the old stuff and repainted and rewired the lights and… yeah.  It was a really cool family project.  I almost feel bad that I only lived in it for a couple years before college.”

“That’s so cool that your dads did it with you.  My mom’s very handy and crafty and all that.  My dad, not so much.  He’d rather hire somebody than do anything himself.”

Rowan put her butt on the back of the reading chair.  “They’re big into that.  Or they were, when I was smaller.  Very intentional about family time.  Which is, you know.  It’s very Gay Dads.”

“I don’t actually know,” Sammy said with a shrug, and was suddenly struck by a realization.  Gay dads didn’t have babies on their own, did they?  They adopted.  Which meant Rowan had to be adopted.  Just like Sammy.  “But it’s good that they, you know, make you feel welcome,” he said, trying to turn the conversation towards his realization.  “It’s… it’s a whole thing, you know?  Making sure that you know you’re loved, and you belong, and it’s always going to be your home.”

Rowan lifted an eyebrow.  “I mean… sure?”

Sammy waved his hands as if he could conjure up the conversation topic he wanted, even though he knew it could be awkward, even painful.  “Where I’m from, everybody knows everything about everybody,” he sighed.  “Except they don’t really, you know?  They think they do.  Everybody’s in everybody else’s business, and no matter what they whisper, they only ever have a piece of the picture, but they still… say things.  Louder than whispers.  And sometimes they don’t mean any harm, but.  Other times they do.  They want to make sure you know that they don’t think you belong.”

Rowan folded her hands over her knees, quietly listening.  “Yeah,” she said softly, more to coax more words out of her cousin than anything else.

“So it’s awesome that your dads do stuff to make you feel like you belong.  You know?”  He was fucking this up; he knew he was sounding like a crazy person.  He looked out the windows.  She followed his eyes.  It was a nice view, even if those baby banners blocked the corners.

“I’m just saying,” he said, unable to make eye contact, still looking out at the street.  “I’m like you.  You know?”  He darted his eyes back to hers, just for a second.

She tipped her head just slightly.  “Oh.”  She looked over at the windows and the baby banners, and then back to him.  “Oh!”

“I don’t… I don’t talk about it much,” he said, and thought back to the handful of times he awkwardly described to his uncomprehending peers what it was like being adopted.  He shook his whole body as if that could shake off the stress.  “Nobody at home would understand.  Small town, you know?”

Rowan gave him a shaky, encouraging smile.  “Well you’re not in a small town anymore.”

“I hope it’s different here,” he told her.  “Big city and all.”

“It is,” she said, bobbing her head.  “It really is, it’s hardly a thing here.”  Her encouraging smile was blossoming into something much warmer and wider.  Excited.  Like they had something that they could share.  Sammy felt it, too.  “I mean, sometimes it is a thing, just a little, but… everybody I know, knows about me.  And the vast, vast majority of them are cool with it.”

“Really?” he grinned, and then something tickled his temple.  He touched it, finding a drop of sweat.  He realized he was overheating inside his hoodie.  That’s what happened when the conversation topic made you blush all over.  Spotting his bag, he reached down, scooped it up, and dropped it on the bed.  He’d jam the hoodie in here, and then they could head downstairs for dinner.  He unzipped the roller bag and flung it open.

Released from its confines, the stack of clothing inside erupted outwards.  A torrent of colors and patterns—pinks, reds, blues—squeezed its way out of the bag’s opening.  These were not the hoodies and sweats, all grey and black, that Sammy had packed. These were all girl clothes.  A plaid skirt flopped out, unfurling its pleats across the bed surface.  A lacy bra and matching panties tumbled out, and then slid off of the bed and onto the floor.

Rowan scooped up the lingerie and placed them on top of the rest.  “Very cute,” she commented, her smile wide and encouraging.

He opened his mouth, closed it.  Tried to make words come out.  Finally, he said, “I don’t… I don’t normally wear clothes like this.”  He thought he was blushing before?  Now he was blushing.  His whole body must have been beet red.

She blinked.  “What, never?”

He laughed shakily.  He could make this into a joke, right?  “Yeah, no, not ever.  It’s, um.  Not really my everyday look, strolling around Oak Grove in a cute skirt.”  He felt like he was falling backwards.  Of course he couldn’t make this into a joke; none of this made any sense.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, fingers to her lips and everything.  “Are you not out yet?”

He blinked and tried to ignore how his face felt like it was on fire.  “Out?”

“Out of the closet,” Rowan explained.  “Does anybody at home know you’re a trans girl?”

“Trans girl,” he heard himself repeat.  “Like, transgender.”  He tried to remember what he knew about transgender people, all of it gleaned from television, memes, and one very awkward school presentation.

Rowan nodded, her look all sympathy.  “I can’t imagine it’s easy living out in the middle of nowhere, everybody riding tractors and going to… I dunno, barn raisings and 4H animal shows and shit.  Oh, gosh,” she cried, and wrapped Sammy up in a fierce hug.  “And you came to the City, hoping that you could finally try out being you.”

“I did?” he squeaked, trying to ignore how his face was buried in his cousin’s cleavage.  Belatedly, he realized that that had not sounded like a question, but confimation.

Rowan broke the embrace and held Sammy out at arm’s length.  “Okay, you don’t worry about a thing, okay?  I’ve got you.  And obviously my dads are cool.  They’ve been through all of this once already.  It’ll be like old times for them.”

She beamed into his face, and Sammy felt himself smiling back.

“This is so exciting!” she squealed.  “We are going to have so much fun.  I am going to show you everything.”

“You— you mean tonight?” Sammy stammered.  “Like, after dinner?”  If the price of getting his cool, hot cousin to show him around the City was to pretend he was trans for the night… was he seriously considering this?

“Yeah, bitch!” Rowan crowed.  “We gonna go clubbing!” She bathed him in a dazzling smile, and it was almost as if he could hear airhorns underscoring her enthusiasm.  But then her expression wobbled as her eyes slid sideways.  “Assuming you have something to go clubbing in?”

“Uh,” Sammy hedged, looking at the bright-coloured pile of clothes.  “I don’t even remember what I packed in there.”

“Well let’s see,” Rowan said, and started digging through the clothes.

Sammy watched with trepidation.  What was in the bag?  Where did the contents even come from?  But then it struck him: the girl on the bus, the one who’d been so pissed that Andrei helped with her bag.  Her bag looked just like Sammy’s bag.  So this must be hers.  He’d fallen asleep on the bus, and she’d disembarked first and rolled off with his bag.

“This could work,” Rowan said, and Sammy wrenched his attention out of his head and onto the bed, where she’d laid out a few pieces of clothing.  Was he supposed to be able to envision what those would look like on him?  Wait, was he supposed to wear girl clothes?  Surely he could just wear, like, shorts and a shirt or something?  A girl shirt and girl shorts, of course, to placate Rowan, but stuff that would still look… relatively normal, right?

Rowan waved her hands in front of herself.  “Whatever.  We’re getting ahead of ourselves, anyway.  Dinner first.  And you probably want to change before that, right?  Get out of the dysphoria hoodie?”

“What’s a dyspho—”

“Oh gosh!” she squealed, cutting him off before he could ask.  “Pronouns!  And, like, name.  Of course.  Talk about getting ahead of ourselves.”  And then she abruptly stopped talking, looking at Sammy expectantly.

“Well, I…” he jammed his hands into his hoodie pocket and twisted his fingers together inside.  This was insane.  He couldn’t do this.  How would he explain things in the morning?

…but the morning would be on the other side of going clubbing in the City with his cool, hot cousin.

The aforementioned cool, hot cousin gave him a reassuring smile.  “Given the contents of your bag—I mean, clothes aren’t gender identity, you can never tell, yadda yadda, but… this is some girly shit in here.  So.  You wanna use she and her?”

Sammy blinked.  He’d only caught about half of that.  “What… else would I use?”

“Well, there are femme they/thems,” Rowan shrugged.

“Like…” he scowled, thinking.  “When you were talking about me, you’d say… they are visiting from Oak Grove.  But there’s only one of me, so…  They is visiting from Oak Grove?  That sounds even weirder.”

“Gender’s weird,” Rowan shrugged.  “I’ll call you whatever you want.  But what about name?” His cousin grinned and bit her lip, which was entirely unfair to Sammy’s capacity to string words together.

“I mean… Sammy is girly enough, right?”

“Of course,” Rowan nodded enthusiastically, and then her face exploded in excitement again.  “Holy shit, are you an Always Knew Tran?!”

Sammy sank onto the bed.  This was getting too much.  He recognized most of the words that Rowan was using, just not in the ways she was using them.  “A what?”

“An Always Knew Tran,” she repeated.  “Like you didn’t have an egg crack moment like I did halfway through freshman year when you realized, oh my god, I’m a girl, you just… always knew.”  She sat down on the other end of the bed, the pile of clothes and roller bag between them.  “I only ask because I heard that the girls who go for the names converted from their deadnames are usually Always Knew Trans, because when they were, like, four years old, their little four year old brains concluded that they really should be called Samantha, not Samuel, and that’s how they thought about themselves for years and years until they could finally come out.”

Sammy gulped.  This seemed like the path of least resistence. “Um.  Yeah.  That sounds about right.”

“Okay, Samantha,” Rowan said smilling, and reached forward to squeeze his hand.  “And she/her to go with that?”

Sammy felt his head nodding.  “Yeah.  That’s me.  Samantha.  She/her.”  What the fuck was he doing?

“Okay, cool.”  Rowan bounced off the bed.  “So.  You’re gonna get dressed for dinner, right?  You want some privacy for that?”

Sammy wasn’t about to get naked in front of his cousin.  Even if he was pretending to be one of the girls, that was a bridge too far.  Besides, he didn’t want her to see him fumbling through girl clothes that were supposed to be his.  He nodded.  “Yes, please.”

Rowan all but danced out her own bedroom door.  Sammy waited until the door had clicked shut before he let all his false confidence drain out of his body.  He slumped onto the bed next to the girl’s accidentally-stolen suitcase.  Was he really going to do this?

He had come here to see what real life was like in the City, outside the little bubble that was Oak Grove.  His most far-fetched dreams about how this weekend might play out all centered around going to a club, maybe drinking a little bit.  There was dancing at clubs, but Sammy didn’t know how to dance, so he wouldn’t be doing that, anyway.  Just watching.  For next time.  And if he was watching for next time—getting the lay of the land—then did it really matter if he was wearing a skirt, or even fishnets?  He’d still get to see it.  He’d be there.  And when he came back, as a student at Columbia or however else, then he’d wear whatever he wanted.

It wasn’t like he’d go to a club in a hoodie and sweatpants, which was all he packed for this trip in the blue suitcase that was now… somewhere else in the City.  So it wasn’t like he had actually been prepared to go clubbing to begin with.  So maybe this was… lucky?

“This is not lucky,” he sighed to himself.  “This is bonkers.”  But he sat up and started mechanically going through the mostly-folded stack of clothes.  He just needed something to wear downstairs, to eat dinner with his uncles.  Girl shorts and a girl shirt.  He would worry about what to wear clubbing when he’d cleared this first hurdle.  Surely there had to be shorts and a teeshirt in there somewhere, right?

There was not.

The closest he could find was a pleated skirt and a shirt.  Technically, he supposed, it was a blouse.  What was the difference, anyway?

With a glance to the door to make sure it was closed, Sammy threw off his hoodie, the white undershirt under that, and his sweat pants, then pulled on the skirt and blouse.

The skirt was relatively straightforward, he felt, but the blouse fit all wrong.  “Oh, I’m missing boobs,” he muttered, and then looked fearfully at the pile of clothes.  He nudged aside another skirt and a tangle of fabric that he couldn’t even identify to expose the lacey bra.  Sammy stared at the lingerie for a long moment, picked it up, and contemplated it with a sigh.  “I guess I really really want to go clubbing.”

The next few minutes were consumed by a great deal of twisting, stretching, grunting, and fumbling.  After Sammy nearly fell over the second time, he sat down to prevent it from happening again.  He was sweaty by the time he finally had the damned thing on.  Sammy looked down at the empty cups, flattened them with his hands, and wondered if the struggle had all been for nothing.

“Oh wait, socks, right?” he muttered to himself.  “Rolled up?”

He rooted around in the ever-spreading pile of clothes until he came up with two pairs of socks, which he slipped into the cups of the bra.  They did not fit well, but he mashed and squished them until they were close enough.  Then he pulled the blouse over top of that.  His “boobs” were all sorts of lumpy, but at least the shirt fit better.  He tried smoothing out the shape through the blouse, which made little change.

Finally a timid knock sounded on the door.  “You okay in there, Samantha?” came Rowan’s stage whisper from the other side.

“Not really,” he groaned at the closed door.  The back of the door bore a full-length mirror, and there he was, in all his awkward glory.  Very plainly a boy who’d lost a fight with a girl’s wardrobe.  “I mean.  I’m dressed, you can come in, I guess.  I just look stupid.”

Needing no further invitation, Rowan hurried through the door.  She turned towards Sammy with a giant smile preemptively radiating positive energy.  It immediately crumbled.  “Oh!  Oh.”

Sammy shrugged and let his arms slap against his sides.  “I’m no good at this.  It’s a bad idea.  I should just… put my hoodie back on.”

“No, no, we are not crawling back into the closet, not on my watch.”  She shook her head and advanced on Sammy.  “Besides.  I can work with this.  You just made some… rookie mistakes.  But you picked great colours.”

“Colours,” he repeated, and looked down at what he was wearing.  It had not even occured to him that the colours of the clothes might matter.  The skirt was blue and the top was green.  “Uh.  Yeah.  I like these colours.”

“I love that teal paisley,” Rowan went on, gesturing vaguely at… either the top or the skirt; Sammy couldn’t be sure.  What was teal, again?  Blue or green?  But his cousin was asking a question: “What is up with your breast forms?”

“My breast fo—” he started to echo, and then gestured helplessly to his lumpy rack.  “Oh, it’s just… rolled-up socks.”

“Oh, right, of course.  DIY breast forms.”  Then her eyebrows shot up and she looked over at her closet.  “Actually…”  The girl dove into the bottom drawer of her closet, a big bin-sized thing, and started digging.

Sammy averted his eyes from her ass as it waved in the air behind her.

A moment later Rowan shouted “Ah ha!” and came up with a beat-up cardboard box about half the size of a shoebox.  She shoved it into Sammy’s hands.  “I haven’t worn them for years, but you can use them.  Heck, you can have them.”

Sammy opened the hinged top, glanced into the box, and immediately dropped it with a yelp.  Two floppy silicone boobs, complete with cherry nipples, bounced out of the box and across the floor.  “Oh fuck, sorry.  Uh.  They’re just… so lifelike.”  Why the hell did his cousin have fake boobs in a drawer?

Rowan giggled as she scooped them up and held them out squishing one playfully as she did.  “I don’t think I have any adhesive in the house, but they can just ride in your bra if your neckline is high enough.  And I guess the skin tone wouldn’t actually match anyway, no matter how much blending you did.”

“These were yours?”

Rowan bobbed her head.  “When I was but a baby tran.  Like.  Four years ago?  About that.  For the first two years,” she confided, “you constantly know how long it’s been down to months and weeks.  And then that all sort of… fades out, and you’re just.  Girl.”

As she talked, things fell into place in Sammy’s brain.  He could swear he could feel the cartoon lightbulb turn on where it floated above his head.  Everybody she knew, knew about her.  Her dads had been through all of this once already.  She had fake boobs she used to wear sitting in a drawer.  Rowan was a trans girl.

Rowan was trans, and Sammy was an idiot.

He reached into the blouse and bra that he’d strapped himself into and pulled out the socks.  “Um.  How do I—”

“They’re pretty intuitive,” Rowan grinned, and then proceeded to yank open his shirt and slide the cool prosthetic breasts against his chest.  She fiddled a little, shifting and adjusting, and then pulled the neckline into place over them.

Sammy looked down.  The blouse covered up everything.  He had tits. “Whoa.”

“Exactly, Neo,” Rowan giggled.  “And uh.  Tuck in the blouse for me?”

Trying not to stare at his own tits—he had to bend way over to see what he was doing with the waistband of the skirt—he tucked in the shirt tail of the blouse, settling the skirt across his hips again.

Rowan smirked.  “Yeah, thought so.  Your waist, honey, is up here.”  She reached forward, wrapping her hands around Sammy’s belly, and squeezed gently.

Sammy didn’t move.  Couldn’t.

Seeing that her cousin was not getting it, Rowan reached down to tug the skirt’s waistband upwards, settling it around Sammy’s waist.  “It’s called a waist band, not a hips band.  Now tuck in your blouse again, keeping the waistband where it is.”

He did so, frowning softly.  “This feels weird.”

She shrugged in response.  “Yeah.  It’ll feel weird till you get used to it, and then wearing your pants like some skater boy feels weird.”  She gestured to the reading chair.  “Sit down, I’ll brush out your hair.”

Having someone else brush out your hair, it turned out, felt really good, and for the first time in an hour Sammy actually felt himself relaxing.  The chair was comfy, too.  “I bet you have to keep it short at home,” Rowan mused.  “But we can do, like, a cute soft dyke sort of style with this.  Pixie cut adjacent.”  He nodded dreamily as if that made any sort of sense.

Later—it must have been just a few minutes, but Sammy had no idea—Rowan declared his hair to be sufficiently tamed and squatted in front of him.  “Okay.  So.  You want some makeup?”

“Uh.  Isn’t it getting late?” he managed.  “Your dad said dinner in half an hour, like, forever ago.”

Rowan tipped her head side to side.  “I told the dads we’d be a little longer.  They’re patient.”  She grinned.  “Makeup?  Just a little.  Eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, brow powder.”

“That doesn’t sound like a little.”

His cousin giggled.  “Five minutes,” she promised.

His cousin’s infectious enthusiasm pulled a smile out of Sammy despite his reservations.  “I mean, okay.”

“Great!” she squealed, and went clattering through her closet drawers again.  “Okay, so.  You’re not supposed to share brushes and mascara, blah blah blah, but I haven’t used any of this stuff since, what, Christmas?  So I think we’re in the clear.  Trust me, I’m pre-med.”  She dropped a handful of items onto the little table next to the reading chair, touched the radiator under the window to make sure it wasn’t hot, and planted her butt onto it so she could lean over into Sammy’s face.

This of course put her cleavage on full display before him.  Sammy tried not to stare, in fact closed his eyes, but his cousin chided him for flinching and insisted he look straight ahead.  Which he did.  Because hey, if he was going to get an invite, he wasn’t going to say no.

He sat stock still when he was told to, he closed one eye and then the other as instructed, he blinked when she said to blink.  He made weird faces with his lips.  And then she was done.

Rowan leaned back, surveying her work with pride.  “You clean up pretty nice, Country Mouse.”

Sammy gave her a weak smile.  She had to be buttering him up.  He’d already seen himself in her mirror.  He looked ridiculous.  But he was willing to look ridiculous if it meant he got to go clubbing.  It was that simple.  Who needed self-respect, he mused, when you had an opportunity to do what you’d been dreaming of for weeks?

Rowan stood and gestured Sammy towards the mirror.  “Arise, Samantha, and look upon thy true visage.”

Sammy burst out laughing.  “I’m sorry, what on earth was that?”

His cousin looked up at the ceiling, not making eye contact.  “Okay, before I was a cool girl,” she confessed, “I might have been, like, a massive nerd.  I read all the books about elves and dragons, I watched all the shows about space ships.  And sometimes it all comes rushing back, and then it all goes spilling out of my mouth.  Nerd vomit.  I plan to make my graduate thesis the search for a cure.”

“I dunno, I think it’s kind of cute,” Sammy grinned and pushed himself up out of the chair.

“That makes one of us,” she quipped, and then reached forward to grab and turn his shoulders, pointing him towards the mirror on the bedroom door.  “Lookee there.”

Still chuckling, Sammy picked his way across Rowan’s room.  He’d spilled clothes just about everywhere, hadn’t he?  “I’ll pick all this up,” he promised, turning back to make eye contact, so she could see he was genuinely apologetic.

Rowan crossed her arms and lifted one eyebrow.  “Look in the damn mirror, Samantha.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” he laughed as he turned around, and… “Whaaaaat the fuck.”

Gone was the boy who’d been mugged by a girl’s wardrobe.  The lumpy, awkward, uneven clothes had all been straightened out, pulled taut where they should be pulled taut, draped artfully where they ought to be draping.  Rowan had brushed out his unruly hair and used a trio of tiny but sparkling-bright emerald hair clips to pull it into an actual shape.  His face, even hanging slack and gobsmacked, looked completely different.  How had just crayons and colored dust done so much?

Sammy took in his whole body, which had somehow been completely reshaped.  Sure, the fake tits explained some of it, but below that, his waist cinched in and the skirt flared out, and…

“Was this skirt always this short?” He could see his knees, and an inch or two of thigh above them.

“I mean, it was longer when you were wearing it four inches too low,” Rowan laughed.  “Hey, try this: smile into the mirror.”

Sammy turned back, scanning down and back up the length of his reflection.  The look of incredulity plastered across his face was almost comical.  He swallowed, cleared his features as best he could, and put on a tentative smile.

He staggered backwards.  “Whoa.”

“And that’s not even full power,” Rowan giggled, stepping up behind him and resting her chin on his shoulder.

“I don’t even know what I’m looking at,” Sammy confessed.

Rowan smiled.  “A girl.”

That was absolutely, positively not the right answer, but Sammy couldn’t let her see his honest reaction.  He put on another tentative smile and tried not to look at his own face in the mirror as he did so.  He still looked like himself, sure, but he also looked like not-himself enough that the little smile he was sporting was making his own knees weak, and his heart pound harder, and his stomach growl.

No wait, that last one had nothing to do with his reflection.  “Um.  Excuse me.”  It seemed strangely indecent to make such a sound while he also looked like this.

His cousin stepped backwards, laughing.  “We can go downstairs for dinner, but we have to open the door to do that, and to open the door you have to stop looking at yourself.”

“Oh ha ha,” Sammy retorted, and reached forward to open the door.  He did steal one last glance as the mirror turned and his image slid out of sight.  And then he was standing in front of the open door, looking out into the hallway.  “Um.  Rowan,” he said uneasily.  “You’re sure your dads will be okay with this?”

“Psssh,” she snorted, and gently pushed him out the door.  “They’re not going to bat an eye.”

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-prequel to Being Christina Chase

Detransition, Maybe?

In the end, Rowan had to get behind Sammy, put her hands on his shoulders, and gently push him into the dining room.

His uncles were seated at the dining room table, both of them engrossed in books.  Gideon looked up first, blinked at Sammy’s appearance, and then pasted on a smile that at least seemed genuine.  When Henry did not look up, Gideon reached over and whacked his upper arm.  He shot Gideon a shocked look, and then followed his gaze to Sammy.  His eyebrows drifted upwards.

“Dads,” Rowan said, coming around Sammy and dropping her hand to his waist, “I’d like you to meet Samantha.  Your niece.  She/her pronouns, if you please.”

They’d agreed in whispers that Rowan would make the introductions, so all Sammy had to do was half-lift one hand, wave awkwardly, and say, “Hi.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Samantha,” Gideon said, smile bright.  “You look lovely.”

Henry looked from Sammy to his cousin.  “Rowan, did you trans your cousin within the first hour of his—her, apologies—her visit?”

“I did no such thing, she came prepared,” she responded, and gave Sammy the tiniest little shove towards his seat, where a place setting was waiting.  She circled the table to her own place.

“Prepared?” Henry echoed.

Gideon rolled his eyes.  “Those aren’t Rowan’s clothes, babe.”

“Were you wearing that under the hoodie?” Henry asked, mystified.

“No,” Sammy answered, and pasted on a hesitant smile.  “I, uh, I’m not out of the closet.  At home.  But I…”  What the hell, he thought, might as well commit.  “I thought I could try things out here.  If that’s… okay?”

Henry nodded decisively. “Of course it’s okay.”

Gideon, seated around the table corner from Sammy, put a gentle hand over his.  “Samantha, you said you’re not out at home. So just to be clear, and so we don’t make a mess of things: do your parents know?”

“Oh, no,” Sammy said, shaking his head.  “So please don’t—”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Gideon said with an encouraging smile and shake of his head.  “And just to make things perfectly explicit, I’m also transgender.  I came out as a trans man… gosh…twenty…six years ago, now?”

Sammy looked from Gideon to Henry, who shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, I’m used to being the only cis at the table.”

“Cis?” Sammy echoed, uncomprehending.

“Opposite of trans,” Rowan supplied quickly, and then told her dads, “There aren’t a lot of resources available for young queers in… damn, whatever town you grew up in, Sammy, I forget the name.”

“Oak Grove,” he supplied with a weak smile.  “And by not a lot, it’s really, uh, none.”

Henry looked from Rowan to Sammy.  “So ‘Sammy’ is still okay?” he asked hesitantly.  “I’m terrible at switching names, just ask these two.”

“The cis are going to tell you that a lot,” Rowan stage-whispered, hand comically raised to her lips.  “Just smile and nod.”

Sammy smiled and nodded as instructed.  “So um.  Not to change the subject, but.  What’s for dinner?”  He was desperate for the conversation to be about anything other than him, his new fake gender, and the stream of lies he was now telling everybody.

“Oh!” Gideon yelped, and bounced to his feet.  “We’ve got a curry, a big pile of naan, rice… it’s all in the warming oven.”  He kicked Henry’s chair and said, with curious emphasis.  “I could use a hand getting it all out onto the table.”

Henry’s look of confusion passed quickly.  He set his forgotten book on the table and followed his husband into the kitchen.

“See?” Rowan grinned across the table at Sammy.  “That went well.”

Sammy nodded.  It had, and now he felt kind of weird and hollow.  It had been too easy; they believed his lie without, as Rowan had said, the bat of an eye.  Sammy felt terrible, and groped for a way to change the subject.  “One question.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s a curry?”

Rowan looked at him blankly and then giggled.  “Oh wow, Country Mouse.  We’re just getting started with you, aren’t we?”

Curry, it turned out, was sort of a spicy stew.  And naan was just lumpy pizza crust with garlic on top.  By what Sammy suspected was the mutual agreement of his hosts, dinner conversation stayed away from his purported gender and instead focused on the City, Columbia, and everyone’s studies.

Henry was both a lecturing professor and a practicing doctor, although the latter somehow didn’t mean he had an office and patients who came to him with their common colds.  He did clinical trials and developed drug treatments, mostly focused in muscle development and pain management.

Gideon was a gender studies professor, which was a subject Sammy hadn’t been aware even existed.  Apparently it was all about how sex and gender affected how people interacted with each other and greater society.  He was an adjunct professor most places, which meant he scrambled to filled in holes in class schedules for the tenured professors who had secure places at their  schools.  He was writing a book about detransitioners, which he intoned so gravely that Sammy decided not to ask who or what that was.

Rowan was in her second year at Columbia undergrad, well on her way towards completing her pre-med degree (“technically, it’s a biochem degree, but really it’s just pre-med”).  After undergrad, she’d attend one of the many medical schools in the city, after which she hoped to become an endocrinologist.

“Do you have any idea what you’d like to study?” Gideon asked, and suddenly all eyes were on Sammy.

He swallowed.  They were all so intent on their academic pursuits, and he had nothing outside of a vague desire to use college as an excuse to move out of Oak Grove. “Um.  Not really?” he stammered.  “I mean, I’m… mostly here to even see what’s… possible?”

“What are your interests?” Henry asked, in a way that he probably thought sounded casual but instead came across the table as dismissive and judgemental.

Sammy tore off a piece of naan. “Uh.  Getting out of Oak Grove?” he answered cheekily, and then stuffed his face with flatbread.

Gideon and Rowan chuckled, but Henry laughed.  Guffawed.  And then it got away from him and he ended up pounding the table and shakily pouring half a glass of water down his throat.  When he finally recovered, eyes still streaming, he looked across the table and said, “Honey, I completely understand.”

“It can’t be easy living there,” Gideon sympathized.  “Especially in the closet.  I’ve only been once—decades ago, now—and it was… I think the polite word is ‘quaint?’”

“Oh my god, you actually got to visit?” Rowan gasped.  “How did I not know this?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it a visit,” Gideon chuckled.  “We drove in, we had dinner, we had planned to stay the night… but we drove out after dessert.  Found a nice little B&B called the Fairmont a few miles out of town.”

“Clairmont,” both Henry and Sammy corrected, and shared a smile.  Sammy added, “And that’s technically still in Oak Grove.”

Gideon shrugged.  “I can never tell where little towns begin and end.  Anyway, it was… not a populous place.”  He looked to Sammy.  “Are there any other transgender people in town?  Are we the first you’ve met face-to-face?”

“Um, no, actually,” Sammy answered, and frowned down at his plate.  “Or maybe.  I… don’t know.  A couple years back, one of the girls on the basketball team, uh, came out.  Wanted everybody to call her Mitch.”

“Wanted everybody to call him Mitch?” Rowan gently suggested.

But Sammy shook his head.  “Uh, no.  I’ve…got it right.  Because.  Well.  They had a big school presentation about it, and the teachers told us that we had to use he and him for, uh, her.  And then there was a PTA meeting, apparently?  I didn’t go to that.  Mom did.  And it was all anybody talked about for, like, weeks.  But then Barbara—that is, the girl who wanted to be called Mitch—she took it all back, and asked everybody to call her, well, her.  And she.  And Barbara.”  He shrugged.  “So I don’t know if that counts.”

“She detransitioned,” Gideon sighed, sitting back in his seat.  “Poor thing.”

“I, uh, don’t know actually that word?” Sammy admitted with a shaky don’t-hate-me smile.

“So transition—specifically gender transition—is the process of moving from living as one gender to living as another,” Gideon explained, falling easily into lecturing mode.  “It can encapsulate all sorts of stuff: names and pronouns, hormone therapy, bureaucracy paperwork, surgeries, you name it.  And all that can be… very stressful, as you well know.  And sometimes…” Here his cadence faltered, and suddenly he looked like he was telling a child their pet rabbit had been run over in the street.  “Sometimes people transition back, to their original gender presentation.  Undo all the changes they made as best they can, and go back to living as their assigned gender.  That’s detransition.”

Sammy scowled.  “So they were… wrong about it?  About who they are?”

Gideon heaved another sigh.  “Not usually.  Most of the time, it’s just the… pressure and the stress of transition, and especially the people in their lives not accepting them as their professed gender.  It can get to you. It’s a lot.  So they go back to a presentation that everyone in their lives can accept, and which has fewer external stresses bearing down on them.”

“That’s… sad,” Sammy said, trying to sympathize.  Gideon plainly cared a great deal about the subject, so much that he was writing a whole book about it.  But Sammy saw a glimmer of hope for himself in the tragic story.  Carefully, he said, “You said… usually.  Most detransitioners weren’t wrong, they were just overwhelmed by, like, the world.  But some of them… they were wrong?”

Gideon searched Sammy’s face for a long moment.  “Statistically speaking, when you talk about this many people, there’s always going to be exceptions.  So we don’t say, for instance, that all detransitioners were forced to by societal pressures.  It’s not one hundred percent.  There’s always outliers.”

“Outliers?”

Gideon waved a hand.  “Sorry, statistics jargon.  There’s always an exception.  Those exceptions, in statistics, are called outliers.”  When Sammy nodded, he elaborated: “Whenever you look at anything sociologically, there’s always somebody doing something unexpected.”  He shrugged.  “People make weird mistakes or make poor decisions for the wrong reasons all the time.  And that applies to gender, too.”

“So—”

“So yes, every once in a while, somebody detransitions because they were wrong.”  Gideon couldn’t help adding: “But the vast, vast majority aren’t.  It’s hard to track, statistically, but it appears that most detransitioners actually retransition later in life, when circumstances are more favourable.”

Sammy grinned, and then realized that he maybe shouldn’t be.  “That’s, uh, great that they… finally get their chance,” he stammered, all the while thinking: this.  This was his way out.

Sammy could dress up and call himself Samantha tonight.  Heck, he could do it all weekend, since he didn’t have any other clothes.  And then he could go home to Oak Grove, back to his boring old life and comfortable old wardrobe.  When he came back to go to school, he could just say: he detransitioned.  He was one of those outliers, doing something unexpected.  He wasn’t going to retransition, he had just been trying things out and he decided he didn’t like it after all.

And nobody had to ever know the truth.

Sammy was riding the subway to go clubbing in the City, just like he’d always dreamed.  True, he was not dressed like he usually was in those dreams, but he told himself that was a minor detail.  His cool, hot cousin was going to get him in, there would be dancing, and drinking, and maybe even drugs?  He was almost vibrating with excitement.

Rowan examined him from across the subway with a slight smirk.  “How you doing over there, Country Mouse?”

Sammy dropped his hands onto his knees and willfully ignored the feel of fishnet stockings under his palms.  “I’m really excited,” he admitted, jostling along as the subway’s movements.  “We don’t have anything like this back home.”

“Like the subway?”

He rolled his eyes.  “Like clubs.  Like… anything fun to do at night.”

“Like being yourself,” she grinned back.  “You sure you’re okay with the outfit?  We can still go back and change.”

“I’m fine,” Sammy insisted with a shake of his head.  After dinner Rowan had dragged him back upstairs, scrubbed off the “respectable” makeup she’d put on an hour earlier, directed him to shave (borrowing shaving supplies from Henry, because Sammy hadn’t packed any even in the bag he’d lost on the bus), and then dressed him up like a doll.

She’d put him in the (very fiddly) fishnet stockings, a disturbingly short pleated skirt, and one of Rowan’s old tops hiding in the back of her closet.  It was sleeveless and tight, with a high neck that obscured Sammy’s borrowed tits, and its cream colour complemented the purple skirt (so Rowan said).  The shoes were the hardest to manage, since Sammy’s sneakers were obviously unacceptable, and Rowan’s feet were a size larger than his.  But the depths of her closet disgorged some old strappy sandals that could be strapped tighter than she’d ever worn them, and that would do.

She’d kept his hair in the cute little sweep he’d worn for dinner and then gave him a “full face,” which was so many different creams and colours and steps that he’d lost track.  By the time she was finished, he literally didn’t recognize himself.  His face was clear of all the little spots and acne that he was accustomed to.  His eyes looked huge, framed by pencil-thin arched eyebrows, a soft gradient of colour over his lids, and bright blush on his cheeks.  His eyelashes were enormous, like a cartoon character.  At least five different cosmetics had turned his lips into a shining, blood-red flower.

They’d also already “pre-gamed,” which meant drinking before heading out. The two of them had demolished a small, curved bottle of vodka on the walk between the neighbourhood convenience store (“it’s called a bodega, not a convenience store!”) and the subway station.  So Sammy was already very relaxed, which probably accounted for a significant chunk of him not caring much about what he was wearing.

Besides, what did he care if he didn’t look like himself?  In fact it was probably all for the best, because this way, when he came back “post detransition,” nobody would recognize him.

“Oh shit, I almost forgot,” Rowan said, digging into her tiny little handbag.  She produced a colorful little plastic container which she pried open to reveal a handful of tiny little pills.  She quickly slipped one out and popped it into her mouth.

Sammy tried and failed not to stare, and his cousin spotted him.

“Fuck, did you not take yours tonight?” she said, and held out the pill container.  “You want one of mine?”

“What is it?” Sammy asked, hoping and fearing what the answer might be.  When you went clubbing, you took ecstasy, right?

“It’s just E,” Rowan explained casually.  “If yours are buried in your bag back at my dads’ and we’ll be out late… it’s probably better to just pop one of these instead.”

Sammy chose not to explain that he did not come to the City with his own stash of party drugs.  “Sure, thanks,” he said, and carefully removed one of the tiny little pills.  A memory surfaced and he placed it on the tip of his tongue like he’d seen in a movie once.

Rowan giggled and shook her head.  “No, no, underneath your tongue.  Like thiaaaauuuugggghhhhh.”  She opened her mouth and lifted her tongue, revealing the quickly-dissolving pill underneath.

With a little lingual gymnastics, Sammy shifted the pill to under his tongue, instead, and gave his cousin the thumbs up.  He imagined describing his trip to one of his classmates back home: they went out clubbing in the City, no big deal, pre-gamed to the far side of tipsy first and then took some ecstasy before they got going. Man, this night could not get any better.

It was a short and rather chilly walk from the subway station to the club, which was some sort of taco bar during the day, but at night they opened up the downstairs.  There was no line at the entrance, which Sammy found vaguely disappointing—they couldn’t be picked to skip to the front of the line, but would they have, anyway?  He looked girlish, sure, but he hardly looked, you know, hot.

There was, however, a bouncer standing before the thumping door at the bottom of the stairs.  He saw the two of them coming and gestured for IDs.  Rowan brandished her fake ID, shamelessly holding it up to her cleavage as she leaned forward to say into the bouncer’s ear: “This is my cousin Samantha!  From out of town!  She lost her ID.”

The bouncer looked Sammy over critically, and from the expression on his face, without being much impressed.  But he looked sidelong at Rowan, shrugged, and let them in.

On the other side of the door, Sammy crashed into his cousin, giggling.  “I can’t believe that worked!  Oh my god!” he cried, because on the other side of the door, the basement opened up into a tableau that staggered anything he’d ever imagined.

There were stalactites on the ceiling.  The walls rippled with rocky texture, melting seamlessly into the ceiling and floors.  Tiny fissures in the rock glowed with pink light.  There was a bar and there were a handful of tables, and then the dance floor, filled with people grinding and gyrating.  Orange chandeliers competed with swirling purple lights from the distant stage.

Rowan watched him as he stared, and then laughed.  “Yeah, I picked right for your first time,” she declared, and pulled him forward.  “Let’s daaaaance!”

Sammy had planned on explaining that he didn’t actually know how to dance, that he’d just sit on the sidelines and watch, but his cousin didn’t even give him the chance.  She plunged the both of them into the press of bodies bumping and grinding away.  They jostled their way through, with Sammy accidentally making contact with more people than he’d intentionally touched in the past two months.  It smelled like sweat and exhale and a dozen different perfumes and colognes.

Rowan found a pocket of space big enough for one and a half bodies and the two of them took up residence, bouncing along to the beat.  Sammy roughly mimicked Rowan’s movements, hesitantly throwing his hands in the air and waving them like he just didn’t care.  And eventually, he realized, he kind of didn’t.  It was fun moving his body along with the music, along with all the other people on the dance floor.

And any inhibitions he’d planned to have had probably been taken care of by the drugs and booze.  He certainly felt free of them as the music coursed through his body.

He danced alongside Rowan, mostly.  Occasionally Rowan moved close to somebody else and they’d dance in close proximity while Sammy watched, half-rejected and half-watchful.  But she always came back to him, and mostly they danced together.  Eventually somebody sidled in next to Sammy and he got to dance close, himself.  It was over before he even got a good look at her, outside of the sparkling green sequins of her tight dress.

The music just kept going.  Unlike, say, a playlist, with a start and stop to each song, here all the songs just blended together, and so did the dancing.  So Sammy had no idea how long they’d been flailing around on the dance floor when Rowan tugged at his shirt and indicated that she’d like to take a breather.  He followed her off the dance floor.

The tables and chairs they’d passed on entry had been only half-filled then.  Now they were all claimed, and most of them were thronged.  Rowan looked a little disappointed until she shouted, “Oh, Finn!”  She grabbed Sammy’s hand and pulled him after her.

Standing by the last table closest to the door was a tall figure in a dazzling sequinned dress, all in rich green.  Sammy grinned, recognizing the backside of the girl he’d danced with briefly.  Finally he’d get a good look at her.  She turned towards Rowan and—

All the gears in Sammy’s brain gummed up all at once.

Lean, toned body; sleek sparkly dress; long brown hair; caramel skin; bright green eyes… and a big bushy beard.  The dancer in the green dress was a man?

“Samantha, this Finley,” Rowan was saying.  “They and them.  Fellow biochem student.  Finley, this is Samantha; she’s my cousin from… well, the middle of nowhere.  I forget the name of the place.”

Finley smiled, revealing perfect teeth.  “I love nowhere!” they exclaimed.  “And didn’t we just dance together?”

“I think so,” Sammy admitted uncertainly.  “Your dress is… amazing.”

The… not-man grinned wide, but before they could respond to the compliment, Rowan sidled up beside them and cooed, “Finn, can we sit at your taaable?”

Finley patted the table surface affectionately.  “Mi mesa es su mesa!  Actually, you can hold it down while I grab drinks.  What can I get you girls?”

“Oh no, it’s so expensive here!” Rowan protested, and crashed into the cushioned seats along the wall.

Finley shrugged and fluffed his beard playfully.  “They admit me as a guy, so they expect me to buy a couple drinks.  And since I don’t drink, I might as well treat you two.”

“Vodka tonic,” Rowan acquiesced, and then reached forward to snag Sammy’s hand and drag him into the seat beside her.  A little quieter, she asked, “You want the same, Sammy, or something different?”

“Same’s fine, I guess?” he answered, taking entirely too much pleasure in being smooshed up against his soft cousin.

Finley pouted, fists on their hips.  “You bitches are boring!  You sure you don’t want something, you know, colourful and fruity and shit?”

Remembering that he was here to try new things, Sammy tried to sit up a little straighter and ended up toppling forward onto the table.  “Actually, yeah,” he reversed himself, and then realized he didn’t even know what he could order, if he wanted. “Um.  Surprise me?” he suggested with a slightly manic smile.

Finley leaned over the table to match Sammy’s posture.  “Oh, a challenge!  Well.  Surprising people is my specialty.”  And then they strutted off towards the bar.  Sammy watched the green-sparkled ass sway and bounce into the crowd.

When he glanced over at Rowan, she was watching him watch Finley.  One delicate eyebrow was cocked higher than other.  Did he do something wrong?  “What?”

She raised both eyebrows high in mock skepticism.  “I dunno, there’s throwing yourself at somebody and then there’s, like, literally throwing yourself across a table at them.”

“Oh no, I didn’t—I mean—I slipped,” he said, and tried to demonstrate how his wrists had lost their purchase on the edge of the seat cushion.

“It’s okay, they like girls,” Rowan grinned impishly.  “And everybody else, really.  And obviously their being genderqueer isn’t a dealbreaker for you.”  She giggled.  “Your faces were so close there you could have kissed.”

Sammy was brown and this corner of the club was dark, but he could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and he was certain his whole face was lit up red.  He covered his face with his hands.  “Please don’t say anything embarrassing,” he begged.

“I won’t say anything at all,” his cousin grinned, and picked up her handbag.  “Because I’m not gonna be here.”  Finley returned just as Rowan stood up.  She grinned at them and declared, “I’m gonna go pee.”  Then his treacherous cousin winked, and not subtly, before flouncing off.

Finley deposited a tall clear drink in front of the seat opposite Sammy and then placed before him a violently pink drink in large curvy glass, garnished with, of all things, a stick of cotton candy.  While Sammy boggled at the neon monstrosity, Finley slid into the seat next to him.

Sammy tried to ignore the heat coming off Finley’s adjacent body.  “What even is this?” he asked of the drink.

“I’m not sure,” the genderqueer said, leaning in so they could be heard over the thump and blare of the music.  “I asked for the fruitiest, most colourful cocktail they made.”

“This is cotton candy,” Sammy pointed out needlessly.

“Feels appropriate,” Finley replied with a grin.  “You seem sweet.”

Sammy’s brain gummed up again.  They did not just say that, did they?  He was hallucinating.  The drugs had kicked in.  But nothing else in the club seemed to be distorting into spaghetti or swimming around aimlessly, which is how drugs worked, right?  Was he really getting hit on?  How was he even supposed to respond to that?

For lack of any better idea, he leaned forward to find the straw decorated with pink spirals down its length and took a sip.  The drink tasted like sugar.

“Ro says you’re from out of town,” Finley tried along a different tack.  “This your first time in the City?”

Sammy bobbed his head.  “Does it show?”

“Little bit,” came the reply, along with a hand waggling like a seesaw.  “It can be a lot at first.  You’re lucky to have such a great guide to show you around.”

Sammy couldn’t help but smile at that, and nodded.  “Rowan’s awesome.”

“Rowan?” Finley yelped, mock-affronted and laughing.  “I meant me!”

“So far, all you’ve shown me is how to spike my blood sugar,” Sammy jibed back, and took a long pull off the straw to demonstrate.

Finley put their elbow on the back of the bench and watched with every indication of appreciation.  Too late, Sammy remembered that his painted lips made everything he did with them look salacious.  He coughed into his drink.

“Careful there!”  Finley reached forward to steady the ungainly drink before it toppled, and then to pat Sammy’s back as he regained control of his breath.  He actually found the gesture rather soothing, and leaned into Finley’s hand a little.

When his breathing was finally back to normal, he tried going on the offensive.  Maybe if he asked questions, Finley couldn’t make passes.  “So you’re at Columbia for biochem?  Pre-med like Rowan.”

Finley nodded, smiling. “What can I say, I like bodies.”

Sammy cursed himself for making that one too damn easy.  “I’m here for Preview Days this weekend,” he said.  “Did you do that back when you were looking at schools?”

“I did,” they answered, bobbing their head enthusiastically.  “I came in all the way from Nebraska.  First trip to the Big City.  Toured the campus, sampled some classes, ate at the dining hall, got fucked senseless in  a club bathroom.  After that, I was hooked.”

Going on the offensive clearly wasn’t working.  In fact, it was only serving to fluster Sammy even further.  Who talked about fucking in the bathroom with people you’d just barely met?  Was that City behaviour or was it just Finley?

It was Rowan who came to the rescue, plopping down in what was now her chair, opposite Sammy and Finley, and picking up her vodka tonic.  “I’m gonna rest my feet for the length of this drink and then I’m getting back out there,” she declared.  “I have a quiz tomorrow and I want to dance myself into a zen state where I’m incapable of overthinking anything.”

His cousin looked across the table and smiled conspiratorially, which is when Sammy realized that Finley’s hand was still comfortably resting between his shoulderblades.

He shot up out of his seat.  “Um.  I’ve got to.  Go.”

“Bathrooms’ over there, by the door,” Rowan supplied helpfully, and Sammy’s feet started moving in the direction she indicated.

“I can show her,” Finley offered, and fell into step alongside him.

Sammy looked back at them, stammering, still backpedalling towards the toilets, “Oh, uh.  You don’t have to—”

Finley just winked in response, and kept following.

He could just duck into a bathroom stall and lock it behind himself, Sammy thought desperately.  There’s no way Finley would just stand there in the middle of the men’s room… oh wait.  Sammy couldn’t go into the men’s room dressed like this.  Could Finley follow him into the women’s with a beard?  Could Sammy, for that matter, just nonchalantly walk into the women’s?

Sammy’s brain was about to overheat when he came upon a bunch of people standing down the length of a short hallway, lined up opposite three doors and a sign proudly proclaiming that all the bathrooms were gender-neutral single occupancy facilities.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sammy got in line.  Finley, unsurprisingly, leaned up against the wall beside him.

The line moved slowly.  As each door opened and disgorged a relieved clubgoer, the head of the line ducked in after them.  Sammy didn’t even have time to wonder how an amorous couple would slip in together before two men just walked in, hand in hand. Nobody so much as lifted an eyebrow.

There was at least no conversation in the bathroom line, so Sammy had time to calm down and think.  Finley had the wrong idea, here.  Sammy had no interest in getting fucked in a club bathroom no wait a minute, that actually did sound kind of hot.  Of course Sammy wouldn’t have any idea what to do in that situation—his outsider status had kept him completely free of small town romances—but he could fake it, right?  Or he’d make a complete ass of himself, in front of Rowan’s friend.  And Finley would tell Rowan, and Rowan would laugh.  At him.

Sammy dropped his hands to his sides, and a moment later Finley’s hand brushed up against his, one exploratory pinky stroking gently.  Before he could consciously decide how to respond, though, he flinched away from the touch.

Finley’s voice was butter smooth and soft in Sammy’s ear.  “Am I pushing too hard, Samantha?”

A little tension unwound from his shoulders.  “A little, yeah,” he confessed.

The door at the very end of the hallway, back where the line started, opened up; the girl at the front of the line scrambled to claim her rightful place before somebody who hadn’t been waiting as long darted in there.

“Much as it pains me to say it,” Finley murmured, just barely audible over the noise of the club, “we don’t have to fuck in the bathroom.  And, to be perfectly explicit, anywhere else.”

Sammy exhaled for what felt like the first time in ten full minutes.  Finley’s hand twitched to move away, but Sammy squeezed it tight.  “Thank you,” he nearly whispered.  “It’s not that I don’t… want to—”

Finley got comfortable on the wall next to Sammy.  “It’s exactly that you don’t want to, honey, and that’s okay.”

“Yeah, but it’s not that you’re—”

“Oh hush,” came their quick interruption.  “It’s okay if it’s that, too.  We like what we like.”

“I don’t know what I like,” Sammy sighed so quietly he wasn’t sure if Finley could even hear him.

A shrug.  “It takes time to figure it out.”

Sammy was very near the end of the line, now.  “Yeah, but I don’t think I’ve been trying to figure it out, if that makes sense?  And I’d… like to.  Start.  Figuring it out.”  Ugh, why was this all so complicated?

A bathroom door opened and the line shrunk by another body.  They all shuffled down the hall.

“Finley?”

“Hm?”

“Can you help me?  Start figuring it out?”

They took a moment to reply.  “How would I do that, Samantha?”

A flush, a squeaking door, shuffling feet.  Sammy was the new front of the line.  He licked his lips.  “Just kiss me?”

Finley didn’t answer other than to smile, gently press Sammy’s right hand against the wall, and pivot around until their free hand slipped along his waist.  They pressed their shimmery green body up against his to pull him close.  When Sammy’s breath caught at the movement, Finley dove in, lips spreading and tongue spearing and suddenly Sammy was very appreciative of the unyielding wall supporting him from behind.

Sammy’s first kiss.

After a moment of uncertain flailing, his free hand fluttered up to rest on the back of Finley’s neck, gently pulling them closer. The beard was little scratchy.  Their lips tasted like spearmint. His hips arched up to press more of his body against Finley’s.

All too soon they broke away, amber eyes watching Sammy’s face.  It would have been prolonged eye contact if Sammy could make his own eyes focus.  They released his trapped hand and waist.  A toilet flushed.  “You’re up,” Finley told him with a smirk and backed away down the hall.

One of the bathroom doors opened; Sammy staggered in.

It’s not like he ever had to pee in the first place, so after locking the door, he braced his hands on either side of the sink and stared himself in the eye.  That plan immediately went sideways, because he’d forgotten he didn’t look anything like himself.  It was like trying to stare down a mask.

He got kissed!  Somebody kissed him, because they wanted to kiss him, and then they kissed him, and kissing, it turned out, was amazing.  He waved his hands in front of his face (not rubbing his face because that would smudge everything).  Something came bubbling up from deep within him, and suddenly he was giggling madly, and he glanced back in the mirror and—

Oh.  That’s what Rowan meant by a full power smile.

Sammy was not one for exaggeration, so he couldn’t, wouldn’t say that he looked like a pretty girl, but… when he was all done up like this and he really and truly smiled, there was certainly something compelling about it.  Seeing that smile made him want to smile, and he so he did smile, and then he was looking at himself smile, and it made him want to smile, and it just looped around endlessly.

He couldn’t help it; he giggled some more, laughed, leaned up against the wall, slid down to the floor.

The floor was disgusting, so he immediately stood back up.

Somebody probably needed to actually use the restroom, so he turned towards the door, shaking his head in disbelief.  One last glance back at the mirror—still smiling—and he headed out.

There were more people at the table when he returned.  More than there were chairs: Rowan was now sitting in the lap of a rather dapper man, and a new girl was perched on top of the bench seats up against the wall, with another girl nestled between her shins.  His cousin shot him an incandescent smile.  “Hey Sammy, Finley’s friends got here.”

“I’m not your friend, too?” asked the man she was sitting on, teasingly.

Rowan planted a familiar hand on his chest and elaborated, “The people who Finley had planned to meet here, and who they were saving a table for, have arrived.  They are also my friends, assuming the definition of friends extends to people who make plans to go clubbing together and leave you out of it.”

“You had dinner with your dads and your out-of-town cousin,” the girl on top protested, and extended one foot to nudge Rowan’s shoulder with her toe.

“You got here at one in the morning, I don’t think that’s a conflict with dinner plans,” Rowan shot back without turning to face the girl, and blessed Sammy with an exasperated grin.  “Anyway, this is Vikram.  The girls behind me are Agatha and Zoey.”

“Which one’s which?”

Finley shouted, “Agatha’s the top and Zoey’s the bottom,” which caused the whole table to erupt in laughter.  Agatha nodded; Zoey leaned further back into her legs.  Both looked rather pleased with themselves.

Whatever the joke was, Sammy didn’t get it.  Certainly it would have been easier to say Agatha was the Black girl and Zoey the white girl, but maybe they didn’t want to lead too hard on the race thing.  So top and bottom it was.

There wasn’t an empty seat for Sammy, so he pointed towards the dancefloor.  “So… dancing, I guess?”

Finley shook their head and motioned Sammy closer.  “I have good news for you, Samantha.  They’ve all agreed to help you with your research.”

“My research?” he repeated, confused.

“Yeah.  Your figuring out what you like.” They gestured around the table.  “They’re all going to take turns making out with you, so you can, you know, collect empirical data.”

Sammy laughed, thinking it was a joke.

“And then Agatha is all… I don’t wanna say anything rude or whatever, but like, she’s so squishy?  Like, in the best possible way,” Sammy blathered away to Rowan as they walked along the street towards her dads’ townhouse.  It was more than a little chilly, and Sammy skipped along to keep warm without a coat.  Rowan had a thin little cardigan, which couldn’t really be keeping her warm, but she walked at a sedate pace, silently smiling and nodding along with Sammy’s excited monologue.  The eastern horizon was beginning to glow.

Sammy narrowly avoided tripping right over a fire hydrant.  “The way Vik just wrapped me up in his arms, though.  That was.  That was, uh, cool.  I don’t have words for most of these feelings.”

That, at least, got a little laugh out of Rowan.  “I’m glad you had a good time.”

“I had the best time,” Sammy responded, grinning so wide he felt like his face was going to split in half.  He’d seen his reflection in store windows; his lipstick was a disaster, smeared all over his lips and cheeks and chin, supplemented generously with extra shades of red from Finn and Agatha and Zoey.

Rowan looked up at her old home as it rose before them.  “Hey Sammy, do you mind if I crash with you here?” she asked, sounding as exhausted as she looked.  “It’s so late it’s early, and I don’t wanna go back to my dorm. I could even do your makeup before you leave for Preview Days?”

“I mean, it’s your house,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, but the question is if you mind sharing,” she clarified.  “In my bedroom, there’s only one bed.”

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-prequel to Being Christina Chase

The Simple Version

Sammy followed Rowan inside, creeping after her as quietly as possible.  She made no such allowance for the late hour (or, rather, the early hour) and clomped up the stairs to her room.  She weaved slightly as she went, and Sammy wondered if the cause was inebriation or exhaustion; the girl had ample cause for both.

Once in her bedroom, Rowan went straight to the drawers inset into her closet and started rummaging.  She had a pair of pajamas in hand before Sammy could figure what she was even looking for.

There might be pajamas in the roller bag.  The only question is if he’d recognize them as such.  He himself had not slept in anything more elaborate than a teeshirt and a pair of briefs for years. Weren’t pajamas for little kids?

He went digging in the bag and came up with something that looked probable.  Lifting it up with a look of triumph, he turned to show them to Rowan and boggled.

She was naked.

Club gear dropped in a pile at her feet and one half of the pajama bottoms pinched between her knees, she squirmed her upper body around as she struggled to pull on the top half of the pajamas.  Her exposed breasts bounced around merrily throughout the effort.

Sammy couldn’t look away.  He’d never seen a girl’s boobs before, not in real life.  And her head was buried inside her pajama top, so she couldn’t see him watching, which he really shouldn’t be doing, but… boobs.

Eventually the girl’s blonde locks started spilling out of the neck hole and Sammy tore away his gaze before her eyes inevitably followed.  He shucked off his own clothes as quickly as possible: top and skirt and fishnets, no wait, sandals first and then fishnets, and bra and—whoops, there went the breast forms.

By the time he’d scrambled to catch them as they bounced across the floor, Rowan had crawled into bed, pressing herself up against the wall.  “We can make this work, right?” she asked sleepily.  “I just need like two hours.”

“Yeah, I can, uh, fit in there,” he answered, pulling on somebody else’s pajamas over the underwear that also wasn’t his, but that he was also absolutely not going to take off, because he had seen a rather nice pair of bouncing boobs, in person, and there were natural consequences for seeing such things.  Hard consequences.

He climbed into bed, striving to keep a good six inches between his butt and Rowan’s everything.  His knees and hands dangled over the the edge of the mattress.

“No, that’s not how it works,” Rowan murmured, and reached forward to slide one arm under his neck and the other around his middle, pulling him close.  “Haven’t you ever had a sleepover?”

“Uh, not since I was, like, twelve?” he chuckled breathlessly.  “One of the guys in my Boy Scouts patrol had a sleepover birthday.  But we all slept in our own sleeping bags on the basement floor.”

“Pssssshhhhh,” Rowan huffed, wafting warm, 100-proof breath over the back of Sammy’s neck.  “Boy sleepover.  Doesn’t count.”

Sammy might have said something agreeable, but he wasn’t sure.  He was entirely distracted by the warm press of Rowan’s body up against his.  He was the little spoon; her legs were curled up under his legs, her belly up against his butt, her boobs squished up against his shoulderblades.  She was so soft.  He hoped like hell her hand, latched around his belly, wouldn’t brush up against his ridiculous erection.

Because it was clear that no hanky-panky was going to happen; in fact, Rowan was descending precipitously into dreamland.  Besides, it wasn’t like she had any interest in him.

“Hey Rowan?” he murmured.  “Can I ask you a question?”

She mumbled in the affirmative and snuggled her face against his shoulder.

He figured it was fifty-fifty that she’d even hear his question, so what the hell, why not?  He asked the darkened room: “When everybody else was taking a turn kissing me, why didn’t you?”

She chuckled, and he could feel her lips on the back of his neck as she said, “Cause you’re my cousin, silly.”

“Yeah, but not really,” he answered, probably too hastily.  “Not, like, genetically.  We’re both adopted.”

That brought her out of her descent, and she raised her head.  “What are you talking about?  I’m not adopted.”

“You have two dads?”

Rowan snorted and tucked herself back in behind him.  “My Tate grew me in his belly just like a regular father,” she said, and giggled at her own joke.  “Didn’t know you were adopted, though.”

“Yeah,” he told the darkness.  “I am.”

“Doesn’t matter, though,” she mumbled on.  “You’re my cousin and I’m going to see you lots more, and have breakfast in the morning, and hang out other times.  Hopefully this won’t be your last visit.  And making out with you would have made all of that weird.”

“Yeah,” he murmured.  Because sleeping like this didn’t make anything weird.  “I guess that’s true.”

Rowan snorted into him again.  “We’re not kissing cousins,” she giggled.  He ignored how her giggles made her tits wobble against him.  When her levity waned, she added, “Besides I was pretty fucking jealous, so.  Focused on holding it together.”

He shifted as if he was turning to face her, although he barely moved.  “Jealous?  Of me?”

His cousin sighed.  “I’ve been trying to get Vik to kiss me for months.  It wasn’t easy to watch.”

“I’m sorry.”

He could feel her shaking her head.  “Not your fault.  Vik says he can only date desi girls, because of family expectations, blah blah blah, except I know he’s dated white girls before, so why not me?”  She squeezed Sammy tight.  “Sometimes it’s right there, right under the surface, you know?  I know he wants me, but then he backs off.  Does something stupid to distract himself.”

Oh.  “Like kiss some out-of-town boy.”

“Out-of-town girl,” she corrected, and shifted her fingers so she could poke him in the belly to punctuate her point.  “Out-of-town girl that he’s probably never going to see again, but won’t it be fun to wind up the country girl on her first big trip to the City. Um.  No offense.”

He shook his head; she wouldn’t see it, but she could feel it.  “No, that sounds about right.  Vik and the girls: it was kind of a silly game to them.”

“Not for Finn, though,” she purred, her grip around his middle slacking.  “They would have put you in their pocket… and taken you home for the night.”  This was punctuated with a long, dreamy yawn.

“I still don’t know how I feel about that,” Sammy giggled.  “I don’t think anybody’s ever wanted me like that before.”

“Mmmm,” Rowan mumbled into his back, falling back towards sleep.  “See a pretty girl, whatcha gonna do?  Flirt her up, make her blush, see how far up her leg you can get a feel.”

“Pretty sure all four of them felt my underwear,” he said with a wan smile—suddenly he wondered if he should actually be proud of that, in any way, shape, or form—but his cousin didn’t answer except to snore softly.

Sammy watched the sunrise light up the street outside.  As his buzz faded, he found himself mulling over the night, uncertain.  Of course it had all meant nothing; everybody was drunk and acting out.  It was the kind of wild stuff that happened when you went out partying, right?  They’d probably tell stories about it for years, that night they played a quick round of “wind up the country girl” and sent her staggering into the early morning.

Should he feel ashamed?  Or had he played the game just as much as they had?  After all, he got kissed and felt up and… hm.  Another question barged into his mind, flattening everything else.

Would they have ever played a quick round of “wind up the country boy?”

The simulated shutter sound of a smartphone taking a picture brought Sammy out of his fitful sleep.

“Daddy,” Rowan groaned.  “You’re supposed to get consent before you take people’s pictures.”

Henry Masters stood over them looking a little sheepish.  “Yes, but the two of you were so adorable, and I was only going to share it with Tate.”

“I get veto rights,” she groused, “before it goes anywhere.  Geez, what time is it?”

“Nearly nine-thirty,” came the answer.  “I’ve been calling for Sammy here since nine.  I didn’t know you were in here.  But if you’re both up and moving, I’ll go down and toast another bagel for you, honey.”

“Thank you,” she answered muzzily, grinding her palms into her eyes.  “Fuck, we didn’t wash our faces last night.”

Before he left, Uncle Henry said, “Sammy, we’ll need to leave by ten thirty at the absolute latest.  Ten ten would be preferable.”  He delivered the news with the gentle insistence that Sammy’s own parents had used on numerous mornings.  A common denominator of parenthood.

“Yes, sir,” Sammy answered, sitting up and forcing himself to nod.

Once the door closed behind Henry, Rowan turned in the bed, planted her cold-ass feet against Sammy’s back, and shoved him out of bed.  He went sprawling.  “Alright, bitch,” she cried, “that means we’ve got half an hour till showtime!”

Rowan scrubbed down his face, decided he didn’t need (and didn’t have time for) a shave, gave him some “respectable” light makeup, and then brushed out and pinned up his hair.  Then she found her purse on the floor, produced her little pill case, and popped one of its little blue pills.  Then she held the pill case out to him.

“In the morning?” he smiled, not at all against the idea.  If whatever mild high these gave him contributed to his night last night, he was all for more.

“One every morning, one every night,” she answered as if it were obvious.  “Don’t you…?”

He shook his head as he took a pill.  “We don’t have this sort of thing in Oak Grove.”

Rowan looked thunderstruck.  “Oh shit, of course.  I made a bone-headed assumption, didn’t I?”

He shrugged.  That Rowan didn’t understand the drug culture of a place she’d never been to didn’t seem very remarkable.  All they had in Oak Grove was booze, pot, and meth: two for occasional indulgence, one to stay the hell away from; nothing to get very excited about.    “Thanks for supplying,” he smiled, and tucked the pill under his tongue.

Besides, there was no time to talk comparative drug availabilities; they were rushing to get out the door.  Since he’d only worn it for an hour or two, he threw on the outfit from dinner the night before.  

“That’s wrinkled,” his cousin pointed out, “but a couple stops on the 7^th Avenue Express will take care of it.”

Halfway through putting his second fake tit into his bra, it occured to Sammy to ask: “Hey um.  Last night, Zoey, like, full-on felt me up…”

“I was there.  She was… aggressive.”

“Yeah, but she was, you know, grabbing these,” he said, waving the floppy silicone boob in demonstration.  “Not actually grabbing me, but I like… I kind of felt it anyway?  It felt like she was grabbing my boob, even though I don’t have a boob to grab.”

Rowan, halfway through doing her eyeliner, said, “Yep.  That’s how it usually works.”

“Yeah, but… how?”

She paused and looked at him in the mirror of her vanity.  “You want the simple answer, or the complicated answer that deals with, like, internal conception of self, proprioception, and phantom limb syndrome?”

Sammy wasn’t sure what any of those things were, so he said, “Uh, the simple version.”

“Bodies are weird,” she shrugged, and finished her line.

“Ha, thanks.”

When she moved on to mascara, she elaborated: “Bodies know the shape they’re supposed to be and when they’re not that shape, they compensate.  Don’t even get me started on eyeballs, how they actually work is existentially disturbing.”

Sammy very suddenly needed a change of subject, so he did ask her about eyeballs.  That took them all the way downstairs to the kitchen, where Henry joined in with further details.  The two of them went back-and-forth on the subject all the way to the subway.

“But why can’t we just grow rods and cones overtop of where the optic nerve, like, plugs in to the back of the eyeball?” Sammy asked as the train slowed for Columbia University station.  “I want to know that what I’m seeing is what I’m actually seeing, and not just… made-up stuff!”

Both Henry and Rowan shrugged as they disembarked, and then they had to part ways: registration for Preview Days was up the northern street-level exit, while Rowan’s dorm was the opposite way. “Have fuuuunnnn!” she called as she went.

The campus was compact, dignified, and intimidatingly high-class.  Sammy stared awe-struck at the venerable old architecture, the sharp lines of red brick and white trim, the endless columns.  Blue and white balloon arches and banners all over the campus proclaimed it to be Preview Days.  Following these like signposts brought them to a collection of tables set out on the central lawn.

“Welcome!” called out a chipper clerk behind the table, a middle-aged woman dressed in business attire.  Her sweater vest was bright blue.  Before her on the table was a stack of glossy magazines and a huge array of nametags.  “Are you here for Preview Days?”

Sammy threaded his thumb under his backpack strap.  “Um, yeah.”

“What’s your name, dear?”

He ignored how she said ‘dear,’ despite how weird it struck him.  Women said it like that to guys, too, right?  “Uh.  Sammy Masters.”

“Oh!” she squealed, recognition lighting up her face.  “Our last-minute name change.”  Before Sammy could ask what she meant, she’d raked over the array of name tags and held one out to him.  It read “Samantha Masters.”

Sammy took it between numb fingers.  “But I registered online as Sammy…”

“Your uncle called us this morning and explained your situation,” she said with a tight little smile.

From behind him, his uncle placed a warm hand on his shoulder.  “I wanted you to feel welcome as your whole self.  I hope I didn’t overstep?”

You absolutely did, Sammy thought but did not say.  Even if he was going to be wearing a skirt all day, he really would have rathered his nametag said Sammy.  That was even properly short for Samantha, wasn’t it?  But he didn’t want to upset his uncle, or give him any clue to this bizarre deception he seemed trapped in, so he said, “Uh, no.  Thank you, Uncle Henry.”

“So you can stash your bag right over here,” the clerk went on, indicating a collection of other small luggage behind a barricade of folding tables.  Henry wheeled it over.  “All your electronics—tablet, laptop, and so on—they’re in your backpack, right?”

Sammy nodded.  “As instructed in the registration confirmation email.”

“We’ll keep your things safe until you head to your student host’s dorm room, but the pre-law student volunteers don’t want us to be liable for computers and things,” she explained with a wink.

A beat later Sammy realized that had been a joke.  He forced out a little laugh.

“The next campus tour is starting right over there,” the clerk went on, pointing to a small group of young people standing under a pair of criss-crossed balloon arches.  “The tour will end at the dining commons for lunch.  There are a bunch of classes you can sit in on throughout the afternoon.  And then you’ll come back here to touch base and go meet your student host!”  She was very excited about the whole process.

Sammy tried to muster enthusiasm to match her.  This is what he came here for, right?  “Thank you, ma’am.”

Henry’s hand came down on Sammy’s shoulder again.  He bent over slightly to tell him, “My three o’clock is one of those sit-in classes, if you want to see what Intro to Anatomy looks like.  No pressure, though.”

“Thanks, Uncle Henry, I might just do that.  But I should probably go join the group?”

“Absolutely,” his uncle chuckled.  “Enjoy the tour.  Make new friends.”

Sure, thought Sammy.  I’ll make a whole bunch of friends—they’ll all think I’m a girl and then if we cross paths when school actually starts, they’ll think I’m a confused weirdo who couldn’t make up my mind about my own gender.  But he went anyway.

Four other teenagers waited under the balloon arches.  The largest and most notable was dressed in a three-piece suit, which would have been mockable if he didn’t wear it so well.  The two girls of the party—one pale, willowy, and dark-haired, the other short, curvy and blonde—seemed to be keeping their backs to eachother.  The last kid, a scrawny guy in a hoodie and jeans, was poking desultorily at his phone. The whole collection looked bored right up until Sammy approached.  Suddenly their expressions went from blanket ennui to confusion (short blonde), suspicion (three-piece suit), interest (tall brunette), and terror (hoodie).

“Hey,” Sammy said, pairing it with a limp wave.  Way to make a first impression, he kicked himself internally.  He cleared his throat.  “I’m Sammy.”

Before any of them could respond, a young man in a bright blue Columbia-branded tee shirt jogged up to them.  “Okay!  This the eleven fifteen batch?  Alright!  Who wants to go on a tour?”  As he led them down the sidewalk, the tour guide enthusiastically asked all their names and hometowns. Sammy didn’t retain any of this deluge of information and barely mustered his own response, remembering at the last moment to say Samantha and not Sammy.

“Our first stop is Butler Library,” the guide narrated, taking them up the steps of a—to be frank—ludicrously intimidating building.  Inside, the high ceiling glowing with indirect lighting and endless bookshelves did not make it any more approachable.  The guide rattled off dates and names excitedly, voice hushed so as to not disturb the many students hard at work studying.

“It’s even prettier than the pictures,” the short blonde cooed.

“It is,” the guide grinned proprietarily.  “Which is great.  You don’t actually mind spending four or five hours a day hitting the books when you get to do it here.”

Sammy chuckled at what sounded like a joke, but everyone else nodded eagerly.  He stifled his mistaken mirth with a fake cough and a hand crushed over his lips (careful not to smudge his lipstick).

As they came out of the library, the guide turned and asked, “So what about attending Columbia are each of you most excited about?”

“Greek life, internships, networking,” suit jacket said with easy confidence.  “Other schools brag about getting good jobs right after graduation, but my brother started working in finance halfway through his senior year.  I want a piece of that.”

“Research for me,” the curvy blonde beamed.  “I dunno what I’ll get to work on, of course, but I’m so eager to get my hands dirty with real lab work.”

“There’s a bunch of tech incubators here,” hoodie said, as if that was a full and comprehensible answer.

The tall dark-haired girl merely hooked her thumb behind her.  “Butler.”

And then everybody was looking at Sammy.  “Um,” he mumbled.  “Mostly just the City, you know?  How many other places let you go to school in the middle of New York City?”

The brunette snorted at his answer and gave him a patronizing little smile.  “There’s like, three dozen colleges and universities in Manhattan alone, Samantha.”

“I know that,” he lied.  “But this one’s special, you know?”

That they all agreed with, and Sammy gratefully slunk back to the rear of the group.

They walked past or looked into an astounding number of buildings, all seemingly stacked on top of and right beside each other: the fitness center, a dorm, the pool, a lecture hall that could probably seat Sammy’s entire high school.  The number of times the guide said, “And this is the something-or-other department” made Sammy’s head spin.  How many departments could one university have?

And then it was finally time for something Sammy did understand: lunch.  The guide led them up to a dining hall named, like everything else on campus, after somebody historical and famous, and directed them to the center page of their programs, filled with five punch-out meal tickets.  This would get them inside, after which it was a giant buffet and they should help themselves to whatever looked good.

“But this is where I leave you,” he said in conclusion.  “Your programs have a listing of all the open classes and presentations you can find on campus.  The back page has a map, and you can always find your way back to the registration desk in the center of campus if you need directions.  If there are no questions, I wish you all bon apetit!”  And without actually waiting for questions, he jogged off towards the campus green.

Suit jacket jumped forward to hold the door open, gesturing grandly inside.  “Ladies,” he intoned.  The smile on his face looked genuine when the blonde passed by, but Sammy could have sworn his lip curled as he stepped inside.  The brunette followed behind him, and then suit jacket let the door swing for hoodie to catch as he brought up the rear.

They handed over their torn-out tickets, found trays and plates, and filled them.  By unspoken agreement, they all flocked to an empty table and sat together.

Sammy tore into his lunch, which was a motley collection of any food he saw and didn’t recognize (trying new things!), along with a few old reliables (because he was starving).

“That’s quite a spread you fixed yourself,” suit jacket observed.  He’d stacked two burgers on his own plate, atop a small mountain of fries.

“I came to check the place out,” Sammy retorted with a shrug.  “Need to know if the food’s any good, right?”

“Is Columbia not your first choice school?” suit jacket asked dubiously.

Sammy immediately sensed a trap, but figured he could play it cool.  “My dad went here, so I’m mostly humoring him.  That and I thought it’d be cool to hit up a college party, you know?”

“Party?” the blonde asked incredulously.  “Here?  Who in the world told you Columbia was a party school?”

“Dad, probably,” sport jacket laughed.  “Waxed rhapsodic about his glory days, with a generous amount of nostalgic embellishment.”

Okay, fuck this.  Sammy shrugged again.  “I mean, we went clubbing last night, and it was a good time.  So I’ve already checked that item off the to-do list.”  That should shut him up.

Suit jacket rolled his eyes instead of answering, which Sammy decided to take as a win.

“I can’t imagine coming here just to party,” the short girl opined.  “I worked too hard to get here just to drink the same booze I can get from the grocery store back home.”

“Exactly,” sport jacket nodded.  “And I am so looking forward to dropping all the bullshit I’ve had to do for years just to pad out my application.”

“Stupid clubs,” hoodie muttered.  “Academic fucking decathalon.”

“Volunteering,” the brunette groaned.

“Kissing up to school administrators,” the blonde spat, and leaned in. “The guidance counselor at my school has been pushing me to add these stupid GenEd requirements—Civics and a Fine Art elective and P.E. of all things—and I had to tell her, look, this crappy school you work at doesn’t offer AP Civics, it doesn’t have a single AP Fine Art available, and it certainly doesn’t have any AP Phys Ed, and I’ve got to protect my GPA.  Those gen-pop classes only give 4 points for As, and if I lump that underachiever bullshit in with the rest of my course load, that will bring my average down towards 4.”

Down towards 4? Sammy boggled.  But GPA could only get up to 4.  And his was… not near 4 at all.  How did she get hers higher than the top?

But suit jacket just nodded.  “I tested out of some classes to avoid that.”

“I tried that,” the blonde hissed, hostility aimed not at suit jacket but at the absent guidance counselor, “but I got shut down because they’re ‘experiential’ classes.”

Suit jacket snorted in disdain.  “That’s not a classification in any entrance requirements I’ve ever seen.”

“Right?  But it’s a classification that my school apparently takes very seriously,” she groused.  “So finally, I had to convince her to delay all of that shit until second semester senior year, because applications go out before the final semester’s grades hit your GPA.”

“Ah, smart!”

She shrugged.  “At least my baby-level course load this semester gives me time to study for AP exams.  I’m taking three outside of classes.”

Sammy opened his mouth to ask what ‘AP’ was, thought better of it, and kept his silence.

Instead, the dark-haired girl said, “So Samantha, how long have you been out?” which was probably the one question he wanted to hear least.  He wasn’t the only one: suit jacket muttered darkly into his soup.

“Uh,” he responded intelligently.  He had been impressed with how girly Rowan had made him look, but he knew he didn’t look like an actual girl.  Girly, not girl.  And here was confirmation.  He’d been clocked, and given that nobody looked surprised, apparently all four of them had seen him and thought, ‘trans girl.’  He coughed.  “Well um.  I’m… not, really?  Out.  Not at home.”

Her eyebrows shot upwards.  “Oh wow.  So this is the escape route.  How small a town is that small town you came from?”

“Small,” he answered with a decisive nod.  “We saw more people walking around campus today than there are residents of Oak Grove.”

“Wait, so…” the bubbly blonde perked up, sensing the other girl had broken the ice and she could ask the questions that had been smouldering inside her.  “Nobody at home knows you’re…”  Or apparently if she wasn’t up to actually asking questions, she’d strongly imply them.

Sammy took a deep breath.  “Trans.  Transgender.”  He almost didn’t stumble over the words.

“So you were… born… a…?” she kept pressing.

“Yeah,” he said, blushing so hard he could feel it in his ears.

The brunette shook her head hard enough to derail the blonde’s line of questioning.  “You don’t have to answer anything.  I shouldn’t have asked.  You’re Samantha, that’s all we need to know.”

Suit jacket snorted derisively.

The dark-haired girl scowled at him.  “You’re not going to climb the corporate ladder here with that kind of attitude, hick boy.”

“I am not a hick,” he shot back, his voice far louder than it needed to be.  He leveled a thick finger at Sammy.  “If anybody here is a hick, it’s him.  Her.  Fuck.”

“Oh my god,” the willowy brunette groaned dramatically, and then locked eyes with Sammy.  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she declared, but didn’t move to stand up.

It took a moment for the neurons in Sammy’s brain to connect.  Girls went to the bathroom in packs.  This was an invitation, and an excuse to get away from the table.  He put his napkin down. “Yeah, me too.”

The blonde invited herself along, as well, and with only a little uncertainty as to where the bathrooms actually were, the trio marched away.  “I’m sorry about that,” the brunette told Sammy as she pushed open the door with a skirted silhouette on it.

He barely registered the apology as the threshold of the bathroom rose up toward him.  Was he doing this?  He guessed so, since his feet were following along after her.  Besides, it was just a bathroom, right?  “Wasn’t your fault,” he said, almost as automatically as his feet.

“It kind of was, I started the conversation,” she said, making a face.  She bounced her hips a little.  “Well shit, now that I’m here, I actually do have to pee.”  She disappeared into a stall.

Sammy leaned up against the sink counter, trying to look like he did this all the time.  The fact that it was, in fact, just a bathroom didn’t seem to matter much.  His heart hammered in his chest.  He wasn’t supposed to be in here!  The sudden sound of pee tinkling into the toilet bowl didn’t help at all.

The blonde produced a tube of lipstick from her bag and touched herself up in the mirror.  “What’s it like?” she asked, not making eye contact.

It took Sammy a beat to realize he was being addressed.  “What’s what like?”

“You know,” she said with a shrug.  “Being… like you.”

“Cindy,” the brunette groaned from inside the stall, “she doesn’t need to get it from you, too!”

“I’m curious,” Cindy shot back, “and respectful.”  Finally she made eye contact with Sammy.  “I’m an ally,” she told him very seriously.

“Allies don’t claim allyship, Cindy!” came a frustrated retort from the toilet.

“It’s okay,” Sammy said, shrugging softly.  “It’s…. um.  It’s still new.  Getting to… be me, not… the knowing I’m me.  I’m, uh, an Always Knew Tran.”

The blonde squinted.  “What’s that?”

“Oh, uh,” Sammy scrambled.  Rowan had thrown the term around like everybody knew what it meant.  “It just means… I always knew I was… Samantha, not Samuel.”  He cleared his throat.  Wasn’t he supposed to not admit to his old name?  But maybe it was a good idea for him, given that he’d be back, “detransitioned,” when classes started.  He could lay the groundwork now.  “This weekend I’m just… trying things out, you know?”

“But you’ve always known you were a girl,” Cindy pressed again.  “Even though you grew up with a…”

“Oh my god, are you just trying to get her to say the word ‘penis’?” the brunette thundered as she came back out, toilet gargling behind her.  “We came in here to get her away from the topic.  I’m sure she’s sick of it.”

“Not really,” he shrugged.  “Everybody talks around it.  Like they’re scared of saying anything.  It’s kind of a weird vibe.”

“The tech incubator kid is kind of a weird vibe,” the brunette grumbled as she leaned forward to wash her hands.

“The quiet one?”

The dark-haired girl raised an eyebrow at Sammy.  “Have you not seen the furtive little glances he keeps shooting you?  He’s gotta be an egg or a chaser.”

Sammy nodded as if he knew what either of those things were.  “Yeah, probably.”  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cindy faking a confident nod, too.

“So do you want to go back to the table?” the brunette asked Sammy.  “We can just bolt out of here directly.”

“Still kind of hungry,” Sammy admitted sheepishly.  “And I’ll be fine.  Stuff like that doesn’t bother me.”  Because, he added mentally, suit jacket had the right of it and Sammy was properly referred to as a ‘him,’ anyway.

“Yeah, and you can fix your lippy afterwards,” Cindy chimed in and gestured to her own lips.

Sammy glanced into the mirror and saw that nearly all his lipstick had come off during lunch.  “Oh fuck.  I… didn’t think to bring mine along.”

Cindy held hers up magnanimously.  “You can borrow mine.  It’s not exactly the same shade, but it’ll do.”

“Are you guys going to the community outreach presentation?” the brunette asked.  She’d produced the Preview Days program from her backpack and was scowling down at it.  “I thought I’d hit that before going to an open classroom.”

“I’m down,” Cindy agreed with a smile. “The open class I want to hit is Anatomy, and that’s at three.”

“Oh, that’s my uncle’s class,” Sammy blurted without thinking.

The curvy blonde blinked slowly.  “Your uncle is Doctor Henry Masters-Roth?”

It was the first time Sammy had heard the double-barrelled surname, but that seemed like something that two men might do when they got married.  He nodded.

Cindy turned on a dazzling smile complete with deep dimples.  “Can you introduce me?”

“Uh, sure?” he stammered.  “But first can we get back before all my food gets cold?”

When the girls—plus Sammy—returned to the table, suit jacket was already gone and hoodie got up to leave.  “Didn’t want them to clear the table if you weren’t finished,” he explained nervously, very much not making eye contact with Sammy.

Yeah, Sammy thought as the kid scampered off.  He was weirdly twitchy.

The two girls picked at the remains of their own plates and made idle chit-chat while Sammy polished off his smorgasbord of weird and familiar foods. It did not take long.  And then they were stalking off across campus to a spacious dorm lounge.  Beyond the huge banner proclaiming “Columbia Cares!”, the space was filled with tables, placards, and smiling college students.

“What is this, again?” Sammy asked as they waded into the fray.  The students manning the different booths beckoned them forward, asking them if they were worried about climate change or if they’d like to help ensure nobody went hungry in Morningside Heights.

“It’s all the community outreach organizations,” Cindy explained.  “You know.  Feed the homeless, clean up the park, mentor disadvantaged youths.”

“I worked at a food bank,” the brunette called back, voice elevated to cut through the din.  “Every Saturday, butt crack of morning.  Wanna connect with the people doing similar work here.”

“I did river clean up and active transport activism,” the blonde explained as they came to a stop at a crossroads of booths.  “Keep an eye out for me?”

Sammy realized they were both looking at him again.  “Uh.  What?”

The brunette prompted, voice pitched like she was speaking to a small child, “And what did you do, Samantha?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” he answered, shaking his head.

Cindy blinked.  “What do you mean, nothing?” 

“Nothing like this,” he elaborated.  “You guys are… really cool for doing that stuff.  That’s… that’s really excellent.”

“You didn’t put any community engagement into your application?” the willowy girl asked incredulously.  “You don’t think that’s going to be a big, gaping hole?”

She seemed to be getting angry, which Sammy did not understand in the least, so he spread his hands.  “I mean, I didn’t really think about it much?”

The brunette’s eyes slitted.  “Ah.  I see how it is,” she nodded.  “Daddy’s an alum, uncle’s an alum and the current head of the Biophysics department.  Who needs to actually work at putting together a decent application when you’re a legacy.”  She spat the last word like it was a venomous insult.

“I don’t think they actually do that anymore…” Sammy tried to say, quailing before the girl’s sudden rage.

He needn’t have bothered, because Cindy was jumping forward to shout in his defense.  “Lay off of her!  She’s had to deal with so much!  So what if she didn’t have time to help out the community that piled so much hate on her?”

“Oh fuck off, Cindy,” the brunette spat.  “You just want her to introduce you to her uncle.  She’s your ‘in’ to the old boy’s network.”

“That’s not true, I’m an ally!” the blonde insisted, but her valiant defense landed only the willowy girl’s back as she stalked away, flipping the bird behind her.  Cindy watched her go, shoulders tense and back ramrod straight, until the other girl couldn’t be seen.

Sammy considered slipping away into the crowd the other way, but he wasn’t fast enough.

The short blonde turned to face him with a sigh.  “I’m sorry you had to hear that Samu—mantha.”  She started talking very fast as if she could distract him from how she’d almost used his correct name.  “This is a stressful time in our lives and some of us have… a more tenuous bid for admission.  Don’t have the grades, try to supplement with flashy good deeds, you know?  And if that gets threatened, any of us might lash out.  I hate that she picked you for her target, though.  That was completely unfair.”

He nodded numbly and said something vaguely agreeable.  The two of them completed the circuit of booths—Cindy talked at length with the bike people and the litter picker-uppers—and then they made meandering progress towards the lecture hall for Intro to Anatomy.

The class was in one of those cavernous lecture halls with stadium seating, and apparently well attended given that the room was already half full.  Henry wasn’t in evidence yet, so they found seats somewhere in the middle.

At three o’clock exactly Uncle Henry came in at the stage door, deposited his bag next to the podium and leapt right in to talking.

About ten minutes into the lecture, Sammy realized that, beyond “Hello” and “Welcome to Intro to Anatomy,” he had not understood a single thing his uncle had said.  Everything was ventral this and anterior that and he was pretty sure most of the time Henry wasn’t even speaking English.  Diagrams and photos were displayed above his uncle’s head to illustrate what he was talking about, but if anything they only confused Sammy further.

Cindy, of course, was eating it all up with rapt attention and wide eyes.  He tried to ask her a question but she only shushed him.  She was rivetted.

Sammy looked around the room.  Everyone else was paying attention, nodding every once in a while, jotting down notes.  They all seemed to understand what was happening.

It was just Sammy who was lost.

Maybe, Sammy thought dreadfully, there was a reason for that.  Maybe nobody back home thought he could get into Columbia because they knew his capabilities better than he did.  And because his brain was very helpful that day, it put this into simpler language: maybe he just wasn’t smart enough.

Cindy and the others had GPAs that were over 4.0 somehow.  His wasn’t even above 3.

Apparently you had to ‘pad out’ an application with stuff you’d been doing throughout your years in high school.  Sammy had done nothing except attend class and sort of pay attention sometimes.

The kids here for Preview Days had come, not just with dreams, but with plans and specific goals they wanted to do and accomplish.  Sammy’s vague desire to see the city seemed petty in comparison.  And he wouldn’t have even accomplished that if it hadn’t been for his cousin taking pity on him.

The kids here for Preview Days seemed like they weren’t even kids: they were already adults.  They were competent and knew things about the world around them and had vision for how they’d fit into it and plans on making their mark.

That’s what a Columbia student looked like, and that wasn’t Sammy.

If he couldn’t get into Columbia, he couldn’t come live in the City.  And if Columbia wouldn’t take him as a legacy, all those other schools here had even less of a reason to admit him.  And if he didn’t come live in the City, he’d be stuck in Oak Grove his whole life, making fucking chairs and living above a hair salon.

Everybody was standing up, now, and his uncle wasn’t talking at volume.  The screen above him was blank.  Apparently the lecture was over.  “C’mon,” he said to Cindy with a sigh.  “Let me introduce you.”

They tromped down the steps to the stage, where Henry was talking with a short queue of students.  When they approached, he gave Sammy a smile and gestured him forward.  “Everyone, this is my niece, Samantha.  She’s here for Preview Days.  Maybe you’ll see her on campus next year.”

Fat chance of that, Sammy thought to himself, but half-turned to indicate Cindy behind him.  “Uncle Henry, this is my friend Cindy.  She wanted to meet you.”

Cindy didn’t leave him any more time or space to continue, shooting forward with her hand extended to shake.  She nearly knocked Sammy over in her haste.  “Doctor Masters-Roth, I’m so excited to meet you, you are one of my top five reasons for attending Columbia.”

His bushy eyebrows floated upwards.  “Oh am I?”

“I follow the results of your lab religiously,” she went on without even pausing, “and I think the work that you’re doing is absolutely visionary.  It is my dream to get accepted here and join your research team and if there is anything you can tell me to help me realize that dream, I would just love to pick your brain.”

“Well I have office hours until six,” he told her with gentle amusement.  “Let me field the questions these students are waiting to ask, and then I’d be happy to…”

Sammy slipped away before hearing any more.  It’s not like he hadn’t understood that she was just using him to get to his uncle—the brunette from their group had said as much explicitly, after all—but it would have been a nice surprise to discover otherwise.

Nobody wanted him for himself, just as an ‘in’ to his family members or as a plaything in a drunken game while clubbing.

The air was chilly when he stepped outside.  The sun, low and orange, cast long shadows up the walls of the campus, looking far warmer than it was.  The cold went right down his bared chest while also swirling around under his skirt.  Sammy wished he’d dressed warmer, or brought along an extra layer, but they’d been in such a rush this morning.  It hadn’t occured to him.

Actual Columbia students probably weren’t so stupid as to leave the house without a coat in February.

He caught sight of the registration tables down the way and checked the time on his phone.  He could go meet his student host now.  They were scheduled to grab dinner together, with the idea that the host could answer any questions Sammy had about student life.  Sammy didn’t have any questions right now, beyond “why am I so fucking stupid,” but eating sounded good.

Sammy collected his roller bag and followed the (honestly very complicated) directions to his host’s dorm room.  Maybe he could bail in the morning, switch his ticket for an earlier bus, and beg Andrei to come get him a day early.  He dragged his luggage up a whole bunch of steps and finally found the right door with the right number on it, and knocked.

A guy in athletic wear opened the door.  He looked Sammy up and down once in confusion, and then a second time with increasing incredulity.  “The fuck is this?”

“I’m Sammy,” said Sammy.  “I’m your Preview Days guest that you signed up to host?”

“Oh hell no!” the guy exclaimed, rather loudly.  Suddenly somebody was chortling behind him, deeper in the room, then stumbling up to hang on the first guy’s shoulder and stare.  “We are not letting this—” and here he gestured vaguely at Sammy “—into our room.”

“But you signed up—”

“I signed up to host a dude,” he shot back.  “Not some fucking tranny.”

All language fled Sammy’s brain.  The word felt like a slap in the face, a shock so sudden and vile that he didn’t even have the bandwidth to muse on whether he should be offended since it was actually inaccurate.  It just hurt, because specifics aside, the real intent was, “you’re broken, you’re worthless, you’re less than human,” which immediately dovetailed into Sammy’s own internal monologue.

“Dude,” the guy’s friend whispered like only the very drunk whisper, at a volume slightly louder than their speaking voice, “you’re not supposed to say tranny anymore.”

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want!” came the immediate and very shouted retort.  “Tranny tranny tranny!  Fuck off, tranny! You don’t belong here!”  And he slammed the door.

It took almost a full minute before Sammy found his words.  “You think I don’t KNOW THAT?” he screeched at the closed door.  “That’s all anybody’s told me all fucking day! I’m not fucking good enough for you assholes, I know!  Fuck you!”

He stomped down the corridor and down the stairs and got all the way to a park bench fifteen feet outside before the tide of emotion overcame him.  The handle of his bag slipped out of his hand, he collapsed onto the hard wrought iron of the bench, and he sobbed.

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-prequel to Being Christina Chase

It's the Only Way to Be Sure

“Samantha?” came a soft voice.  “Is that y— oh, honey, what happened?”  Arms encircled his shoulders and he didn’t even know who it was but he didn’t particularly care.  He just clutched back and cried all over her shoulder.

A few minutes later when he pulled back, he found Zoey looking down at him, concern written across her face.  It was full dark, with the university lit up behind her so bright that there are no stars in the sky.  “’M okay,” he mumbled.

“No, you’re not,” she responded immediately, and looked him over.  “Are you hurt?  Physically, I mean?  Injured.”  He shook his head.  “Well let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”

He didn’t want to explain what happened, but he managed to admit: “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Zoey snorted as she threaded her arm under his and lifted him up.  “Yes you do.  My dorm room’s right upstairs.”

He let her carry him more than he probably should have.  He was not exactly small and she was not exactly beefy.  Meanwhile he was patently aware that his student host was in this dorm somewhere upstairs, and the last thing he wanted to do was cross paths with him again.  But getting taken care of and getting cleaned up sounded lovely.  He closed his eyes to go through the doors without balking.

Zoey guided him into an elevator—how did he miss the elevator earlier?—and punched the button for 15.  When the doors finally slid closed, a good chunk of the tension in Sammy’s back unravelled.  His host was on eight; they’d go right past him.

On 15 he was able to walk his own damn self down the hallway, although Zoey kept hold of his bag.  She pushed through an intensely decorated and half-open room door.  “She followed me home,” she quipped on entry, “can we keep her?”

“What?  Ohmygod, Samantha!” and then suddenly Rowan was there, hugging Sammy tight.  “What happened, have you been crying?”

Sammy cast around, confused all over again.  The dorm “room” had two rooms and in the next were two beds.  The decorated dorm room door they’d come through bore two construction-paper hearts in its center, labelled with Zoey and Rowan’s names.  A full-length mirror on another wall confronted him with his reflection.  He did look a fright: hair impressively mussed and mascara dribbled all over his cheeks.

He let himself be guided to sit on a bed.  The two girls cooed over him, scrubbed his face with wipes, finger-combed and then brushed his hair.  They asked a few questions, which he barely answered, so they shifted to soft nonsense phrases like “you poor thing” and “there, isn’t that better?”

They fed him a microwave burrito, which was objectively terrible but tasted like the best thing he’d ever eaten.

Eventually they got the story out of him in bits and pieces.  Zoey was aghast and horrified; Rowan just nodded grimly and made comforting noises.  He cried some more, and they wiped away his tears.

“Well obviously you’re sleeping here,” Rowan declared when he had regained some semblance of coherence.  “You can do your Preview Days things tomorrow, and then the day after we can check in with the dads and put you on your bus.  Okay?  So the weekend proceeds onwards.”

“Unless you want to go home now,” Zoey suggested gently.

Going home sounded really good, and Sammy was about to nod when Rowan said, “Or you can come with us tonight.”

“Rowan, she is in no condition to go to a frat party!”

His cousin only snorted at that.  “Hey Sammy, you wanna go get drunk for free?”

“God, yes,” he croaked.

“Alright then,” Rowan crowed, and consulted her bare wrist.  “We’ve got just enough time to get you ready.”  Leaping off the bed, she grabbed Sammy’s forearms and hauled him to his feet.  A moment later she draped a towel around his neck and pushed a mesh toiletries bag into his hand. “Shower’s down the hall.”

“Oh fuck,” Sammy thought and then realized he also said out loud.  “I can’t just—”

But Zoey waved a hand.  “The first bathroom is a gender-neutral single-stall setup, you don’t have to share space.  But you really do need a shower, honey.”  Almost apologetically, she added, “And a shave.”

Rowan nodded.  “Yeah.  You’ve got dark hair, boo, so you’ve really got to shave, like, every day.  Maybe even twice a day.  It suuucks.”  She gestured into the toiletries bag.  “I popped my razor in there, which is gonna be unweildy cause it’s for legs, but it’ll do the trick.”

The cogwheels in Sammy’s brain struggled to turn over.  “You don’t… need to shave?  Like, your face?”

“Not anymore,” his cousin replied with a perky smile.  “My last electrolysis session was, like, a whole year ago.  You get to have laser, though, which is kind of lucky even if you have shaving hell up until then.”  Her hands on his shoulders, she steered him towards the door.

“I don’t understand—”

“It’s okay, it’s a thing for later,” she cut him off.  “Listen, we don’t have a lot of time, so go shower, you’ll feel better.  Oh!”  She waved at a line of hooks by the door.  “Grab a room key.  Always take a room key to the shower, you don’t want to get locked out.  Take mine.”  She unhooked a keyring and dropped it into the toiletries bag.  “Rowan’s keyring is confusing because she has two dorm room keys.”

“…why?”

“You’re not supposed to share or copy your dorm keys, but she and Aggie are insatiable horndogs and sometimes she has to go upstairs and service her girlfriend in the middle of the night.”  Rowan smiled.  “Aggie’s roomate loves it when that happens.”

“I can’t help it if Agatha is loud and I’m skilled,” Zoey said, not the least bit apologetic.  “Samantha, we’ll put together an outfit for when you get back.”

“Um, thanks,” Sammy mumbled, and turned down the hallway towards the showers.

As described, there were two bathrooms, and the first one was… almost single-use.  Half of the room was one big stall for shower and bath.  There were, though, two toilets, so not really single-use.  But there was also a lock on the door, which Sammy employed to give himself a little privacy.

He dropped Rowan’s toiletries bag into a convenient sink and exhaled.  “The fuck am I doing,” he asked his reflection.  “I think that’s becoming my fucking mantra.”

But they were pressed for time and the siren call of a free alcoholic stupor still sang in his ears, so he stripped.  Clothes went into a pile on the relatively clean floor.  Fake boobs went jiggling into another sink.

He scowled into the mirror.  He was very stubbly; unsurprising, since he hadn’t shaved for more than a day.  Between his five o’clock shadow and his wipe-scrubbed face, he looked like he always did at home: disappointing.

He pulled out Rowan’s shaving supplies and got to work, trying and failing to not think about how it was to grow up in a house where your mom was angelically beautiful and your dad was ridiculously debonair and you were just some squat, dusky gremlin who shared none of their DNA.

He desperately wanted to rush shaving so he could stop looking at himself, but he also wondered if he’d have got the same reception from his student host if he’d been clean-shaven.  He forced himself to make sure every speck of facial hair was gone, scraping his skin raw in a few places doing so.  Luckily Rowan had some aftershave moisturizer, which he applied liberally.

The shower was spacious and the water was hot, and he probably spent too long under the spray.  But the drubbing the stream delivered on his skin was too good to pass up and he stood there, thinking about absolutely nothing, for a blissful few minutes.

And then it was time to get out and jump back into this farce that was somehow his life right now.

Blouse on but bra and fake boobs still in the sink, he squinted at his reflection.  He looked ridiculous.  He hung the towel around his neck, ends covering his lack of a bustline.  He could walk down the hallway like this, right?  Fuck it, he’d also just throw on the skirt and skip the annoyingly lacey underwear.

He was halfway down the empty hallway, thinking that yeah, he was going to get away with this after all, when the elevator up ahead dinged.  His stomach dropped all the way to the ground floor.  Who was going to saunter out?  His student host?  Suit jacket?  Some other cooler, more put-together college kid who’d see right through him and sneer?

But no, it was some old lady who shuffled out, purse clutched in her hands, looking bewildered.  Somehow the universe had found somebody even worse for him to—through some obnoxiously implausible series of events—end up exposing himself in front of.  Or something even worse.

The little old lady saw him and waved, taking little arthritic steps towards him.  “Excuse me, I’m looking for room 1514.  Can you help me?”

“Uh,” Sammy stammered, glanced left, and saw that he was actually standing next to 1514.  He pointed mutely.

“Oh, thank you,” the lady said, eyes crinkling happily.  “I’m visiting my granddaughter.  This place is so big!”

He gave her a shaky smile and proceeded on his way.  Behind him he heard a knock on the door and then an excited “Grandma!  You made it!”

Just as he reached Rowan and Zoey’s door, he could hear the little old lady say, “That nice young lady there was kind enough to point me in the right direction.  Do you know her?”

Sammy flushed beet red and pushed his way into his cousin’s room.  Sure, he was wearing a skirt, but there was no way he looked like a nice young lady.  No makeup, no boobs, shower-mussed hair.  He cast about for the girls’ full-length mirror and looked.

Okay, no.  He was definitely a guy in a skirt.  Even if it cinched his waistline and flared around his hips, he was most definitely a guy.  That grandma’s vision must be going.

This blouse looked so stupid without boobs to hold it up and out, though.  He had to get out of it.  Like, now.

“Sammy?” Rowan called from the inner room.  “Everything okay?”

He doffed the towel and then the blouse as he went in to join them.  “Yeah, somebody just needed directions.  Did I take too long in the shower?”

“Not at all,” Zoey assured him.  “Besides, you looked like you kind of needed it.”

“And it’s just a frat party,” his cousin put in.  “We don’t have to be on time.  We’re just going for their booze, anyway.  But first—” She reached forward and grabbed Sammy’s wrist, pulling him towards an outfit laid out on the bed.  “Zoey had a few things that are too small for her, and I had a couple things that are too big for me, so we put them together and voila!”

“That’s very… sparkly.”

“Sequins,” his cousin supplied helpfully.  She lifted up the crop top, which sent reflections of the room lights skittering everywhere.  “I couldn’t resist when I saw it in the store, but it never fit right on me.”  She laid it across Sammy’s bare chest.  “But I think it’ll be perfect on you.”

“These were my favourite jeans,” Zoey told him, patting them lovingly.  “Until the freshman fifteen hit me, and then sophomore thirty sealed the deal.”

“Shut up,” Rowan remonstrated, “you know you look fine as hell.  Curves suit you.  And what’s more, they please Aggie.”

Zoey flushed at that comment and then cleared her throat.  “Anyway.  They’ll probably fit you well enough.  And Rowan said you’ve got giant boat feet like me—”

“No more body-shaming, honey,” Rowan put in warningly.

“You try buying cute shoes in women’s eleven,” Zoey groused back, and then held up a pair of rather plain-looking women’s sneakers.

Sammy took them, confused.  “These are cute shoes?”

“Oh god no,” Rowan shook her head.  “No cute shoes at frat parties.  There’s spillage.”

“On a good night, it’s just spillage.” Zoey nodded at the shoes in Sammy’s hand.  “Those can get whatever on them and nobody will get upset.”

Nodding, Sammy looked uncertainly towards the door.  “Should I change out there, or…?”

“No, we’ll bounce out to the sitting room,” Rowan said, putting a faux-classy accent on the last words.  “But once you’re dressed I’ll do your hair, okay?  I have an idea.”

And then there was nothing left to do but fish out of the toiletries bag the underwear he hadn’t worn in the hallway, pull them on and then the rest of the outfit.  The jeans were snug up against his body, so snug he had to reach in and shuffle his junk around so he wasn’t uncomfortable.  The crop top left a wide band of his belly exposed, which made him all kinds of nervous.

He tried going out to the “sitting room” to look at his reflection, but Rowan pushed him back into the bedroom.  She sat him down on the bed and got to work on hair and makeup.  “We’re going a little heavy and a little sloppy,” she narrated, “because we are honestly just a bit rushed and also it’s just a frat party.”  She yanked his hair up on top of his head and secured it with something tight in two places, then sat back on her haunches with a triumphant grin.  “Yeah, I’m a genius.  One more slight adjustment, though.”

She went rooting around in a drawer and came up with an odd little plastic circle with two interior prongs.  When he asked what it was, she only shook her head and told him to turn around.  When he did, she reached up under the back of his shirt and did something with his bra straps.  Suddenly his fake boobs bounced up higher beneath the crop top.  She turned him around, ogled his tits, and patted them lovingly. “There we go.”

Taking him by the hand, Rowan led him back out to the sitting room.  Zoey looked up from her book, pointed at him enthusiastically, and shouted,  “Fuck yes!”  And then he was positioned in front of the mirror.

“Pigtails?  Really?” said his mouth before he had a chance to stop it.  Because his cousin had indeed put his hair up in punky pigtails and done his makeup a few degrees of magnitude beyond “a little heavy.”  His eyes were rimmed with dark eyeshadow.  His lips were a bright red pucker.  And his fake boobs were lifted so perkily high that his exposed belly somehow looked flat by comparison.  The jeans clung to him like a second skin.  He turned sideways.  “How do I have a butt?”

“Pretty sure you’ve always had a butt.”

“Yes, but not this much butt!”  For the second time in two days, he didn’t recognize himself.  He looked… he looked good.

“They were my favourite jeans for a reason,” Zoey grinned.  He belatedly realized that at some point she’d changed her clothes (a top that was only slightly more shimmery sequins than cleavage, hip-hugging jeans, forgettable shoes) and done her makeup (far less than he was wearing).  “And here.  Your fracket.”  She held out a dark blue cardigan for him to slip his arms into.

“Fracket?”

“Frat jacket,” Zoey explained.  “Like the sneakers, it’s semi-disposable.  Gets lost, gets puked on, no big deal.  But it’s nippy out there, and we don’t want to be walking home without something.”

“The booze will keep us warm,” Rowan muttered defiantly.  She was digging around in his backpack, pulling out his phone and his wallet.  From his wallet, she pulled out his driver’s license.  Phone and driver’s license she handed over to him and tossed the rest into a comfy-looking reading chair.  “Obviously you don’t show anybody your ID if you can help it,” she advised.  “But you should have something on you for emergencies.”

He took them both and slid them into pockets only to be scolded.  “Not the fracket pockets,” Zoey advised.  “Might get lost, remember?  Don’t want to lose your phone and ID, too.”  He slid both into the jeans pockets.  It was a tight fit.

“One last thing,” Rowan said, opening her pill box and offering it to Sammy.  He took one and so did she, holding it under their tongues.

Sammy looked to Zoey, who only lifted an eyebrow at Rowan.  “You sure you should be sharing those with her?”

His cousin snapped the lid closed.  “Positive.”  She tossed the pill box into the bedroom, presumably onto her bed, and linked arms with Sammy.  “Okay.  Let’s go get drunk!”

They went out into the hall, called an elevator, and complemented each other on their looks for the night (he could, apparenty, just do that now).  Rowan made a slight adjustment to Sammy’s right pigtail.  An hour ago, Sammy just wanted to drown his sorrows in free beer, but he had to admit he was now getting a little excited.  Going out with Rowan seemed to have that effect on him.

“Should we review the girl rules?” Zoey said as they came out of the dorm.  While phrased as a question it was undoubtedly a demand.

“Yes, let’s,” Rowan agreed, and linked arms with Sammy.

“Girl rules?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

Zoey linked arms on his other side.  “Safety rules, because you’re now walking around looking like the girl you are, so the world is going to treat you like a girl, and the world treats girls like shit, and the only people who are going to have your back are other girls.”

“Rule number one,” Rowan all but shouted into the night, “Do not leave your drink unattended, do not accept a drink you did not see poured or is in a sealed can that you yourself opened.”  Seeing Sammy’s look of confusion, she explained, “Roofies are a real thing.  They are not fun.”

“Rule number two,” Zoey went on, with slightly less enthusiasm than her roommate.  “We arrive together, we leave together.  If any of us wants to leave, we all leave.  Immediately.  We will not get mad over it.”  She nodded to Sammy.  “If you need a code phrase, tell us that Jessica called and needs help.  And we will all pick up and leave then and there, okay?”

He nodded obediently.

“Rule number three, stay in the public area with the rest of the girls,” Rowan intoned.  “Do not go upstairs to see their bedroom.  Trust me, you don’t want to see it.  Do not go out back if there’s nobody else out there.  Do not step into a bathroom with anyone you don’t know.”

“Rule number four, when it’s crowded, we link arms,” Zoey said, tugging a little on Sammy’s arm to demonstrate.  “If we ever lose somebody into a crowd, we find them.  We do not shrug and move on.”

Sammy’s nodding was getting a little numb.

“Rule number five, always charge up your phone ahead of time,” said Rowan, and touched the side of her head to Sammy’s shoulder.  “I already checked yours, you’re at 88%.”

When that seemed to be the last one, Sammy stammered, “Guys is this… is this safe?”

“Of course not, it’s a frat party,” Zoey said with a shrug.

“But that’s what makes them fun,” Rowan insisted.  “It’s like… skydiving or white water rapids.  Just perform the proper safety procedures and you’ll be fine.”

“Probably.”

Rowan shot a look at Zoey, and then rolled her eyes.  “Okay, let’s make this super safe, okay?  Let’s just make this a girls night out, yeah?”

“Is that… a different set of rules?” Sammy asked hesitantly.

“Same rules, different intent,” Rowan pressed.  “We’re going to this thing to drink their alcohol, hang out with each other, dance with each other, find a corner and gab at each other.  We’re not going to try and pick up anybody.”

Zoey looked dubiously at her roommate, then winked at Sammy with a “watch this” expression.  Then she said, “But if you do pull…”

“Well, if you pull, then by all means—” Rowan started, and then shot exasperated daggers at Zoey.  “Okay, fine.  It’s purely catch-and-release tonight.  If you pull, you can toy with them a little, and then let them go.  It’s Girls’ Night,” she repeated with a determined nod.

It was a short walk down one block and up another, and no question where the frat party was at.  The bass could be heard from the corner; the spill of flashing lights strobing out the windows was visible from four doors down.  The miasma of hops, yeast, sweat, and parmesan hit them as they went up the front steps, arms still interlinked.

Zoey looked sidelong at the other two.  “Are you ready for this, Samantha?”

He nodded uncertainly.  “I’ll be ready as soon as I’m tipsy,” he promised.

“Well let’s get on that!” Rowan grinned and pulled them inside.

The brownstone was not large, and the venerable institution was old enough that the rooms weren’t, either, but they were packed wall-to-wall with people.  Thumping music suffused the building, muffled so that little things like lyrics or harmonies could not be discerned.  Most of the party-goers here just kind of bounced gently to the beat, heads dipping in time as they chatted.  Rowan waved her free hand in the air as she waded into the crowd.

The dining room was the bar for the night, the table set with tubs of canned drinks on ice and an impressive array of bottles.  A pair of kegs stood in the corner.  The girls, plus Sammy, helped themselves to cans.

That seemed simpler and safer, which was not what he’d envisioned as the train of thought he’d entertain at his first frat party.

The dining room was less crowded and quiet enough that Rowan could shout and be understood: “Let’s make a circuit of the ground floor, see what’s what, and decide what do to from there, yeah?”

And so they did, winding their way through the six rooms full of people.  Rowan and Zoey waved at those they knew, but the trio pressed on.

Sammy had beer spilled onto his borrowed shoes for the first time in the second room.

The room with the music system was by far the loudest and most raucous, with a great mass of people bouncing to the beat and a thin crust of onlookers plastered to the wall.  Hands clasped, they bounced their way across the dance floor.

Other rooms, by dint of placement away from the speakers and the insulation of century-old construction, were a little quieter, at least in terms of music.  One room was full of shouting.

Sammy boggled at what was happening across the tables.  “Is that really…?”

Rowan nodded, sighing.  “Yup.  Beer pong.”  She leaned closer to speak into his ear: “The thing you have to understand about frat parties is that they’re like a year-long competition for which frat can throw the most stereotypical party possible.”  She pretended to check her watch.  “The keg stands will start in, like, ninety minutes or so.  Clockwork.”

They completed their circuit in the dining room, just in time to help themselves to a second drink.  Zoey declared that this was her last for the evening; she wanted to keep a clear head, if only for the sake of the other two.  After a brief conference, they resolved to head to one of the quieter rooms where the two girls had seen some friends.

Their friends had claimed a couch and there was (tight) seating available, so they all settled in and piled on top of each other.  Rowan and Zoey introduced their friends by name, which Sammy repeated with a nod to try and remember them better.  It didn’t work.  He let their conversation wash over him—classes, spring break plans, and gossip about people he didn’t know—and nursed his drink.

He and Rowan and then he and Zoey returned to the dining room to resupply, and then Rowan dragged them both into the blaring music room so they could dance.  By that point Sammy was agreeable to nearly anything, and he bounced and flailed along to the beat.  The press of bodies was tight—much tighter than the club—and he honestly couldn’t be sure if anybody was dancing with the girls or with him.  It was more like everybody was dancing with each other, and it was kind of soothing to just be a part of a big, twitching mass of humanity.

He danced until his brain finally turned off, and then he danced some more.  The bass was his heartbeat; his limbs were tendrils waving in the wind.  He was nothing, he was everyone, he was here at the party, he was a thousand miles away.

Sammy found himself standing over the nearly-depleted tub of canned cocktails, uncertain if he really wanted to bother with another fruit fusion whatever, or if he was done for the night.  He’d been out super late the night before, it had been an emotionally trying day, and he had danced all of his remaining energy reserves away.  He couldn’t remember what was on the schedule for tomorrow but he should probably be awake for it.

He turned to find the girls—he hadn’t wandered off, they were in the same room, just over by the kegs—and stopped in his tracks.  At the end of the long table, mixing himself a drink in a red solo cup, was his erstwhile student host.

He was right between Sammy and the girls.

Sammy tried to catch his cousin’s attention, but she was deep in discusson with her roommate about something.  He couldn’t go the other way around the table, which had been pushed up against stacks of chairs.

As he turned his head, one of his pigtails tweaked his hair.  Ah, that’s right.  He was still pigtail punk girl, wasn’t he?  If he didn’t recognize himself, this asshole wouldn’t recognize him from their thirty-second interaction earlier.  He could just walk right past him.

Sammy took a deep breath, wondered if he would be this confident in his plan if he hadn’t lost count of how many drinks he’d already had, and started moving.

At first, the guy’s attention was entirely on his drink, and for a moment Sammy thought he’d slip by without even getting noticed.  But then he looked up, and Sammy realized he’d been looking directly at the asshole’s face, so their eyes locked.

The asshole smiled.

The jerk’s hand shot out to encircle Sammy’s waist.  “Hey, beautiful,” he said merrily.  “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

“The fuck?” Sammy spat back, but he was getting reeled in, physically pulled closer.  For half a second he wondered if it were true: if this guy had been looking for him, if he’d reflected on his actions, if he wanted to apologize.  But that was nonsense.  Sammy stuck with his plan of being a completely different girl.  “You don’t know me.”

“But I’d like to,” he rejoined drunkenly.

Sammy shoved his way out of the jerk’s embrace and ended up staggering backwards.  The asshole reeled against the table, grinning despite everything.

That was when Zoey and Rowan rushed up beside him, interlinking arms, and pulled him out into the next room.  “Ugh, frat boys,” Zoey sympathized.  “You okay, Samantha?”

He took a shaky breath and nodded.  They’d ended up in the beer pong room, but the game was over and now it was comparatively empty and quiet.  “He’s not a frat boy, though.  He lives in your dorm.”

“How do you know that?”

He gave her a wan smile.  Yeah, he was definitely still a little drunk.  “He was supposed to be my student host for the weekend.”

“That’s the fucker?” Rowan growled, looking daggers through the doorway arch.

“You wanna go home?” Zoey asked immediately.

Before he could answer, his cousin spat, “No.  I have a better idea.”

Rowan stalked through the frat party like a hunter, circling around to a different entrance into the dining room, then following her quarry through two more rooms.  Sammy and Zoey trailed after her uncertainly. Finally her prey settled into a circle of couches and was laughing along with a bunch of other men, most of them shirtless.

Rowan nodded.  “That’s what I thought.”  She didn’t look away from him when she asked Sammy,  “What’s his name?”

“Uh, Scott?”

She nodded, still watching him.  “Okay, Sammy, we have a choice.  You have a choice.  If you want to go home, we’ll go home.  But if you don’t want to go home right now… I’m gonna go fuck up this asshole’s entire fucking life.”

“You’re not going to, like, hit him?” he gulped.

Now Rowan turned to him.  Her smile filled his veins with icewater.  “Oh no.  Much worse.”  She waited a beat longer, and without any call to refrain from Sammy, made her approach.

She strutted into the room with a wiggle to her hips that Sammy swore everyone would think was hilariously exaggerated.  But the guys on the couch only looked on approvingly, especially as she asked if she could sit down among them.

Sammy and Zoey followed in her wake, much further behind.  “Should I be as scared as I am right now?” he asked her.

“You know the quickest route to the door, right?” was her only answer, her attention focused on her roommate.

“My cousin Samantha is here for Preview Days,” Rowan was saying, her voice pitched at least an octave higher and disturbingly kittenish.  “Do you guys remember your Preview Days?  Did you come?”

There were scattered nods all around, including Scott, and she leaned across the space to place her hand on his knee.  His eyes, and the eyes of the guys on either side of him, widened.  Sammy was positive they could see right down her top.

She patted his knee.  “You remember our Preview Days, don’t you, Scott?”  A flicker of doubt passed over his features, but she didn’t let him answer.  “We were at this very frat.  You told me how this was the best fraternity in the country and how you were going to pledge here, and now you have, huh?”

He forced a laugh.  “Well, uh, not yet.  That’s up to these guys.”

“Guyyys,” she pouted, somehow, at all of them at the same time.  “You’ve got to let Scott pledge.  This place is his dream.  You wanted to pledge even back then, that’s why you came to their party.  Not me, though.”  She flashed a wicked smile at them all.  “I just came to get drunk and laid.”  

The frat boys laughed, well-lubricated with cheap beer and excited at where this was going.

Rowan locked eyes with Scott.  “And you did… such a good job helping me out with that.  Got me drunk and laid just like I wanted.  See, boys?  He’s helpful.  You need a helpful kind of guy in your frat, right?”

Sammy could see the calculation on Scott’s face, his glance at the other men to gauge their reaction, his estimation of how many points he’d earn with them if he’d bagged this girl, in this frat house, before he was even a freshman.

He spread his hands.  “I did what I could,” he laughs along with them.

“We stumbled up into somebody’s bedroom upstairs.  Who’s got number fifteen?  Oh, you?  Well it wasn’t yours then, but we made good use of it, you know what I’m saying?”  She grinned salaciously at Scott, lost in false nostalgia.  “We made out on the bed, and we got naked, and that’s when you sucked my dick.”

The circle of men howled in surprise.  Scott’s face fell.

“I still had my dick back then,” Rowan explained to the hooting frat boys.  “I only had The Surgery right before my freshman year.  But that night—wow.  It was, like, the best possible last hurrah for the little guy.”

Scott sat up in his seat, trying to laugh it off like it was a joke.  Rowan went in for the kill.

“And he went at it,” she told her audience, voice all awed.  “You know what I’m saying?  He had technique.”  She gestured with a hand, flat and splayed, to the men on her right.  “Obviously not his first cock.  He played me like…”  She smiled, rapturously, to the men on her left.  “…like I was a flute and he was motherfucking Lizzo.  You know?  It was a performance.”

The poor asshole squirmed in his seat, trying to deny everything. He couldn’t seem to find his voice.

Rowan leaned forward to pat his knee again.  “I’m just saying: your oral skills might be why I chose to go to Columbia.  So be proud, Scott.”  She stood up.  “I just wanted to thank you before I headed out.  It’s past my bedtime.  Night night, boys.”

The frat boys wished her good night as she pranced away towards the coat room, half their eyes glued to her ass.  The other half of the men stared at Scott, appraising and re-appraising.

Sammy and Zoey darted after Rowan, who bolted as soon as she turned the corner.  The three of them frantically dug through the massive pile of coats and scooted outside as fast as they could without looking like they were in a rush.

“Holy shit, what was that?” Sammy laughed as they pelted up the night-dark street.  Or at least what passed for “night-dark” in the City.

Only when they had most of the block behind them did Rowan and Zoey slow down, gasping and giggling.  They crashed into each other, crashed into Sammy, and the tangle of the three of them staggered up to the corner.

“I don’t think they’re going to ask him to pledge,” Rowan giggled.  “Ever.  There or anywhere else.  He’s gonna be tomorrow’s main character around campus.”

“You too,” Zoey panted beside her, gently reproachful.

Rowan snorted.  “I’ve been the noisiest trans girl on campus for two years, I’m never news anymore.”  She turned and pointed a finger at Sammy.  “That’s the trick, see.  If you keep being outrageous, they stop paying attention to you.  That’s how it works.”

Zoey wearily looked to Sammy and shook her head.  “That’s not how it works.”

The light changed; they crossed the street in a handclasped line.  The largest buildings on campus rose on either side of them.

“Anyway, serves him right for being a transphobic asshole,” Rowan half-purred, half-growled.  She reached out and pulled Sammy back in so they staggered forward together, hugging.  “Made my Sammy cry, so I fucked him up good.”

He couldn’t help but giggle.  “I don’t think anybody’s ever nuked an asshole from orbit for me before.”  His giggle faded.  “Or stood up for me at all, really.”

“Of course I’d stand up for you, Sammy,” Rowan protested, squeezing him tighter.  “Not cause we’re family, we’re more than that.  We’ve got to stick together, whether that’s us girls, or us queers, or us transes, yeah?  I got you, boo.”

She nuzzled her cold nose into the crook of his neck, forcing him to squeal and giggle again.  When he stopped gasping, he leaned back into her.  “Thank you.”

“We stick together and we trust each other, yeah?” she whispered to him, suddenly serious.  Drunk serious.  “We’re always up front, we don’t hold back, we left all that shit behind with the gender they told us we had to be.”

Sammy opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come.

Without warning, Rowan lurched out to grab Zoey and pull her in, too.  “And all the shit we left behind along with the sexuality they told us we had to be.”

“Aw, I’m included in the drunken rambling,” cooed her roommmate.

“No, you see?” Rowan insisted, whisper shifting to entreaty.  “We’re free to be honest with each other like the cis and the straights never can be.  Because we had to say fuck you to everything they told us was true, just so we could be ourselves.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sammy sighed, happy to be squished up against her so she couldn’t see the his face.  Honest, up front, and not holding anything back… that did not really describe his relationship with his cousin, did it?

“Ro, honey,” Zoey croaked from her own headlock, “is it radical honesty if I say you have to let me go so I can unlock the door?”

“We were having a moment,” the noisiest trans girl on campus pouted, releasing them both.

“You were having a moment,” her roommate sniggered, then darted up the steps to unlock the front door and hold it open for the both of them.  As they passed by, though, she allowed, “But yeah.  I hear you.  I’ve had friends before—all with cishets, all from the closet in high school—and what we’ve got is… completely different.  Different in kind, not just in degree.”

“Oh, you used fancy words to say what I said,” Rowan squealed and slapped the elevator call button until it glowed.  “I love it when you do that.”

“You hate it when I do that.”

“Yes, but I love it, too, because I love you,” Rowan mooned drunkenly at her roommate, “because of our different-in-kind-and-not-just-degree relationship.”

As they rode the elevator up, Rowan rested her head on Sammy’s shoulder “just for a minute” and was very shortly snoring.  Working together, he and Zoey maneuvered her down the hall, into the dorm room, and into her bed.

“Love you guys,” she sighed as her body relaxed into the fluffy bedding.

“Love you too, honey,” Zoey murmured, and shared a smile with Sammy.

“Love you, too,” Sammy echoed, both the words and the smile.

“I’m actually going to shower before bed,” Zoey said, collecting her own toiletries bag and towel.  Suddenly Sammy realized that she had, in fact, stopped drinking hours ago, and was completely sober.  She flicked at her clothes.  “I don’t even know how much beer I got on me.”

“I just need some pajamas, I think,” he told her, and went looking for his bag in the sitting room.  She collected her key ring and closed the door to the hall behind her.

Sammy couldn’t help smiling at nothing in particular as he hauled the bag out from under the table it had been stowed behind.  He’d meant what he’d said: he’d never felt protected and backed up before, not in his whole life. But Rowan was ready and willing to do that for him.

All she wanted in return was honesty from him, so he obviously couldn’t tell her that he’d been lying to her all weekend.  He could come back in the fall, say he detransitioned, but he was still queer.  He rather liked kissing Vikram, and kissing Finley probably counted as queer in some way, too.  Being queer still qualified him for all that fierce love she was so willing to pour out for him, right?  Girls, queers, transes: one out of three wasn’t bad.

All he had to do was preserve this ridiculous white lie through the rest of the weekend.  Then he could fix everything and keep Rowan in his life.  He just had to make it through the weekend.

He threw open the bag, but there were no pajamas inside.  No skirts, no blouses, no lingerie.  There was only a tangled mess of balled-up fabric, all greys and blacks.  Hoodies, sweatshirts, briefs.  His clothes.  His clothes from home.

This was his bag.

Sammy slapped the bag closed and hissed into the empty sitting room, “Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-prequel to Being Christina Chase

A Good Old College Try

Sammy’s phone buzzed him awake at 8:30am.  He hadn’t been sure that he was going to fall asleep, but he had set the alarm just in case he caught a few hours.  Apparently he’d finally dozed off, but he was pretty sure he saw the sky light up with dawn before that happened.  Most of the night he’d spent rolled up in his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling, alternating between thinking and panicking.

If his bag—his actual bag, with his actual, boring clothes from home—was here in Rowan and Zoey’s room, then where was the bag that he’d been using?  The bag with all the girl clothes.

He’d checked that bag with the Preview Days people while he did the tour and the classroom visitation.  Otherwise he’d had a hand on the bag since he zipped it closed it in Rowan’s townhouse.  Or his uncle did; maybe his uncle let go on the subway and it got swapped then?  But that made less sense than Sammy’s more hopeful conclusion.

Because it seemed obvious that the girl had to be here at Preview Days.  She must have also checked a bag with the Preview Days table—only she’d checked his bag, of course.  And then when they’d picked up their bags to go meet their student hosts, they’d inadvertantly switched them back.

Which meant she was somewhere on campus, and so was her bag.

And Sammy needed that bag back.

Rowan loved him—as a cousin, the non-kissing variety—and supported him and defended him because she believed that he was trans and queer and a girl, and because of all that, she believed he had been open and forthright with her.  They had a bond of radical honesty, and that bond was predicated on a lie.  To preserve the bond, he had to preserve the lie.

He could not just throw on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie for the last Preview Day.  He couldn’t just say, “oh, right, these are my actual clothes, I’ve been wearing somebody else’s clothes this whole time, and also I’m not actually trans or a girl, and also I’ve been lying to you.”

So he had to get the bag back.

If the girl whose clothes he’d been wearing was here at Preview Days, then she had, just like Sammy had, a paper coupon for breakfast at the dining commons.  That opened at 9:30 (if he went here, some distracted corner of his brain mused, he could get used to breakfast at 9:30 instead of 6:30 like at home).

He could wear the same outfit as the night before—the outfit he’d slept in for lack of pajamas—but like a fool, like a blithering fucking idiot, he’d scrubbed his face and put on some damn face lotion.  Zoey had insisted.  So now he had an hour to borrow some of Rowan’s makeup, replicate the steps he’d half-seen her do to him, and then hightail it across campus to see if he could spot the girl.

And then he would, like a fucking creeper, follow her back to her dorm room and then… somehow he’d get her bag back, and then everything would be okay.

Makeup was harder than he’d ever imagined.

There were so many steps and so many products and it seemed like more than half the time the products weren’t even labeled, so how was he supposed to tell an eyeliner from a lip liner or a blush from a bronzer from a contouring highlighter?

About half of Rowan’s makeup was in one organizer with tiered shelves, so he carefully and quietly lifted it out from the rest of the detritus that covered her vanity and crept out to the sitting room.  Then he sat on the floor in front of the full-length mirror, makeup scattered all around him, and watched YouTube videos for makeup tips.

Pressed for time, he always picked the videos with the shortest run time.  He didn’t need nuance, he just needed the basics.

Even the basics were complicated.

There was so much blending involved!

He tried to do foundation twice before he realized he was an idiot.  Rowan’s skin wasn’t anything like his, nothing she had matched his skin tone, and consequently she hadn’t ever put foundation on him.  Fifteen minutes burned on nothing.

So he wracked his brain trying to remember what she had in fact done: something with his eyebrows and a very weird-looking stick, some eyeshadow, some eyeliner, some mascara, and those bright red lips she liked putting on him.

He found the weird-looking stick.  He found brow powder.  He watched a video, replicated the steps, and wow did he put on too much.  It was like somebody had used those extra thick sharpies with the wedge tips to define the tops of his eyesockets.  But luckily you could use the weirder end of the stick to scrub most of that off, and he did so until it looked moderately natural.  Right.  Eyebrows done.

The video tutorials for eyeshadow really wanted him to use, like, four different colours that were all perfectly selected to complement each other, and he just didn’t have time to parse all that out.  He picked one sparkly green and dusted the outsides of his eyelids.  He blended, blended, blended, until he wasn’t even sure there was any product left on him, but it also didn’t look like he’d lost a fight with a children’s paint set.

Next up: eyeliner.  On this one he was saved by remembering the idle advice of his cousin as she’d worked on him: liquid eyeliner looked great but was very fiddly, and he’d be best served by using a eyeliner crayon.  He found one of those, pulled his eyelid tight, and lined his eyelid.  First time perfect!  Was luck actually on his side?  But then the second eye didn’t go so well, and he looked lopsided.  He tried to use the corner of a remover wipe to clean that up, but all he ended up doing was erasing a swath of eyeshadow in the process.

Grumbling under his breath, he scrubbed off that eye completely, redid the eyeshadow, blended until his wrist was sore, and then applied eyeliner.  The result was not good, but he didn’t care.  It was passable, and that was all he was after.

Mascara was, somehow, easy—blink into the brush, the tutorial said—although there were little clumps that he decided weren’t too much of an issue.  It was enough, and the longer black lashes completed the look of his eyes.  He recognized those eyes.  They looked right.

He lost a precious minute or two forcing himself not to think about how his made-up eyes looked right and his make-up-less eyes did not.  Lipstick.  Do lipstick.

Lip liner and lip stick were another “two different colours that complement each other” quagmire, and besides he was running out of time.  He grabbed the brightest red he could find, but paused before applying it.  What if he tried something else?  Something a little less screaming bright red, maybe something darker…

He rooted around in Rowan’s supplies (there were a lot of lipsticks) and finally selected one.  He ran it over his lips, careful around his cupid’s bow as directed by a tutorial video.  Then he sat back, looked in the mirror, and smiled.  Yeah.  That did look better.

And he was out of time.

Sammy scooped Rowan’s supplies onto the little organizer, crept back into the bedroom, and deposited it where he’d found it.  He texted both Rowan and Zoey that he was heading out for breakfast and he’d see them later in the day.

He took one last look at his reflection before leaving the dorm room.  His makeup was not, by any stretch of the imagination, good.  He could see a dozen places where his hand was unsteady, where the edge of lipstick or eyeliner wobbled, or where—somehow—he hadn’t blended enough.  But the look as a whole came together if sloppily; it clearly communicated ‘feminine,’ and that matched his clothes.  He wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

He grabbed his borrowed fracket and slipped out the door.

Sammy hurried acoss campus.  He didn’t think getting there ten minutes after the dining commons opened for breakfast would realistically risk missing the girl, but he didn’t want to take any chances.  The half-asleep check-in clerk accepted his paper coupon with a nod and then he hustled into the large and mostly empty room.

It was a simple matter to scan the room and see she wasn’t there—no Black girls at all among the twenty or so students who got here before Sammy.  And then his stomach rumbled, and he figured: he was here anyway, and it might be a while until she showed, so he might as well eat.

Plate piled high with pancakes, sausages, home fries, and bacon, Sammy found a high table where he could watch the stream of people come in to eat breakfast.  He could just perch here, eat tasty food, and keep an eye out.

He was halfway through his plate, having scanned maybe a hundred students shuffling past in all their morning glory, when his plan went exactly sideways.

A loaded tray hit his table and the hoodie kid from the day before sat down opposite Sammy.  Directly across from Sammy, right in the way of his watchful gaze.  “Uh, hey,” the guy mumbled.

Sammy squint-glared at—or rather, through—the guy, but didn’t want to say anything.  It seemed rude to tell him to fuck off, and besides, they’d sat together the day before, it was natural to sit together today, right?  For a moment he thought about suggesting the guy move to the next seat over, next to Sammy and out of his precious line of sight, but his stomach dropped through the floor at the thought that the suggestion might be mistaken for flirting.  

He shuffled his own stool to the right, which almost but didn’t really fix his view, and replied, “Hey.”

Hoodie buttered his belgian waffles—there was a whole row of waffle machines, but Sammy hadn’t wanted to split his attention between cooking a tasty breakfast pastry to completion and keeping an eye out—and they ate in silence for a while.  Finally, hoodie asked, “So did you do a class yesterday?”

“Uh,” Sammy responded, mostly looking past him to the flow of breakfasters.  “Me and Cindy went to, uh, Intro to Anatomy.  Mostly to introduce her to my uncle who was teaching it.”

Hoodie nodded.  “That’s cool.”  He was quiet for a few beats, not even eating.  “I, uh, went to an Algorithms class.  It was cool.”

“Mm,” his unwilling tablemate responded limply, and then felt bad about it.  “That’s your thing, yeah?  Computers and tech and stuff?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he answered.  “It’s not like I could get into, like, football or cars or whatever typical guy stuff.”

Sammy shrugged.  “I could never get into that stuff, either,” he answered without thinking.  “Always seemed, you know, kind of silly.  Strutting around and, uh, posturing about bullshit that doesn’t matter, you know?”

“Yeah,” the other kid nodded.  “I mean, there’s a ton of that in video games, too, but.  It’s not in person, so it’s easier to ignore, you know?”

“Just words on a screen,” Sammy nodded absently, which was quoting somebody but he didn’t remember who. (Later, he’d remember that it had been a vice principal at a school assembly, dismissing a spate of online bullying as beneath everyone’s notice and trusting that, if properly ignored, the haters would just fade away.  The whole school had quoted him, in all sorts of contexts, for the rest of the year.)

“Yeah,” hoodie agreed, thought for a long moment, and then offered, “Sometimes when I’m in chat, I say I’m a girl, so I don’t have to do any of that stuff.  Nobody expects any of it, and I can just, you know, be me.  Not some big masculine caricature.”

Sammy craned his neck to the side.  There was a tall Black girl coming down the aisle… but it wasn’t her.  “Yeah, I used to do that, too,” he answered, distractedly.

Hoodie smirked.  “Yeah?  You mean, like, before you, uh, transitioned?”

Fuck.  He hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation.  “Uh.  Yeah,” he scrambled.  “I guess I wasn’t so much pretending to be a girl, as… you know, just being me.  Girl me.”  But that contradicted his purported status as an Always Knew Tran, and he couldn’t remember if he’d talked about that at lunch yesterday or later in the bathroom.  “I mean, I always knew I was a girl.  But, uh.  Nobody believed me except… except in chat.”

Hoodie nodded and was quiet for a long while.  “But you always knew?” he finally asked.  “That you were a girl?”

Sammy nodded.  He could not keep up this conversation and also scan all the students filtering into the dining hall.  There also seemed to be a sudden flood of them, as if everybody had agreed that 10:15 was the right time to show up at the dining commons.  “Yeah.  I always knew.  But that’s, uh, apparently super rare.”

“Really?” hoodie perked up.

Sammy looked past him.  “Yeah, my cousin—she’s trans, uh, as well—she figured herself out in high school.  And my uncle transitioned a lot later in life.  He had a kid, like… grown in his belly and everything.  Although I’m not a hundred percent sure on that timeline, to be honest.  Anyway, I’m pretty sure he was an adult.”

“That’s, um, that’s really interesting,” said hoodie, staring down at the puddles of syrup left on his plate.  He was quiet for a while, and then asked,“I mean, I know you didn’t have that sort of revelation yourself, but do you think—”

Then there she was: the same tall Black girl he’d shared the bus with from Dover, still strikingly pretty, striding down the entry aisle.  She was wearing a Columbia-branded sweater and what looked like the same jeans she’d been wearing on the bus.  No makeup, which Sammy was surprised to notice.  Had he ever noticed anybody’s makeup before?

Given what she was wearing, perhaps she hadn’t even opened her bag once she recovered it.  Maybe she didn’t even know they’d switched back.

The girl was talking animatedly with her companion, who Sammy was surprised to recognize: Agatha!  She even gave him a short little smile of recognition as the two of them passed his table.

He watched as the two Black girls filed into the breakfast buffet.  Agatha gestured around, talking; the girl nodded.  Yep.  Aggie was showing her around.  Which meant she was probably the girl’s student-host.

Which meant—

“I’ve got to go,” he said to hoodie, and piled all his breakfast detritus onto his tray.  The other kid had been saying something, but Sammy had no idea what.  “Uh.  See you next year, maybe?”

Hoodie nodded, a little confused at the sudden departure.  “Um.  Yeah, sure.  It was nice talking to you, uh, Samantha.”

Sammy barely heard him and didn’t have the bandwidth to respond.  He hurried out the door by way of the dish return, then bolted across campus, back to the dorm.  He hopped from foot to foot waiting for the elevator, and then booked it down the hall to Zoey and Rowan’s door.  He turned the knob and—

It was locked.

Wincing, he tapped on the door, hoping that he’d get a sleepy-eyed Rowan or Zoey, that he could apologize for leaving without a door key and having to wake them up, and let them fall back into bed.

But instead he got Rowan, bright-eyed and smiling.  “Told you not to leave without a key.”  Then she gasped.  “Oh my god, you did your own makeup!”

Sammy let himself be pulled inside and examined up close.  Rowan kept squealing.  “I mean, obviously there’s some tips I could give you, Sammy, but for a first time?  This is so good!” she enthused.

He smiled distantly and thanked her, apologizing for borrowing her supplies without asking, but couldn’t help looking past her.  There on the hook by the door: two keyrings, one of them with two identical-looking dorm keys.  Zoey’s key to Agatha’s room.

Sammy had to get Zoey’s keys plus his own roller bag and leave the dorm room—without Rowan asking what he was doing.

“I was actually hoping to… grab a shower,” he stammered, bending over to extend the handle of his suitcase.  “Think I’ll change in there.”

“And wash off all this good work?” she gasped playfully, pinching his chin as she waggled his painted face back and forth.

She had a point; a shower didn’t make much sense.  But maybe he could turn it into something she’d want to happen.  “Uh.  Maybe you could, like, watch me do it a second time, and give me those pointers?” he suggested, hoping she’d take the bait.

She beamed at him like a thousand suns.  “Oh, I’d love that!  I’m in the middle of a paper, but I could use a study break in, like, twenty.”

“Okay great, back in a bit,” he gushed, grabbing Zoey’s keys and pushing for the door.

Rowan called him back—shit, had he been caught?—but she only wanted to drape a towel over his shoulders and give him her toiletries bag. She also reminded him that he’d have to shave.  He let the door close behind him and heaved a sigh of relief.  Then he bolted back up the hall to the elevator.

Rowan had said that Agatha’s room was upstairs, and there were only two floors above 15.  He pushed the button for 16 and then stalked up and down that hallway, examining the decorated doors.  Not every door was festooned with craft supplies, but decorated doors typically had girl’s names prominently displayed and—there.  Aggie.

With a glance up and down the hallway—deserted on a Sunday morning—Sammy sidled up to the door and tried one of the dorm room keys.  It slid in but didn’t turn.  He took a deep breath, forced himself not to panic, and tried the other dorm key.  It slid in.  It turned.  The door swung open onto a darkened room, window blinds pulled down against the morning light.

Like Rowan and Zoey’s, it was a two-room affair, but this one had a bed in the first room, with a prominent lump in it.  A sleepy voice grumbled, “Thought you were having breakfast.”

“Shhhh,” Sammy whispered, for lack of anything better to say, and darted as quietly as possible into the second room.

“Zoey,” the lump groaned, “if that’s you, I told you no booty calls this weekend, we have a guest.  And Aggie’s not here, anyway, she went to breakfast.”

Sammy ignored the roommate, hoping she’d stay under wraps, because there in the second bedroom was his goal: a blue rollerbag, identical to his own but with very different contents inside.  He rolled his bag up, shifted hers over, and moved his in to replace it.

Then, gripping the handle of her bag as tight as he could, he bolted out of the dorm room as fast as he could.

Sammy was becoming something of a connoisseur of surreal experiences, but nothing so far had topped watching his reflection in the mirror, inexpert makeup making his eyes look all pretty, while he shaved his face.  The incongruity was staggering, but also as every swipe revealed more of his face, the result was both not what he was used to seeing in the mirror and also disturbingly pleasing.  His beard shadow had interfered with his amateur makeup, and removing it made all the features of his face work together again.

As soon as he had scraped the last of the shaving cream off his face, he hurried to pull out one of Rowan’s makeup wipes and scrub his eyes clear.  He looked into the mirror to make sure he’d got it all, but he did not actually see his own reflection; not his whole face.  He let the little brown gremlin go unobserved.

The moment he had locked the door of the bathroom behind him, he’d verified that the bag he’d stolen had girl clothes in it, and wasn’t somehow a third bag loaded up with, who knows, bricks of cocaine or something.  Now he threw himself into the shower to scrub and disassociate… but not take too long.  Rowan was expecting him back and didn’t know—and didn’t need to know—that he’d taken a little field trip up to floor 16.

He dressed in the only-slightly-steamy bathroom, complete with fake boobs this time.  Remembering the chilly weather, he pulled out a flannel to wear overtop everything else.  It was pinky-orange plaid, but complemented the stretchy grey tank and pleated black skirt he’d also found in the bag.  Then he returned to his cousin’s room to show off his newly-acquired make up skills.

She confirmed that she didn’t have any foundation or contouring that would work for his skin, but did suggest a light layer of blush, which Sammy had to admit did emphasize his cheekbones nicely.  He was not to worry too much about eyeshadow—it was fun, but not necessary—but she complimented him anyway on the tint matching his own colouring.  Not that he’d even thought about that.  And apparently the weird scissor-thing that opened and closed its little rubber jaws was an essential step before applying mascara.

She also remembered, halfway through, to supply him with his morning pill, which he eagerly slipped under his tongue.  She then showed him how lip liner was actually just an easier version of the eyeliner he’d used.

The end result of Sammy’s newly- and hastily-acquired makeup skills paired with Rowan’s guidance was a visible upgrade.  At his cousin’s enthusiasm, he forced a smile into the mirror; only when she looked away did he look again and allow himself a much smaller, more genuine smile for a job well done.  Even if it wasn’t a skill he’d ever use again, it was nice to be visibly good at something.

“So what’s on your schedule today?” Rowan asked.  “After lunch.”

Sammy glanced at his phone.  It was, indeed, very nearly noon.  “Um.  Apparently I get one-on-one meetings with admissions and financial aid, at 1:40 and 2:20.  That sounds super fun and very skippable.”

His cousin considered him for a long moment.  “You should go,” she told him, uncharacteristically serious.  “They’ll know exactly what you need to get in here.  Which you want to do, yeah?”

Sammy looked away.  He strongly suspected they’d only tell him that he didn’t belong here and that he didn’t stand a chance of getting in.  Rowan had to prompt him again before he answered.  “I mean, I do.  Want to go here.  But.”

She laid her hand on his shoulder and suddenly he was fighting back tears.  Where the heck had this come from?  He never cried.

“Hey Sammy,” Rowan said softly, and waited until he looked at her.  “You’ll never know unless you try.  Right?  I think you owe it to yourself to give it as good a try as you can.  Which means going to the one-on-one.  And taking notes.  You need a notebook?  I’ve got so many notebooks!”

Which is how Sammy came to be carrying a sickeningly vibrant notebook, all the colours super-saturated as they depicted what could only be a drug-induced hallucination involving kittens, dolphins, and horses, all at once.  It even had glitter stamped along some of the illustration’s lines.  Rowan insisted it was “retro” and an homage to Lisa Frank, whoever that was.

He waited in the admissions office lobby for his one-on-one with the lurid notebook on his knees, trying not to look at or get lost in the nonsensical scene its cover depicted.  Finally, his name was called, and he went in to give it his best try.

“It was terrible,” Sammy moaned.  “I was so useless.  I didn’t know what to say or how to say it.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” his cousin said soothingly beside him.  They were sitting at a little cafe that somehow served both fancy coffee and killer fries.

He sighed gustily at her.  “It felt like getting called into the vice principal’s office because your grades are shit and they are really concerned about your social development and they want to know what the problem is and you can’t just tell them, ‘it’s because I’m shit at everything’ but they really think there’s some other single, simple answer to the whole problem—the problem that is, you know, the fact that you’re shit—and they think that you also know what this other problem is but you’re just kind of embarrassed about saying it out loud, so they’re going to be really nice to you until you spill it out, but there is no answer because the fact of the matter is, you’re just useless and you always have been.”

“You’re not useless—” she started to protest.

But he cut her off.  “According to every teacher and guidance counselor I’ve ever had, I am.  I mean, they never said ‘useless,’ but every single one of them gave me this look of disappointment, as if I could have been a better student, a better athlete, a better—I don’t even know—student journalist or wood shop carpenter or whatever, if I just—” and here he waved his hands as if performing a magic trick “—applied myself.  But nobody ever told me how to do that, and I never figured it out on my own.”  He took a shaky breath.  “If that’s not useless, I don’t know what is.”

Rowan put a cool hand over his on the table.  “A lot of us feel that way growing up,” she said gently.

“Yeah, well they all seemed to think it was just me who was specially fucked up.”

“Well,” Rowan said with a rueful sigh, “they’re just not set up for trans kids.  Especially a little country school up in the mountains.  They don’t understand us.”

Ah, thought Sammy.  “A lot of us feel that way” wasn’t just people who had difficulties; Rowan’s sympathies were limited to trans kids.  Barking up the wrong tree again, not that it was her fault.  Sammy’s problem wasn’t that he had been trans all along, Sammy’s problem was that he was a fucked up failure.  But he still had to play along.

So he shrugged.  “That didn’t seem to matter in the one-on-one.”

“But you took notes, yeah?” she asked, patting the notebook where it lay on the table between them.

“I mean, yeah, fat lot of good it will do me.”  He stuffed more fries into his mouth.

“This place is intimidating,” his cousin said, tipping her head to the side.  “Even for me, and I basically grew up on campus.  It’s understandable if you feel overwhelmed.”

He nodded, ate more fries, washed them down with a drink that seemed like it was as much cream and sugar as it was coffee, not that he was complaining.  Maybe, if he let her believe he was comforted, she’d drop the issue and stop trying to blame all his problems on being trans, which he, you know, wasn’t.  “Yeah, I guess.”

Rowan smiled.  “You know what you need?”

“More fries?”

She slapped his forearm.  “You need to come chill with your people.”

He didn’t know what she was talking about, and told her so.

“The last bit of the Preview Days schedule is affinity group student organizations,” she explained with a grin, “which I know because I helped prep the open house for Seekyuway.”

“For what now?”

“The Columbia Queer Alliance,” she all but squealed, grinning like a loon.  “CQA.  We’re the oldest queer student organization in the world!”

“Uh, that’s… cool?”

“And today we have pizza.”

“Well.” Sammy scraped the last bits of french fry out of the basket.  “That’s a compelling argument.”

“This is, like, the queer lounge,” Rowan explained as she pushed open the door labeled Stephen Donaldson Lounge.  “All our events are here.”

The lounge was mid-sized but packed with people who collectively bore a surprising diversity of hair colours.  Or maybe that wasn’t so surprising, after all.  There were, though, all sorts of people there—tall, short, broad, skinny, hot, and… well, not so hot.  Sammy had worried that everybody would be beautiful and sexy and he’d just be, you know, him.

He’d gone the whole day with makeup that he’d done himself, which wasn’t as good as Rowan had done the days before.  Throughout the day he’d thought about it, worried about how it might be slipping or fading off his face or something.  A few times he’d ducked into a bathroom or reversed his phone camera to double check. Rowan had made sure he took her borrowed lipstick with him, and that, at least, he’d touched up a couple times.

But he still felt a little naked today, as if his girl costume was a more tenuous than it had been before.  As if his real gremlin self was showing through the pretense.  He didn’t like the feeling.  Sammy always felt self-conscious, but this was a whole different level.  He couldn’t ignore it, he couldn’t distract himself; it was as inescapable as his own face.

With so many bodies it was rather warm, which made Sammy rethink his last-minute stop to swap out the skirt he’d been wearing for Zoey’s favourite jeans.  He consoled himself with the thought that he could use overheating as an excuse to bail.

Sammy was pretty sure he was queer in some way—after all, he’d rather enjoyed kissing Vikram and Finley the other night, not just Agatha and Zoey.  So he qualified to be here, even if his qualifications were different than Rowan might think.  But he still felt out of place, like he had invaded somebody else’s space.  He wasn’t sure how long he could stay here, feeling like a trespasser.

The music playing behind the waves of conversation cut out suddenly and a young woman leapt up onto a chair.  “Hello and welcome!  This is the Columbia Queer Alliance open house and mixer-thing and you’d really think that by now we’d have a good name for this event that we do every year because we are the oldest queer student organization in the woooorrrrrllld!”

The rest of the room broke out in cheers at that, and with a reluctant smirk Sammy joined in.  The brag had the feel of an old joke, but he could tell the students were also rather proud of their group’s distinction.

The girl on the chair went on: “My name is Lena; my co-conspirators Allison and Patrick are around here somewhere, lurking in the background.”

A hand shot up from one end of the room and waved; from the other side somebody griped, “Somebody’s got to refill the soda tub!”

“There they are,” Lena crowed, pointing at those two corners of the room.  “Anyway, I’m gonna do a quick schpiel that I’m going to repeat every fifteen minutes or so as people come and go, so my apologies to the regulars who’re here for the whole time slot, because I’m pretty sure you’re already tired of my voice!”

Despite a few good-natured, shouted protests, she went on: “CQA has two primary purposes here on campus.  First, we’re a safe space where queers of all stripes can come socialize, make friends, eat pizza, and, well, pick each other up.”  The room laughed.  “And I should be clear that last one is not one of our institutional priorities, it just sort of happens.”

“The other side of CQA is our commitment to activism,” Lena continued, and then had to stop herself to allow for cheers, again.  She nodded in happy acknowledgement.  “CQA was founded as an activist organization to lobby the school administration to support its queer community and today we still do that and we also reach out to the surrounding community to foster understanding, acceptance, and celebration of queer life, community, and also we queers ourselves.”

“If you are a queer who comes to Columbia, this is the place where get your sweet sweet hit of queer community and this is the place that we organize from,” Lena declared proudly.  The room yelped and whooped.  “There’s some pamphlets and posters and stuff over on that wall about some of the stuff we’ve done.  And you can also ask the people you meet here what it’s like to be queer at Columbia.”  She put the back of her hand to her mouth, as if she were sharing a secret, even though she kept speaking at the same elevated volume: “It’s pretty awesome!  Anyway, welcome to our mixer-thing, I will return to say the same exact thing in like fifteen minutes!”

And with that, she dropped off the chair and the room went back to its varied conversations.  Rowan squealed, waved over the heads of the crowd, and then dragged Sammy across the room to where she’d spotted Finley.

The genderqueer was dressed down from the club—a long skirt, a band tee shirt, and about the same amount of makeup, just without the glitter tonight—and smiled wide when they saw Sammy approach.  “Hey, lover,” they grinned, and pulled him close for a crushing hug.  When the hug was done, Finley kept their arm around Sammy’s waist.

Sammy was being introduced to other people, but his brain worked, molasses-like, on how he felt about Finley’s lingering contact.  He didn’t mind it, exactly; it was comfortable and warm and a part of him wanted to lean into their side.  But some part of it rankled just a little.  Wasn’t Finley being a little presumptuous?  Especially after they called Sammy ‘lover,’ even if that had been playful.

He caught a giddy look from Rowan and suddenly he realized the image that they were presenting, that he was a willing participant in.  He was the girl on Finley’s arm.  And yes Finley was genderqueer, but they were taller and stronger than Sammy and had that immaculately-kept beard and…

Whoever Sammy had just been introduced to, they probably thought Finley had fucked him.  Like, in the butt.

Sammy’s whole body flushed hot and he almost did lean into Finley’s side just for support.  He was very suddenly very not okay with this.  His lips worked, trying and failing to find words.

Only Rowan seemed to notice, her look turning from giddy to concerned.

A few neurons in Sammy’s brain connected.  He looked down at his phone, then to his cousin.  “Uh.  Jessica just texted,” he stammered.  “She, um, she needs help.”

“Oh,” Rowan responded, covering her surprise well enough that Sammy doubted anyone else noticed.  His cousin reached foward to pull him away from Finley.  “Scuse us, folks, we’ve got an errand to run.”

She dragged him through the crowd towards the doors, but before they got there he tapped on her hand where it was vice-gripped on his forearm.  “We don’t need to leave-leave,” he told her, and they came to a stop.  “I just… needed out of that situation and didn’t know how.”

Rowan shifted her grip on his forearm to bring him into a hug.  “Okay, I get it.  Good use of the Girl Rules, though.  Jessica comes through for us once again.  We are such good friends to her.”

He nodded, catching his breath.  “Thanks.  Yeah, I dunno, it’s not like I don’t like Finley, it was just… a lot, all the sudden.”

“Yeah, well, Finley is a lot, all of the sudden,” Rowan sympathized.  “You want me to talk to them?”

“No,” he answered immediately, and then tipped his head side-to-side, considering.  “Well, maybe.  It’s not like I’m going to see them again this weekend, and I don’t want to leave with them thinking… I don’t even know what I want them to think.”

Rowan hugged him again, gently.  “You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” she cooed.  “Come on, let’s get some pizza.”

As one of the event volunteers, Rowan was scheduled to spend all three hours of the open house restocking snacks and answering questions.  Sammy didn’t have to stay, she told him; there was a coffeehouse thing happening across campus that he could check out, or even just crash in the dorm room if he wanted.  But Sammy was content to eat free pizza and shadow his cousin around the room.

She seemed to know everybody and everybody smiled at her when she struck up conversations.  She moved around the room familiarly, like it was the living room of her house.  Sammy had to smile a little.  This wasn’t the Rowan on show, like she’d been at the club or the frat party or even with her parents, shining her light so bright it dazzled all onlookers.  This was Rowan at home.  Comfortable.  With her people. 

More than once somebody called her over to talk to a prospective student about being trans on campus.  Sammy stood on the periphery of those conversations, half-listening.  He’d expected her to introduce him excitedly, saying, “This is my cousin Samantha, she’s trans, too!” but that never happened.  She gave him space.

On the fourth or fifth such conversation, Sammy surprised himself by giving his name.  He didn’t say he was trans; he knew he looked like it, and the actual trans kid grinned in patent recognition.  They talked about superficial stuff: what they’d done and seen through the weekend, what they hoped to study, how pretty the campus was.  The conversation was short and Sammy found himself smiling as they parted ways.

Lena climbed up onto a chair and repeated her ‘schpiel’ a few more times, each version tighter and more streamlined and more ignored by the crowd who’d heard it all before.

As the crowd was starting to thin out, a delicate pair of arms wrapped around him from behind and he was hugged fiercely for a moment.  Zoey then let him go and crushed Rowan in the same hug.  “Hey, bitches,” she sighed happily.  “How’d it go?  Sorry I couldn’t be here.”

Rowan responded enthusiastically, noting that they’d gone through more than twenty pizzas.  The three of them chatted for a little bit—Zoey complimented his choice of jeans—with the deflating energy of a busy event finally wrapping up.

“What were you up to?” Sammy asked Zoey, “if you couldn’t be here and all.”

“Oh, Aggie and I were showing her prospective student guest around campus,” the girl answered.  “Spent most of our time at the Black Caucus, which was super comfortable for my white ass, let me tell you.  I just stood on the sidelines and tried not to look like a member of the oppressor class.  But we couldn’t end the evening without visiting CQA.”

Sammy faked a laugh to match Rowan’s genuine amusement while he furtively scanned the room.  Agatha’s guest was here?

She was.  Grabbing a soda across the lounge, chatting with Agatha.  The girl looked up towards Sammy.  Their eyes met.

He had to stop staring at people he was trying to not make eye contact with.

The girl lifted one eyebrow—a minute gesture that Sammy could feel across the room—and her lips spread into an odd sort of smile.  Like a cat who’d spotted her prey.

Sammy struggled to smile back without looking awkward, embarrassed, or guilty.  Here he was, having stolen her bag and now wearing her clothes.  He’d been caught red-handed.

The girl sauntered over, taking her time to traverse the thinning crowed but also never taking her eyes off of the thief she was hunting.  And then she and Agatha stepped into the conversational circle of Sammy’s trio.  Aggie pecked her girlfriend on the cheek.

“I’m Sydney,” the girl from the bus told him, and nodded at her own flannel pulled around his shoulders.  “You know, I used to have a flannel just like that one.”

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-sequel to Being Christina Chase

Apologia

“Samantha!” Finley called out, ducking between foreign students as they flooded out of the classroom en masse.

Sammy had retained hardly anything from the hour-long class, distracted by the presence of the genderqueer at the front.  Finley hadn’t made it any easier, trying to catch his eye and offering little smiles as if nobody else would notice.  And now they were following him across campus, and their legs were a lot longer than his.

With a sigh, he turned to face them.

“Hey,” they panted, smiling, as they jogged up to him.  Their eyes dipped down and back up.  “You look fantastic.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.  He knew how he looked: like a fake.  Although he did have to admit he looked like a competent fake, so there was that.  “Uh, thanks?  You look nice, too.”

Finley looked downright respectable, which was a weird look on them.  Tailored dress pants, a matching blazer over a creamy silk blouse, and fucking loafers.  A pair of beaded necklaces dangled over their partially exposed chest.  Sammy forced himself to make eye contact.

They grimaced down at their clothes.  “Thanks, I… actually struggled with this outfit a lot more than I felt was necessary.  It’s my first TA gig, so I wanted to look… reputable and approachable and still queer and—” But then they shook their head and shoulders like a dog shedding water.  “All of that is besides the point.  I wanted to apologize.”

Sammy scowled softly.  He almost wished Finley wouldn’t apologize, wouldn’t ever say anything about the last night of Preview Days.  This promised to be awkward; Sammy had probably done something wrong, Finley would call him out for it, and he’d feel like a stupid child.  “What for?” he asked with trepidation.

“For how I acted at the CQA mixer,” they said, face crumpling a bit.  “I was just… I was really happy to see you and got… overly excited about it.  Which isn’t an excuse.  I trampled all over your bodily autonomy and didn’t check your boundaries and was just… an ass.”

Sammy found himself shaking his head.  “You weren’t—” he started, then trailed off.

Finley gave him a look.  “I know what ‘Jessica called, she needs our help’ means, Samantha.  And I am… fucking mortified I made you feel like you needed a rescue.”

“I didn’t—” he started, and then stopped himself from denying that he had in fact felt like he’d needed a rescue because he’d asked for it, hadn’t he?  “It was just… it was a lot.  And I didn’t know any other way out.”

Finley folded their hands over their valise, a gesture plainly chosen to keep their hands from reaching out to him.  “Yeah, and I should have given you ways out.  And I’m sorry I didn’t.  And I promise I’ll do better in the future.  Not just with you, but with everybody. Which isn’t to assume you even want to talk to me again.”

“Well, you are my TA,” Sammy pointed out with a slight smile.  “We’ll be seeing each other three times a week all summer.”

But their face crumpled again at the reminder.  “Is that a problem?  I should probably tell the prof…”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Sammy assured them in a rush, reaching out a little.  He snatched his hand back when he realized what he was doing, folding it up against his belly.  “And I like… talking with you, and I do want to talk to you again.”

“Yeah?” they asked with a shy little smile.

That smile was so delicate and tentative that Sammy suddenly wanted to leap forward and kiss all their nerves away.  He blinked.  Calm the fuck down, brain.

“Can I take you to dinner sometime as an apology?” Finley was asking.  “I’m sure you’re not sick of the dining commons yet, but… trust me, you’ll get there, and a little variety goes a long way.”

“I’d like that,” Sammy answered, and sublimated his impulse to lean forward into a much safer friendly smile.  “The next two months I’m going all-in on my classes for the program, but… I think I’m going to need some downtime, too.”

“Excellent.  I’ll—” Finley started, and then fumbled into their pocket.  “Can I get your number so we can text details?”

They handed over their phone; Sammy punched in his number and handed it back.

“Wait, hold on,” said Finley, brandishing their phone at him.  “Can I take a picture to add to your contact?”

“…sure?” he answered, and pasted on his taking-a-photo smile.

“Hrm,” Finley muttered from behind the phone.  “Hey do me a favour, just… don’t smile?”

What was wrong with his smile, thought Sammy, and relaxed his features.  He took a deep breath and tried not to make any face or look at anything in particular.  He figured he must look like he was spacing out.  Why would Finley want a picture of that?

“Hey Samantha?” Finley said, face still hidden.  When Sammy raised his eyebrows to show he was paying attention, the genderqueer simply said, “You’re beautiful.”  A moment later the phone’s camera shutter clicked.

“What the—” Sammy started to say.

“It’s this cool trick, you get great pictures the moment after you give a girl a compliment.”  Finley turned their phone around.  “There, you see?”

There he was on the screen: a backdrop of green leaves and red brick behind him, white cardigan over his shoulders and deep crimson cami stretched across his fake cleavage.  But on his face was this surprised little smile.  The smile had just sparked into his eyes as the pic had been taken, and his raised eyebrows looked like they were floating on top of the undisguised joy that lit up his face.

He looked… well.  He looked super cute.

“Kind of an underhanded trick,” he muttered, tamping down another smile, along with the impulse to ask Finley to send him the picture.  “Warn a girl next time, would you?”

“Can’t give you warning, then it doesn’t work,” they answered with a little self-satisfied smirk.  They tapped at their phone to save all the details.  “But I’ll let you go.  And text you later, yeah?”

“Go?” Sammy echoed vaguely.

“To your next class?”

“Fuck!” he shouted, and started running.

The program had six courses—Biology, Composition, History, Literature, Math, and Physics, helpfully abbreviated as BIO50, COMP50, HIS50, LIT50, MA50, PH50.  The six classes would theoretically prepare the Marginalized Scholars for the six sections of the final exam.  Sammy had stared at the course list, trying to figure out which one he should be most intimidated by, but could never quite decide.  They were all terrifying.

He dashed into the lecture hall for HIS50 with only a few minutes to spare and found the entire front row already filled by his rival overacheivers.

“Welcome to class, Samantha,” called a familiar voice from up under the screen in front.

Sammy turned and was surprised to find Uncle Gideon, in slacks and sweater vest, looking very collegial.  The boy in the skirt swallowed.  “Uh, hi.”

Gideon grinned as he stepped nearer.  “Sorry I didn’t say anything about teaching this course.  I meant to, when we visited you in your dorm room, but then you guys had to skip out to deal with your wardrobe emergency.”  His eyes flicked over Sammy’s outfit.  “I see the emergency has been resolved, though.  You look very put together.”

Sammy still didn’t know how to respond to compliments—aside from getting his picture taken, apparently—so he just smiled in response, cheeks hot.  What the—was he actually blushing?  He cleared his throat.  “Uh.  Sorry for being late.”

“You’re not late,” his uncle assured him, but he did shoo him towards the seats.  “And you’re in college now,” he added with a grin.  “Nobody’s going to call home and tell your parents you were tardy.”

As Sammy sat, Gideon clapped his hands together.  “Okay everybody, welcome to the History Crash Course!  The architects of this program want this class to cram your heads full of all the names and dates that they think is most important for a good, compliant, All-American student ready to bend over backwards and participate in the project of Empire, but unfortunately they hired me to teach it.”

Scattered chuckles trickled through the room, but most of the students seemed uncertain and a little bit scared at Gideon’s opening salvo.  Sammy counted himself among them.  He was here to prepare for the final exam; he needed all those names and dates.  And he was more than happy to participate in the project of Empire, whatever that was, if it meant he got to attend Columbia.

“My name is Gideon Masters-Roth, and it is my goal in this class to teach you to think historically,” the rebel professor went on, tapping his temple with two fingers.  “I promise you’ll get to cramming all those names and dates in July when I skip out of here for a couple weeks.”  He gestured to a young woman seated at a table to the side of the lecture hall.  “Speaking of which, this is Andi Górska, my longsuffering TA, who’ll be taking over for those two weeks.  Be nice to her, she is not paid enough to do this job.”

She gave the class a diffident wave.

Gideon directed the whole class to clump up in little groups of four to six so they could introduce each other and where they were from.  Sammy shortly found himself in a little circle of five.

“And so the first one is all, hi my name is Leon and I’m from Ukraine,” Sammy told his laptop screen.  “And then the next one gives their name and explains that they’re from Gaza.  And then the next one, she’s also from Ukraine, and says that her first choice school doesn’t exist anymore because it got bombed, and the other one from Ukraine and the guy from Gaza, they both nod and say ‘yeah me too.’  And then the last girl, she’s from Nicaragua and her family got run out of the country because her parents were journalists and pissed off the drug cartels, and her dad’s still fucking missing.”

“Jeeesus,” Rowan breathed, saucer-eyed, from the screen.

“That’s a lot,” Zoey agreed from the other panel of the vidchat.

“Yeah, and then they all turn to me,” Sammy continued on, “all expectant-like, and what the fuck am I supposed to say?  Hey, my name is Sammy and I’m a kid from Jersey?”

“What did you say?”

He shrug-flopped.  “Hey, my name is Sammy and I’m a kid from Jersey.”

“And their response?” Zoey wanted to know.

He deflated slightly where he sat on his dorm room bed.  “They wanted me to tell them where I shopped for clothes.”  Their reception of his personal background had seemed so petty Sammy hadn’t known how to respond—especially since he’d forgotten the names and locations of all the places to which Rowan had dragged him.

“Well yeah, you looked like that?” his cousin asked, eyebrow arched.  “You didn’t come home and change clothes?”

He looked down—cleavage yawned open under his gaze; at some point he’d get used to that, right?—and then back up at the screen.  “I mean.  Yeah?”

“It’s a nice ‘fit,” Rowan told him with a shrug.  “So if by their standards you’re a local, and a well-dressed one at that, asking for shopping tips is understandable.”

“Yeah but—” he sighed, struggling to articulate his discomfort.  “They’re all fleeing persecution and fucking warzones, and all I bring to the table is where to get a cute skirt?”

“Well they’re probably tired of being refugees all the time,” Zoey pointed out, “and hope that maybe you can help them feel a little normal for a change.”

He slumped against the wall and exhaled. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“Or they’re hitting on you,” Rowan put in with a smirk.

“Nobody is hitting on me,” Sammy insisted, even though he was pretty sure two guys in Pre-Calc and a girl in the Lit class had been feeling him out.  They’d asked him “get to know you” questions with an almost disquieting intensity.  He was here to study; he didn’t want distractions.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed.  He scooped it up to read a short text message from Finley asking if he liked seafood.

“Oooooh, who’s got you smiling like that?” teased Rowan.

“Wait, what happened?” asked Zoey, coming back into view from off-camera. “I missed it!”

“Nothing—”  He tried to say, wiping his face clear, but he could feel his cheeks burning.  He had absolutely been smiling at his phone like a goober.

“Somebody texted Sammy and her face lit up like a Christmas tree,” his treacherous cousin giggled.

“It’s not that, it’s just Finley,” he told them with a roll of his eyes.  “They’re the TA for Bio.”

“And they were texting you the syllabus?” Rowan asked, skeptical eyebrow raised.

“No, they’re just…” Sammy started, and then realized if he didn’t tell them both the whole story, Rowan would pry it out of him, anyway.  “They came up to me after class to say sorry for moving too fast at that CQA event and then they asked me to dinner.”

“So as part of Finn’s apology for moving too fast, they asked you on a date?” his cousin attempted to summarize, now lifting both eyebrows.  “And you said yes.  Damn, they’ve got game!”

“It’s not a date,” he insisted. “It’s an apology.  They’re taking me to dinner as an apology.”

Both Rowan and Zoey just stared at him blankly, waiting.

He blinked first.  “Fuck, is it a date?”

“Well, that would make something else make sense,” Zoey said, and explained: “Earlier today Finn did kind of ask me if they could ethically date somebody in a class they were the TA for.”

“I mean, it is kind of sketchy,” Rowan conceded.

“Right, but in this case, the final class grade, the part that they might have undue influence over, doesn’t matter,” she pointed out.  “It’s just the exam score at the end that matters, and that’s impartial.”

“So what did you tell them?” Sammy wanted to know.

Zoey shrugged.  “I think they’re in the clear.  Ethically speaking.  So they can date… somebody in the class they TA for.  Which may or may not be you.”

“But it probably is,” said Rowan pragmatically.  “And you said yes?”

“Yes,” Sammy groaned, pressing himself against the cool brick wall.  It counteracted the full-body flush he had going on.  “I said yes.  But I didn’t think it was a date!”

“What else did they say?” Zoey asked, probing for clarification.  “They were sorry, they asked you out, what else?”

Rowan cut through all the extraneous details that Sammy was considering mentioning as a smoke screen: “Did they compliment you?”

“Um,” he mumbled, wondering if he could hedge.  “I mean, sort of?  When we started talking, they… said I looked fantastic.”

“Well, you do,” Zoey noted dispassionately.

“And?” his cousin demanded, eyeing him critically through the laptop.  “I can tell you’re holding out on us.”

Casting his eyes to his popcorn ceiling, Sammy sighed.  “And they called me beautiful.”

“Awww!”

“No, it wasn’t like that, it was a… a trick to get a good photo for…” Too late, he realized exactly where he was blundering.  “…for my number in their phone.”

“Samantha,” Zoey said flatly, and waited until he was paying attention before continuing.  “Find out if it’s a date… before the date happens.  Don’t put it off, okay?”

“What, like over text?” he sputtered.  “Or in class on Wednesday?”  Both of those options sounded like trainwrecks.

“Better than over dinner,” Rowan pointed out reasonably.  “Get on the same page before the date starts or else one of you is guaranteed to be disappointed.”

On Tuesdays and Thursdays he only had two classes, but they were both two hours long: Composition in the morning and Physics in the afternoon.

“This is not a class about writing,” the Comp professor had declared.  “This is a class about editing.  We will be writing a 500-word essay every week.  You will bring your first drafts in on Tuesday.  You will exchange them with other students for editing.  We will discuss in class.  Then you’ll take it home and bring a revised draft on Thursday.  Each Thursday we’ll have a handful of you read your essay aloud.”  She nodded as if this was at all reasonable.  “At the end of this eight-week course, you’ll have written 4,000 near-perfect words.  I’m letting you off light! By the time you get to the final exam, tossing off a solid 500 words will be child’s play.”

Physics, by contrast, was taught by a scattered, spare little man who didn’t look much older than his students.  He explained that they had an absurd amount of material to cover, especially since this “Physics” class was also supposed to cover basic chemistry, and then he immediately launched into a lecture on the four fundamental forces of nature.  “Oh,” he added at the end as they were picking up their textbooks, binders, and bags, “we’ll have a quick quiz at the end of class Thursday—or maybe the start of class on Tuesday—going over what we’ve covered that week.  Or the week prior.  You understand what I mean.”

Sammy never quite got around to texting Finley about their maybe-date before it was time to show up to Biology on Wednesday morning, but the genderqueer just smiled at him across the room, and only the once.  No further contact was made, and Sammy dashed out of the classroom before any could be made.  He had three more classes that day and didn’t need any more distractions.

“Our key task,” intoned the literature professor Dr Ngawa, “as readers and as human beings, is that of interpretation.  The interpretation not just of texts and of speech acts, but also of our phenomenological world.”  Ngawa liked to pace as he lectured, roving up and down the steps of the room’s sparsely-occupied stadium seating.  “That is to say: we are surrounded by signs and symbols, and we are thrust, every day, into interpretting what it all means.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Sammy muttered under his breath, to the amusement of the dark-eyed girl sitting on his right.

“Grab a piece of paper,” directed the professor, “and write down a short description—just a sentence—of an encounter that you had with an ambigious sign.  Some situation where you could not tell what was meant.  You could not interpret.  Speech act or text or situation,” he elaborated while waving both hands around his head.  “Just.  Jot it down.”

Sammy opened his notebook to a blank page and tried to think of a time when he didn’t understand what was happening.  It seemed like a regular occurence for him, but nothing specific came to mind.  Nothing besides the obvious and immediate situation he was mired in, of course, and as time stretched on and everyone else started putting down their pens, he frantically scribbled out: Can’t tell if I was asked out on a date.

“Miss Masters,” came Ngawa’s baritone, sounding off right behind Sammy’s seat.  The professor had crept up while he’d dithered over what to write.  “What have you written?”

Sammy felt all the blood drain out of his face.  “Oh, I thought—” he stammered.  “I mean, I thought this was just for… I didn’t think we were sharing it.”

Ngawa gave him a significant look, and then broadcast that look across the whole room.  “Ah.  So your interpretation of the instructions you were given included some biases and assumptions of your own.”

Trying to laugh it off, Sammy nodded and prayed that that would appease the professor’s inquiry.  But Ngawa only watched him, eyebrows raised expectantly.  Sammy opened his mouth, closed it, and finally just gave up.  “I wrote down that I can’t tell if I got asked out on a date.”

A ripple of good-natured laughter pattered through the lecture hall, and Sammy took a little comfort from the response.  A high school classroom would have immediately overflowed with braying mockery.  This was different, like everybody sympathized.  He felt the corners of his lips lifting slightly.

“A common lament,” the professor intoned.  “A nice boy asked you out, but you’re not sure if he asked you out asked you out.  Even the language we use to describe—”

“Oh, uh,” Sammy half-objected impulsively, and Ngawa paused to lift his expectant eyebrows again.  Sammy explained: “Finley’s not a boy.”

“Oh ho!” the professor chortled.  “And here’s where my biases and assumptions get in the way of my interpretation.  My apologies to Miss Finley, she of the ambiguous scheduling practices.”

This time Sammy didn’t make a sound of correction, letting Ngawa move on to pry into some other student’s private life.

Is Friday night okay for dinner? Finley texted as class was breaking up, which only served to make Sammy apprehensive.  

Friday night was a date night, right?  A casual dinner on a random Tuesday, that wasn’t likely to be a date.  Dinner on Friday night, though?  That was definitely date territory.

Sammy took a long, shaky breath.  Interpreting ambiguous speech acts, indeed.  Finley was almost certainly asking him out on a date.

I’m just thinking about how you said you wanted to go all-in on your classes, said the next text.  Friday night seems like the least impact on your studies?

Well fuck, now he didn’t know what to think.  Sammy groaned audibly and shoved his phone into his backpack.

“That your maybe-date?” asked the dark-eyed girl with a twinkle in her eye.  “Finley?”

Sammy heaved a sigh.  “Yeah.  Apparently we’re going out on Friday.  So I have two days to figure out if we’re actually going out or if we’re just… going out.”

The girl closed her notebook.  “I’d love to hear how it turns out for you,” she giggled.  “If it turns out to not be a date, there are always other options.”  She raked her eyes up and down his body, smirked, and stalked out of the classroom.

Sammy watched her go, bewilderment giving way to curiousity.  He pulled his phone back out, reversed the camera, and took as full-body a selfie as he could.  He sent the result to Rowan.

Hot, she responded immediately.

Sammy rolled his eyes and then examined the photo he’d just sent her.  The wispy blouse that he’d thought kind of conservative this morning had apparently started showing off an eyeful of cleavage while he wasn’t looking.  And the capris that had seemed like simple pants were hugging his hips and thighs and—he took a quick side-angle selfie to verify—yeah, they were doing something almost indecent to his ass.

How on earth did he have this much ass?

He texted his cousin: why are all of the clothes we got me either tight or revealing or otherwise slutty in some secret surprise way?

Why would you want clothes that aren’t? came the reply.  The point of clothes is to look hot.

Sammy didn’t even know how to respond, and he had Pre-Calc in fifteen minutes.

The next morning he went through his new wardrobe like a tornado, trying to put together an outfit that Rowan would not describe as ‘hot.’  It was difficult.

Which wasn’t exactly true.  He could throw together a bunch of mismatched garments, but then he just looked weird.  Like he couldn’t dress himself or couldn’t see how this top and that skirt didn’t go together, when they really obviously did not.

What he needed was not hot but also not incompetent.

For a half-second he considered his box of hoodies and sweats, but actually shuddered at the thought.  Heavy and scratchy and hot and… frumpy.

When the hell had ‘frumpy’ invaded his vocabulary?

He tried again, without trying so hard as to create a jarring mismatch.  This cami, that skirt that probably wasn’t quite right, and then that weird little jacket-thing from that weird little boutique, where’d it go?  He donned the questionable ensemble, smoothed down his lines, and turned to look in the mirror.

“Oh, huh,” he said aloud, scrutinizing himself.  “Hold on a minute…”

He doffed the jacket and swapped the cami for a ruffle-fronted blouse, then slipped the jacket back on and turned to look in the mirror.

“Okay,” he told his reflection, “this looks really…” His shoulders slumped.  “Hot.  Fuck!”  How easily he lost sight of what he was trying to accomplish and fell back into… whatever took over his brain in the morning and assembled almost-but-not-quite inappropriately hot outfits for class.

He considered changing again, but the outfit really did look good.  And he was going to be late if he dithered any more.  He shrugged at his reflection.  “Might as well just wear it for the day.”

By the end of class on Thursday, all six professors had made clear their expectations for how much reading the students would be doing, and most of the initial deadlines were next week.  It was… a lot.

Even Math had reading to do, which Sammy felt was vaguely unfair.  Math and reading were opposite poles on the academic globe; you shouldn’t ever have to read in order to math.

But all of this was why Thursday evening found Sammy sitting at a table in the back of the dining commons.  Textbooks were spread out all around him; a tray of dinner sat half-eaten and forgotten at the periphery.  He had so much reading to do.

The good news, though, was that he seemed to be getting his focus back.  With four days’ worth of a regular supply of pills in his system, the fog had cleared and he could read, he could discuss, he could think again.  How did other people do college without these pills?

“Did you read all those poems yet?” asked a voice, bringing Sammy out of his reverie.  He looked up to find the dark-eyed girl from Literature class.  “There were so many.”

“I think the idea was that they’re all short?” he hazarded.  “Kind of an easy way to get us started.  And then we’re supposed to read a whole novel by Monday, which… I hope it’s not boring.”

“Oh, it’s some white girl who thinks she’s poor because her family only has a maid and a cook taking care of their every need.  So to avoid a life of such unfathomable poverty… she must date.”  She threw the back of her hand up against her forehead dramatically and giggled. “Speaking of which, have you figured out your little dating problem?”

Sammy heaved a sigh.  “No.  I’ve been avoiding it by digging into the reading.”

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked with half a smile.  When he nodded, she asked, “Are you hoping it’s not a date, or that it is?”

“I mean—” he started, stalled, and then shrugged.  “I don’t even know.  I definitely don’t need any distractions right now.  This program is my one shot for… everything, and I’m not going to fuck it up.”  He paused, considering.  “But at the same time… it’d be nice if it was?  I, uh, I’ve never been asked before.”

The girl blinked, startled.  “I don’t believe that.”

Sammy shrugged again.  It was the simple truth.

“Maybe you’re just really bad at telling when somebody’s into you,” she suggested.  “Maybe you’ve been asked out tons and you’ve just never noticed.”  She considered him from under one arched eyebrow.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Sammy giggled, realized he’d just giggled, and blushed.

He wasn’t oblivious (not when he’d taken his pills), and this girl had already made her interest clear.  He just had trouble wrapping his head around the very concept that somebody was hitting on him.  All he had to do was slap on some fake tits and a little makeup and suddenly he was popular?  It seemed ludicrous.

“No, Samantha, you’re… really pretty,” she pressed.  She blushed as she said it.  “If the girls weren’t asking you out in high school, I guarantee they were pining for you across the room.”

“Yeah, I… didn’t always look like this,” he protested weakly.  There was something in this girl’s voice that was edging towards the desperate, and suddenly Sammy wanted nothing more than to just turn off whatever was happening.  The only problem was that he had no idea how to do that.  He gestured down at himself.  “All I wore through high school was hoodies and sweat pants.  The… fashion is all new, and entirely my cousin’s doing.”

“Well tell your cousin thank you for providing the class with eye candy,” she grinned, and leaned her rump up against the table beside him.  He realized a beat later that she was ideally positioned to look straight down his shirt.

What was he supposed to do?  Cover himself?  Stand up?  He realized he couldn’t even remember this girl’s name, and asking for it now might seem like he was expressing interest, when all he wanted to do was read.

Sudden inspiration struck, and he went with it before he could examine the impulse.  “No, when I say I didn’t look like this, I mean I didn’t look like a girl.  I’m transgender.”  There.  Maybe that would scare her off.

But she only nodded.  “I mean, I didn’t want to assume, but I did kind of figure.  You make a very pretty girl, Samantha.  Good choice on chasing that dream.”

She was, absolutely and unmistakably, looking down his shirt.

“Listen,” he finally grimaced.  “I’ve… got a lot of reading to do.”  He gestured to the array of books spread out before him.  “I don’t want to be rude.  I just… I can’t fall behind.  I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”

“Oh shit, sorry, yeah,” the girl stammered, immediately straighening and wiping her palms on her thighs.  “You even said and I… sorry.  Yeah, I’ll see you in class.”  She backpedaled a few steps, turned to go, and then turned back.  “I hope your dating situation works out the way you want it to, Samantha.”

He smiled and nodded.  “Thanks.”

Sammy turned back to his books, very intentionally not watching her go, except for the little peeks he took as she beelined for the door.  She turned left once outside and walked along a bank of windows, staying within easy view.  From the few glances he stole, she seemed to be talking to herself, and not kindly.

He groaned.  All he wanted was to avoid distractions and absolutely destroy the Marginalized Scholars’ final exam.  He’d worried that pretending to be trans, dressing up and doing his makeup every day, remembering his fake name and fake pronouns, would be one of those distractions.  He’d accepted that as the cost of entry.  But never had he even considered that dressing up and doing his makeup would bring him more distractions in the form of… amorous attention.

At the same time, complaining about it seemed spectacularly shitty.  Oh no, people wanted to talk with him, get to know him, even date him.  Walking across campus, people smiled at him for no discernible reason.  And just because he couldn’t understand it didn’t mean he didn’t like it.  It felt like people wanted him to be there, wanted him to be in their shared space.  Welcoming him.  It was a heady feeling, and if he was honest with himself, he didn’t want it to stop.

He just had to figure out how to get all this reading done, too.

Sammy’s Friday classes ended at 3:30.  Finley would pick him up in his dorm lobby at 6.  By the time he reached his dorm room, Sammy was down to two hours and fifteen minutes to clarify what was happening before it happened.

So he took a shower.

It was almost 4:30 when Sammy returned to his room, steaming and clean and frustrated that the distraction of hot, streaming water had been used up.

He had to get dressed.  He hadn’t had time to unpack all the clothes he’d bought with Rowan; the bags were all still piled up in the corner.

He poured it all out onto his bed and started folding.

By the time 5 o’clock rolled around he’d sorted all his new clothes into the appopriate drawers and hangers.  Then he pulled out the clothes he might wear that night.  He had three options out of what was still clean.

Could he do laundry?  No, he didn’t have enough time for laundry.  Finley would be there in less than an hour.

And before Finley got there, Sammy should text them to ask if they were going on a date, or if they were just going out to dinner as friends who were apologizing.  For things that happened four months ago.

But he had options for what to wear.  He couldn’t just go as he was right now, which was naked.

Fuck, he had to re-affix his tits.

Now it was 5:35 and his fake boobs wobbled on his chest as he contemplated his three outfits.  One set—a white skirt and a orange frilly blouse—was boring and basic but that might be an advantage.  The next was… well, it was club gear.  Shimmery top and a flippy skirt.  Classy club gear, but it was designed for dancing.  Would there be dancing?  At the restaurant?  Was that a thing?  And then the last was a skater dress, vibrant blue with black polka dots, which was very plainly date wear, and he was mildly frustrated that he didn’t have a necklace that went with it.

Finally he realized that he couldn’t decide what to wear if he didn’t know if he was going on a date or not.  He pulled out his phone and stared at it.  It was 5:45.  Finley was probably already on his way.

With a muttered curse, Sammy typed out a dozen different texts and deleted them, and finally settled for: Is this a date?  Simple.  Straightforward.  To the point.  There was no way Finley could misunderstand or mangle the query.  Sammy would get a straight answer.

His phone buzzed, and he looked at the answer: Do you want this to be a date?

Sammy screamed at his phone.

What the fuck kind of answer was that?  Surely when Finn had asked him, they’d either thought they were asking him on a date or they weren’t.  That was something you asked with intention.  You couldn’t do it accidentally, and if you were doing it on purpose, you sure as fuck knew what you were asking.

Sammy was about to shoot back something scathing but his phone displayed three little bouncing dots.  He watched them bounce until they quieted and disappeared.  His breath caught, but then they returned.  Bounce bounce bounce, wobble wobble wobble.

He stared, transfixed, until the dots turned into words.

Here’s the thing, said the text.  At the end of summer term, I’m leaving for med school in California.  So while I am very open to this being a date, I can’t do a relationship that doesn’t have an expiration date.  I’m also very open to this being a non-date dinner.  I think you’re cool and I’d like to share a meal, date or not.

Sammy read the text through three times, and then it was followed by: So?

He grabbed the skater dress.  “Date wear it is.”

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Being Samantha Masters

an homage-sequel to Being Christina Chase

First Date First Date

Sammy had to make Finley wait downstairs while he put on his makeup, breathing very intentionally so he did not rush or mismatch his eyeliner.  That done, he tousled his hair until it looked vaguely correct, and added a few little white clips to keep his bangs under control.

The hiccup came when he went to grab his backpack, which had his wallet and keys in it, and stilled.  He couldn’t very well take his backpack on a date.  And the skater dress had no pockets.  Reluctantly, he turned to his closet and pulled out the little white purse that Rowan had insisted he’d need.  Wallet and keys inside, he looped it around his shoulder and scowled into his full-length mirror.

A girl with a purse scowled back at him.

He rolled his eyes at himself.  He was wearing a polka-dotted dress, sporting flawless if simple makeup, and had two almost-embarassingly-large tits pasted onto his chest.  And the purse was the thing giving him pause?

He didn’t have time to parse through these feelings.  He added his lippy to the purse and hurried out the door.

Finley was waiting outside on the dorm’s stoop, leaning against the railing and smiling up at the clear blue summer sky.  The wrap dress they wore was bright green with curls of tie-dye white reaching up from the skirt’s hem.  A few brightly-coloured, chunky necklaces dangled over their chest, under a beard that Sammy suspected had been recently trimmed.  Vibrant green eyeshadow and a comparatively muted lipgloss completed their look.

Sammy took his time getting to the door.  He couldn’t help smiling through the window at them.  At his date.

Eventually, though, Finley noticed his appraisal, so he had to push open the door and step outside.  Their eyes went a little wide.  “You look amazing, Samantha.”

Sammy rolled his eyes and touched his collarbone.  “It needs a necklace but I don’t have anything that goes.  And I… kind of ran out of time getting ready, worrying about if this was a date or not.”

Finley grinned.  Was he amused that Sammy had worried over the evening?  “And the verdict is?” they asked.  “You didn’t actually give me an answer.”

“Oh shit,” Sammy laughed, and reached forward to squeeze their hand in sympathy.  Which left him holding Finley’s hand.  Now what was he supposed to do?  And where had that gesture come from in the first place?  He looked from their joined hands to Finley’s face. “Um.  I’d… like it if this were a date.”

He willed himself not to blush.  He failed.

Finley turned their hand to squeeze his.  “I’d like that, too.”  The two of them stood there smiling at each other for what felt like a full minute before the genderqueer tipped their head away from the door.  “Shall we?”

Finley had made reservations at a restaurant at the north end of Battery Park, but they took the subway to the south end to have a leisurely walk before dinner.  For most of the way down, the subway was crowded and even when it thinned out enough to permit conversation, they talked about nothing.  Classes. Videos they’d seen.  Pizza toppings, inspired by the passenger who boarded with a stack of three very aromatic pizzas.

And then the train reached the end of the line.  They stepped out into the fresh air and the long leafy stretch of the park, and the lazily lapping water alongside it.  And out beyond the water…

“Is that—,” Sammy stammered, staring off at the horizon.  “It is.  Holy shit.”

Finley looked where he was looking and chuckled.  “The Statue of Liberty?  Yeah, that’s her.  Have you… have you not seen her yet?”

Sammy shook his head and shot a sheepish grin back at them.  “I guess I just haven’t been where you could see her.”

Finley gestured across the park to where they could get a slightly better view.  The two of them ambled, with Sammy hardly looking at anything else.  “You know she’s trans, right?” Finley finally broke their silence to ask.

That got Sammy’s attention, and he looked from the monolithic statue to Finley and back again, confused.  “Wait, what?”  They’d come up to the railing that separated the park from the Hudson river, and Sammy leaned up against it.  “They had trans people back then?”

“Trans people have always been here,” his date chuckled.  “But yeah.  Before she was Lady Liberty, she was Sol Invictus, the god of the unconquered sun.  That’s why her crown has sunrays around it.”

Sammy slitted his eyes at Finley skeptically.  “Seriously?”

The genderqueer shrugged.  “So the story goes.  And since she is a story, that’s about as good as we get, right?”

Sammy smirked.  “I should tell Rowan.”

“Who do you think told me?” Finley laughed, leaning up against the railing, himself.

“It does sound like a Rowan factoid.”

They looked out over the water.  “If I’d had known you hadn’t been out there yet,” mused Finley, “I would have taken you.  Distinguish myself with the most memorable first date you’ve ever been on.”

“That’s not exactly a high bar,” Sammy snorted, tearing his eyes away from the statue.  They were heading up the green length of the park, which was… this way.  He started walking, glancing back towards Finley to make sure they were following.

They did so with alacrity.  “What do you mean, not a high bar?”

“I um—” Sammy started, stopped, decided to press on.  He confessed,  “I’ve never been on a date before.”

Finley’s eyebrows jumped up their forehead.  “Oh!  Oh.”  They tried to compose their features, but couldn’t completely banish the ghost of a smirk.  “So this is a first date first date.”

Sammy didn’t think they were trying to be condescending, but he decided he wasn’t going to allow it, even accidentally.  He crooked an eyebrow at them. “I don’t know, first date implies that there will be more dates after this one, and if you keep acting like that…”

Finley laughed and threw up their hands to demonstrate their innocence.  “Understood.  Understood.  But I’m sure there will be.  More dates.  Somebody will ask you, or you’ll ask them… emphasis on ‘them.’”  They leaned in to waggle their eyebrows.

Sammy shoved them playfully.  “Only if you behave yourself,” he grinned.

But instead of grinning back, Finley looked away and cleared their throat.  “Well, I don’t have the best track record on that.”

“Okay, no.”  Sammy shook his head, and reached over to pull Finley back from spiralling away.  “I don’t want to rehash that all over again.  You apologized, I accepted, it’s over.”  They both walked a few steps before he added, “And apparently I just need to get used to it.”

“No,” Finley leapt to argue so fast they might have sprained something  “Nobody should touch you without your—”

“Not the touching, just the… attention,” Sammy clarified.  “I’m not used to it.  And like… I swear I’m not bragging, but you’re not the only one.”

Finley spread a hand across their collarbone.  “I have rival suitors?!”

“Oh my god,” Sammy rolled his eyes towards the sky.  “This isn’t fucking Persuasion.”

“I would make a clever literary reference here, but I’m a bio major,” his date admitted.  “Honestly I’m kind of impressed with myself that I recognized the book title.”

“Yeah well, we’re reading it in Lit class,” Sammy explained.  The park scrolled past them, the sun swollen fat on the horizon painting everything orange.  “And there’s a girl there who I bet you money is going to give me moony eyes over it.  She already told me if this date doesn’t work out, she’d like to be next in line.”

“I do have rival suitors!”  They pumped their fist as if it was an accomplishment.

Sammy couldn’t help but giggle, but his thoughts kept circling.  A few quiet steps later, he sighed.  “I’m worried about it being a distraction.  I need to focus on my classes.”

“Well, like you yourself said,” Finley pointed out, “you’re going to need some downtime, too.  Blow off some steam with a little flirting and dating.  Believe me, you can burn yourself out in eight weeks, and you don’t want to do that just in time for the final.”

Sammy made agreeable noises instead of answering and they kept walking.  Dating to avoid burnout?  That seemed even less plausible than people hitting on him in class in the first place.

Eventually he realized Finley had not spoken for a while and was in fact watching him.  They smirked when he looked up.  “It’s not the distraction that’s bothering you, though, is it?” they asked.  “You seem, like, really frustrated about puzzle pieces that don’t fit together.”

Sammy rolled his eyes to pointedly ignore Finley’s observation, but the genderqueer wasn’t letting go.  They just kept walking alongside him, waiting.  Sammy told himself that he could ice out Finley right back until they gave up and struck up a different conversation.  But they resolutely did no such thing, waiting while Sammy marinated in his own thoughts.  Finally his brain boiled over, and he gesticulated into the empty air before him.  “I mean, I don’t even pass!”

Finley quirked an eyebrow.  “What’s passing have to do with it?”

“Cause when they… pay attention to me, they pay attention to me like I’m—” He slapped his chest, a little harder than he meant to, and winced.

They treated him like a girl, even though he wasn’t a girl, and yes he did a whole bunch of things to look more like a girl, but even then he didn’t look all the way like a girl.  He knew what he looked like, and it was not girl.  Maybe at first glance, but not after any length of time.  He had so many tells.  But they still treated him like they were seeing a girl.

But how to put that into words, especially without admitting to Finley that he wasn’t exactly trans?  Fuck if he knew.  “I mean… I just… I don’t see what they see.”

“Is it not enough that they like what they see?” his date asked gently.

Sammy shook his head.  “They don’t.  They can’t.  People look at me and they… they know what they’re looking at.”

“I think they do, yeah,” said Finley, not quite suppressing a chuckle.  They reached out to grab Sammy’s hands and pulled him to the side of the walk path, under a leafy tree.  “Samantha, listen to me,” they said, voice so earnest that Sammy couldn’t help but look them in the eye.  “Passing isn’t important.”

“But—”

But Finley cut them off.  “Passing isn’t important,” they repeated, emphasizing each word.

Sammy frowned and looked away, would have scrubbed his face if his hands weren’t trapped.  “You think they’re… what do you call them?  Chasers?”

Finley burst out laughing and then scrambled to rein it in, not very successfully.  They squeezed Sammy’s hands before releasing them, and then wiped their own eyes.  “I mean… they might be curious.  But that’s a far cry from a chaser.”

Hands freed, Sammy went to rub the heck out of his face.  He remembered just in time that he had makeup on that he didn’t want to muss.  Instead he flexed his hands and wrapped them both around the back of his neck.  “Then… what?”

To their credit, Finley’s eyes only dipped down into the cavern of cleavage Sammy was presenting for a moment.  Then they made very deliberate eye contact and said, “They just think you look hot, Samantha.  I swear.”

He snorted, dismissive.  But he also dropped his arms so his tits weren’t squished together on lewd display.  He had to get better about that.

“You say they know what they’re looking at,” his date pressed, and gently guided the both of them back onto the path along the waterside.  “I think you’re right; I think they do.  They know they’re looking at a hot, femme-of-center queer chica.  Further details irrelevant.”  Before Sammy could object, they added, “Do they suspect you’re trans?  Maybe.  Embodying some flavor of queer or genderfuckery?  Probably.  But if they’re chatting you up, then they don’t care.  Passing is not a prerequisite for hotness.”

This time Sammy managed to get out a “But—”

“You think I’m a chaser, Samantha?” asked Finley, eyes rhetorically wide.  “I don’t just suspect you’re trans, I know you’re trans.  I think that is just one beautiful piece of a much bigger, grander picture.  Are my motives suspect?”

“No, of course not.”  All the emotion sluiced out of Sammy, only to replaced a moment later with panic.  “Oh shit, you didn’t think I thought—”

Finley smirked, disarming Sammy’s rising anxiety in an instant.  “I did not think you thought.”

“Because you’ve always…” he started to say, and then stumbled to a stop.  Closed his eyes.  His big stupid mouth.

When he finally looked back at Finley, their eyebrows bounced up, curious.  “Out with it.  Finish the sentence.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.  Fine, fuck it.  All the cards on the table.  “Because you’ve always been into me.  Even when I looked like I’d fallen through Rowan’s backup closet and landed face-first on her makeup palettes.”

“First of all, that is not what you looked like then,” they retorted.  “And secondly, and this may be a bit of a tangent but… fucking christ, you really have had a glow-up.  I’m just saying.  You went from noteable country girl visiting the big city to, like, fucking trans diva.”

“Rowan took me shopping,” he said weakly, fingering the hem of his dress.

“Yeah, it’s not just the clothes, Samantha,” Finley laughed.  After only a moment, though, the laugh died on his lips.  “Oh.  You don’t see it, do you?”

Sammy shrugged.  “It’s a costume.  It looks good, but it’s…” Fuck it, he could say what he was thinking without giving away the whole thing.  “It’s all façade.”

Finley considered him for some time before answering.  “Samantha, it’s not… allow me to revise myself.  I don’t think it’s the clothes at all.  Nor is it the… very on-point makeup.  It’s not the image you present.  There is a light in your eyes, a fucking spring in your step.  An ease in your shoulders that is… incredibly compelling.”

Sammy scowled off across the water instead of responding.  What was Finley seeing?  Maybe his new sense of purpose?  More likely his twice-daily microdose of party drugs.

“You were cute at Preview Days,” Finley went on.  “And also overwhelmed, awkward, and profoundly self-conscious—”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” they grinned.  “But now you… it’s like you’ve found your spine and you’re standing up straight for the first time in your life.  It’s fucking glorious to watch.”

Compliments on his appearance were one thing; Sammy didn’t even know how to deal with whatever this overblown and patently wrong bullshit was.  “I think you’re getting fooled by my Fake It Till You Make It act.”

“I think you’re further along in that process than you think you are,” Finley shot back immediately, a cheeky smirk on his face.  But then he nodded across the street.  They’d come to the end of the park.  “We’re here.”

The restaurant served as the western anchor of what looked like a shopping mall, but also had its own exterior entrance.  Finley led Sammy across the street—Andrei would be scandalized—and opened the door for him.

“Thanks,” he said with a small smile.  It was still new to have doors opened for him, even if it only happened a few times a day on campus.  He was slowly accepting the fact that for the next couple months, he’d be smiling and thanking helpful men who—oh fuck.

There was another couple in front of them talking to the hostess, so Sammy cleared his throat and said, “So um.  This is a dumb question, but like.  You opened the door for me…”

When Sammy trailed off, Finley raised an eyebrow.  “Is there a question part of your question?”

Sammy gave up trying to phrase it elegantly.  “Men open doors for women, for manners or whatever, but you’re not a man, so… how’s that work?”

His date grinned.  “Yeah, non-hetero dating can get confusing sometimes.  But there’s usually one half of a couple who likes having the door opened for them more than the other half does.  And in my experience, it’s usually a safe bet that a newly-hatched trans girl will enjoy getting a little chivalry laid at her feet.”

Sammy had to smile.  “Are we that predictable?”

“Follow me for more queer dating tips,” Finley quipped, tapped the side of their nose, and then shrugged.  “We can take turns opening doors for each other later, if you like.”

And then the hostess asked for Finley’s reservation and they were being led through the restaurant to a table by the window, overlooking the water.  The sun had almost reached the horizon and the river was all golden sparkles.

“There’s Jersey,” Finley remarked, nodding past the water to the dark, blocky horizon beyond.  “Your homeland, right?”

Sammy scoffed.  “I mean, yeah, that’s Jersey, but it’s not my Jersey.  Like that Real Housewives and Jersey Shore stuff?  I don’t even recognize it.  The Jersey I know is all backwoods isolation and winding mountain roads.”

Finley settled back in their seat.  “Tell me about it?” they asked, but were immediately interrupted by the server.

There were a number of specials that the server rattled off from memory—the curse of a seafood place—and the two of them listened to the litany with only slightly strained politeness.  Sammy was realizing that, while he liked fish when his mom made it for dinner, he had no idea what kinds of fish she’d ever served him.

“Um, what would you recommend?” he asked when the piscine diatribe drew to a close.  “Imagine that I like fish in general but I’ve mysteriously forgotten what all their different names are.”

Did the server flinch?  Sammy knew his question was odd, but that seemed like an extreme reaction.  But she recovered quickly to recommend the tuna steak.  That sounded straightforward so he ordered that, along with a diet soda.

Finley put in his order, the server retreated, and they were alone.  “That’s an interesting mysterious ailment you have, forgetting the names of fish.”

Sammy rolled his eyes at himself.  “My mom makes fish all the time and I love it, but like.  I say, ‘hey Mom, what’s for dinner?’ and she tells me the name of the fish, and I look at her confused and stuff and then she just says, ‘Fish.’  So I nod and then dinner is delicious.”

Finley grinned.  “Don’t go out for seafood much in the Jersey backwoods?”

“No, Oak Grove has got, like… a diner, a chinese takeout place, a pizza place, and, um, this place that calls itself a ‘grill’ but it serves exactly the same stuff as the diner.”

“What, no fast food?”

Sammy shrugged.  “Not unless you want to drive all the way to Dover.”

Finley whistled.  “Wow, you really do live outside of civilization.”

Sammy lifted a finger.  “Used to live outside of civilization.  Now I live in New York City.”

“Never going back?”

He shook his head.  “Not if I can help it.  I mean, go back for visits and stuff, sure.  But that’s the people.  I’ll miss people.  I won’t miss Oak Grove.”

Finley nodded. “I get that.  I miss my family, definitely, but I gotta admit, sometimes I miss home, the place.”

The server reappeared with their drinks and a basket of bread.  Sammy thanked her and waited until she’d left to ask, “Where is home again?  You said back during Preview Days but I was overwhelmed and awkward.”

Finley stuck their tongue out before answering, “Nebraska.” Sammy nodded.  That sounded like something he’d been told months ago.  “A sleepy little suburb called Waverly, outside of Lincoln.  Flat as hell.  Green in the summer, white in the winter.”

“And you miss it?”

“I miss bits,” they nodded.  “Outdoor seating at the Runza that looked out over a field.  The creek where my friends and I hung out.  My favourite club down in Lincoln.”

“What’s a Runza?”

“Sandwich place,” Finley clarified with a shrug.  “Fast food, because Waverly sits within the bounds of proper civilization.”

Sammy gestured with his buttered roll, plainly egging Finley on, because apparently he liked listening to the genderqueer talk.  “So you miss a fast food sandwich with a view across a green field leading to a flat horizon.”

Finley smirked.  “Yeah.  I do.”  They described a particularly memorable summer day with friends, hanging out at the sandwich place, and Sammy just listened, smiling softly and making encouraging conversational noises every once in a while.

When their food came, Sammy’s didn’t look much like any fish his mother had ever served him.  But he figured he was trying new experiences and dug in.  The tuna steak was surprisingly good.

His date was less than enamored with their food.  Despite trying to hide their disappointment, they finally admitted that the upscale restaurant’s mojo isleño sauce paled in comparison to their mother’s home cooking.  “I had a little spark of hope when I saw Puerto Rican food on the menu, but I should have known better,” they sighed.

Sammy made sympathetic noises and got two more bites into his own steak before his curiousity piqued.  “Are there a lot of Puerto Ricans in Nebraska?”

“Not really,” Finley answered.  “There’s, like, almost a real Boricua community in Omaha, but not in Lincoln.  Certainly not in Waverly.”

“Boricuwhat?”

“Boricua,” Finley grinned.  “It’s just what Puerto Ricans call ourselves.  I should be able to tell you why but um.  I really have no idea.”

“Well there’s no Boricua community in Nebraska,” Sammy pointed out, dimly proud of himself when he didn’t stumble over the new word.  “Who would have taught you, right?”

His date guffawed at that.  “I am, if you can believe it, third-generation Nebraskan Boricua.  My great-grandparents moved there when they were discharged after World War Two.”

“They were?” Sammy echoed, eyebrows raised.  “Not just him?”

“Women’s Auxiliary,” they answered with no small amount of pride.  “She was a mechanic, he was a driver.  They met in Italy, got secretly married in London a year before the war was over.”

“Secretly married?”

They grinned.  “You weren’t supposed to get married, it would distract you from your important work fixing jeeps.”

“That’s so awesome,” Sammy grinned.  The back of his brain told him that the story might have been mildly amusing, but certainly didn’t qualify as ‘so awesome.’ The rest of his brain, which was now sure it just liked listening to Finley talk, told the back to shut up.  “And then they chose Nebraska.”

“Nobody on the east coast was giving brown people mortgages under the G.I. Bill, so they had to go inland,” they explained, wrinkling their nose.  “But it worked out, I guess.  They opened a garage in Lincoln; my grandpa worked there his whole life.  My mom worked there part-time through college.  She’s an accountant, now.  Terribly exciting.”

“And the garage?” Sammy asked, thinking about his family’s patchwork collection of small businesses in Oak Grove.

“It’s my uncle’s now.  Mom moved out to Waverly to be closer to her clients.  All agribusiness stuff.  Taxes for farms are complicated, apparently.  But it kept us housed and clothed and fed, so I’m not complaining.”  They grinned.  “My mom is complaining, but more about the farmers and their bookkeeping practices than the tax codes.”

Sammy hesitated only a moment before asking, “Single mom?”

“Sometimes, not always,” they answered without hesitation, and then smiled.  “Had me when she was on her own; IVF.  These days she’s shacked up with a girl named Tiff who’s like half her age.  It’s kind of adorable.  She asked me a couple months ago if it would be weird for me if they got married.”

“What did you say?”

Finley took a moment to chew, swallow, and wash down the disappointing fish sauce with a gulp of water.  “I told her, ‘you’re not going to find another lesbiana boricua in Lincoln. You better lock that shit down while you can.’”

Sammy tried not to wince when Finley slipped into Spanish, which he didn’t speak, but the meaning was clear enough.  He grinned to cover the sudden spike of unease.

Finley just asked, “What about your family, Samantha?”

“Oh, not as exciting,” he demurred.  But then his brain railed against his own words: Now it’s your turn, now you have to be interesting to listen to, and tell a good story, and be engaging and clever.  You’re on a date.  So Sammy cleared his throat and said,  “My dad’s side has been in Oak Grove since, like, time immemorial.  They probably fought the British during the Revolution.”

Finley grinned at that, but the expression took a moment to hit their face, as if it wasn’t quite genuine.

Sammy suspected what was going through his date’s head, so he forced himself not to smirk as he set up a sort of conversational surprise.  “My mom’s family… they’re more recent immigrants.”

At this, Finley nodded and the trace of hesitation in their face faded.  “From where?”

“Russia,” he answered, and Finley visibly flinched.  Sammy grinned.  “What, don’t I look like I’m half Sons of Liberty, half Pushkin heroine?”  He only remembered to add the ‘-ine’ at the last moment and wasn’t even sure if there were Daughters of Liberty that he should have referenced, but Finley did not seem to notice.

“Respectfully, Samantha, you do not,” Finley laughed.  “Is there a story there?”

“Not really,” he said, shrugged, and tamped down a rising tide of panic.  He should have planned further ahead; now he was heading into fraught territory.  “I’m adopted.  A foundling left on the steps of a fire department in Jersey City.”

Finley hooked a thumb out the window, at the twinkling skyline across the water.  “So you are from over there, after all.”

Sammy snorted softly.  “Only technically.  My parents adopted me as a baby; I only remember Oak Grove.”  He looked down at the remnants of his tuna steak, picking the flake apart with his fork.  The conversation lulled, and he felt compelled to fill the silence, even if it would bring down the mood.  “It’s not like I was the only brown kid in Oak Grove, but… it was close.  And none of the Martinezes or the Sozas had kids my age, so.”

Finley reached across the table to put their hand over his, and had the good sense not to say anything.

Eventually Sammy turned his hand over to clasp Finley’s, and they sat in silence—companionable, not stilted—as the red sun sank behind the Jersey City skyline.

After dinner, Finley suggested they walk to a nearby ice cream place.  Sammy was more than eager to make the date last longer, so he grinned and said he was never going to turn down ice cream.

They left the restaurant by a different entrance, connecting into the mall.  Finley held open the door to the brightly-lit thoroughfare.

Sammy hesitated.  “I thought we were going to take turns opening doors for each other?”

His date grinned.  “Yeah, but you like this.”

He considered protesting, but a beat later stepped through, cheeks burning.  Sammy wasn’t about to admit anything out loud, but something deep within him blossomed warm and giddy.  He did like it.  Not because he was a newly-hatched trans girl, of course, because he wasn’t that.  Finley had said one half of the couple usually liked that sort of thing, and maybe he was that half of this couple.  He was okay with that.

He probably should not be thinking of himself and Finley as a couple, he realized, and flushed even more.

They ambled along the mall walkway without talking, but Sammy slowly became aware that Finley was less comfortable with the arrangement than he was.  The genderqueer was tapping their fingers on their thighs, looking furtively at Sammy and then away.  Were they actually nervous?

He leaned sideways to bump his shoulder against their upper arm.  “Okay, now it’s my turn.  Out with it.  Say the thing you keep not saying.”

“You got me,” they sighed, and then held their hand out, towards Sammy.  “I’d like to slip my arm around your waist as we walk.  But I don’t want to presume, for obvious reasons, so I need to ask…”

“Oh my god,” Sammy giggled, and stepped closer.  Finley’s hand slid across his back and settled against his far hip.  He mirror imaged his own arm around Finley and squeezed.  His head tipped against their shoulder, just for a moment, which felt wonderful.  “This is nice,” he murmured.  “And thank you for asking.”

“You didn’t actually let me get to the asking part,” his date pointed out, and added playfully, “Nor did you ask me—”

“Finley, shut up and enjoy this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They walked the length of the mall like that, talking only sporadically and about nothing of import.  Sammy could get used to… whatever this was.  A walking hug?  And Finley was smart and funny and charming, and something about their arm around him made Sammy feel… safe wasn’t the right word.  Taken care of?  Like Finley thought Sammy was worth holding onto—something special—and they weren’t shy about demonstrating it to everybody they passed in the mall.

Sammy’s musing was interrupted when Finley said, “Ooo!” and used their walking hug to steer them both into a hard ninety-degree turn, plunging directly into a store decorated in purple and pink.

“What’s happening?” Sammy asked, just slightly panicked, as they were suddenly surrounded by plastic teenybopper jewelry on all sides.  “Where are we?”

“Claire’s,” Finley answered cheerfully, and disengaged their arm from Sammy’s side.  He tried not to pout.  “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that Rowan didn’t bring you here during your shopping spree.”

“Uh, no.  Isn’t this place for, like, twelve-year-olds?”

“Twelve-year-olds and working class queers,” Finley corrected with a smirk. They grabbed Sammy’s hand and dragged him between the display racks.  “It’s not that Rowan has no appreciation for trash fashion, she just prefers designer trash fashion.”

“So we’re shopping, now?” Sammy asked, bemusedly allowing himself to be pulled through the claustrophobic store.

“Just for one quick thing,” Finley promised.  “I thought I saw it through the window—ah, here.”  They plucked something off a rack and tore its cardboard holder apart.  Sammy could mostly see wide black ribbon.  “Turn around?”

More than a little unsure, Sammy turned his back on Finley.  A moment later, their hands passed over his shoulders and exposed collarbones, fiddled for a heartbeat, and then laid the cool, plasticky necklance against his skin.  Fingertips brushed the side of Sammy’s neck, and then they were fastening the clasp behind him.

“There,” Finley said proudly, and with their hands on Sammy’s shoulders, turned him to face a mirror.  “Now your outfit is complete.”

Sammy’s immediate “oh, that’s right, I look like a girl” reaction blossomed as he took in his reflection, but over the last week it had been worn down to little more than half a second.  So he focused on the necklace that Finley had put on him.  It was simple—a wide black ribbon supporting an oversized white plastic cameo—and if he looked close as he was now, it was plainly cheap.  But this last week had also shown him that most of humanity did little more than glance at their fellows, and he doubted anyone would think really think poorly about him wearing a plastic pendant.

And it did complete the outfit rather nicely.

…even if it did draw attention down into his fake cleavage.

“It looks good, yeah,” he told Finley, and put on a smile.  Something tugged at his memory, though, and he scrutinized his reflection for a little longer, and finally laughed.  In his blue skater dress, black hair in a swishy bob, and now this necklace…  “I look like Betty Rubble.”

“Like a hot Betty Rubble, sure,” Finley grinned back through the mirror.  A trace of uncertainly flickered acoss their features.  “You like it, though?”

Sammy touched the generic figure on the cameo and nodded.  “I do, actually.”

Finley waved the cardboard backing the necklace had come from.  “Okay, let me go pay for it.”

“You’re buying me jewelry on our first date?” Sammy smirked through the mirror, raising one arch eyebrow.

Finley checked the back of the cardboard.  “I mean, I’m spending eight dollars, here,” they grinned, and disappeared behind the displays.

Sammy looked back at his reflection.  The necklace might be cheap plastic and ribbon, but it worked with everything else perfectly.  He stepped back, fitting his reflection into the thin display mirror.  Leaving his dorm room, he’d felt thrown together and rushed.  Now he looked poised and put together.  Was it the addition of the necklace, or just fewer nerves?

Sammy really wanted it to be the latter option, because Finley had been careful, sweet, and gentle.  He was having such a good time, and he was a lot less worried about how the date might go, now that it was mostly over.

But if he was being honest with himself, he was pretty sure the outfit was the larger part of his looking better.  If only he could swap out these little earring studs he was stuck with for something that properly complemented the necklace…

Finley returned, slipping a thin billfold into the pocket of their dress.  Sammy tamped down a sharp flash of envy; where had they got a sleek dress with pockets? The genderqueer met Sammy’s eyes in the mirror and held their hands out over his hips, question plain on their face.  Sammy smiled, and Finley’s hands settled over his hips comfortably.  He leaned back against them.

His date dropped their chin onto Sammy’s shoulder.  “Ice cream?”

Sammy placed his hands over Finley’s, squeezing softly in the hopes of silently communicating how the contact had been nice and his date should do it again.  With actual spoken words, he said, “Oooo, ice cream.”

The ice cream place was out the far end of the mall and a half-block down the street beyond that.  Despite the sun setting almost an hour ago, it was still warm out and Sammy had been happy that they’d exploited the mall’s air conditioning.  It was also, somehow, less crowded in the mall.  Now they had to dodge pedestrians on the last leg to the creamery, and holding hands was off the table.  Sammy contented himself with frequent shoulder bumps.

“It’s not the most prestigious medical school,” Finley was saying, “and not even the most prestigious school that I got accepted to.  They just put together a better financial aid package for me.  I’ll still be in debt for decades, but you know… one decade fewer sounds nice.”

“Finley in sunny California,” Sammy grinned.  “When do you go?”

“I move out of my apartment August 12^th,” came the answer.  “Lease is up then, so it’s convenient.  I’ll head home for a bit… Mom wants me there till the last minute, like three weeks, but I think I need some time to settle in before things start getting hectic.”

“That sounds like a good idea, yeah,” Sammy grinned.  “Home in small doses, even if it has a Runza with a view.”

“What about you, what are your plans?”

Sammy shrugged.  “I mean, I go home after the final exam, and then hopefully I’m back here a month later.”

“You will be,” Finley nodded encouragingly.  “You’re gonna crush it.  But I mean in broader strokes.  Major?  Grad school plans?”

“Oh gosh, that’s so many steps ahead,” he said, shaking his head.  “I don’t have any plans beyond ‘get into Columbia.’  Anything more concrete seems like setting myself up for disappointment.”

“There’s no rush,” his date insisted.  “And honestly, I think spending some time figuring out what you want to study and what you want to do after school… that’s a good thing.  Or maybe I just hang out with too many pre-meds who are super focused on—”

“Hey Tranny!” The shout cut through the humid, acrid air from across the street.  Finley rolled their eyes.

Sammy moved to turn, but Finley grabbed his arm to still him.  “Don’t even turn around.  Come on.”

He didn’t turn, so he scowled at his date instead.  “If somebody’s gonna shout slurs at me on the street, I want to flip him off at least.”

The man shouted across the street again, this time backed by other voices laughing.

“He’s not shouting at you, Samantha,” Finley told him with a wan smile.  With their arm around Sammy, they hastened their pace down the street.  “His idea of a tranny is somebody wearing a beard and a dress at the same time.”

“Hey chica!” came the next shout.  “Ditch the tranny and come on over here.  I’ll show you what a real man is like!”

Finley tipped their head slightly.  “Okay, now he’s shouting at you.”

“Does that mean I can flip him off?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” they answered, pulled open a storefront door, and guided Sammy inside.  “They’re probably harmless, but you never know.”

In the process of turning and stepping into the ice cream shop, Sammy cast a hasty glance back down the street.  The view was complicated by a tide of moving vehicles and a wash of pedestrians on the sidewalk opposite.  But the culprit was most likely the scruffy-looking man in tattered clothing, leaning on a lightpost and leering across the street at them.  If whoever had laughed along with him had stuck around, Sammy couldn’t spot them.

“He looks homeless,” he reported to Finley in a whisper.  The ice cream shop was tightly packed with display refrigerators blasting hot air out along the floor.  A rainbow of colours beckoned to them, but another couple was ahead of them, being helped by the sole worker.

“Might be,” his date said with a shrug.  “Not getting my sympathy today, though.”

“Yeah,” he answered weakly.  The couple ahead of them were taking their time.  “Seems weird, though, that he thinks a trans girl would wear a beard.”

“I mean, some do,” Finley shrugged.  “But it’s more that… he saw something different than he expected, it had something to do with gender presentation, and he’s only got one word to apply to that situation.”

Sammy made an agreeable sound, and then it was their turn to pick flavours.

Later, hunched around one of the two tiny little tables in the front of the store and halfway through their dessert, Sammy said, “Hey um.  Can I ask a question about… I mean it’s not really about the guy outside, but it’s sort of… tangentially related?”

His date made a show of calculated deliberation, and then pointed their spoon at Sammy’s ice cream.  “Only if you give me a bite of that lemon curd swirl.”

Sammy scooped out a generous spoonful and held it out to Finley, who grinned before slurping it up.  “Good, right?” he smiled, and then switched tack.  “He thought you were transgender, yeah, but… I don’t know how to ask this right but… are you?”

“You mean, do I self-identify as transgender,” his date rephrased for him, and bobbed their head.  “It’s a good question. Wish I had a good answer.”

“Well if you’re not going to give me the answer I paid for,” Sammy smirked, “it seems like you owe me a bite of ice cream.”  He leaned forward slightly and watched Finley’s eyes wobble down and snap back up, not quite taking the bait of cleavage that Sammy had put on display.

“It’s good chocolate,” Finley said, and scooped out a bite of theirs to hold forward.  “Not as good as your lemon curd, though.”

After sampling the bite, Sammy tipped his head side to side.  “I’m not sure I agree with your ranking, there.”

“You want to swap?”

“No,” Sammy smiled.  “But I think I do need another bite, just to make sure.”

“That so?”

“I can make it worth your while,” he proposed in a soft, tempting drawl that surprised even him.  Then he dangled his spoon, lumped high with yellow ice cream, between them.

“Well,” Finley smirked, and prepared their own spoonful.  “In the interest of rigorous testing.”

The two of them traded bites back and forth for a few minutes, which inevitably resulted in melted ice cream on the tips of both of their noses.  And then as both their paper bowls neared empty, Finley said, “So like, definitionally, I am transgender.  My realized gender does not match the gender I was assigned at birth.  So yeah, I’m trans.  Technically.”

Sammy nodded, accepting the belated answer and sudden return to the previous topic because, well, he wanted to know.

“But, like, colloquially?”  Finley grimaced.  “There’s a picture of what people think of when they think of transgender people, and I share… only some of those characteristics and experiences, you know?  I will never pass.  In fact I am trying, every day, not to pass.  As either binary gender.  So I don’t know if it’s a useful label in most contexts.  I’m happy just claiming genderqueer and leaving it at that.”

Sammy bobbed his head and held forward his spoon with the last of the lemon curd.  “That’s a good answer.”

“I’m glad we got to do this,” Finley said as the two of them approached Sammy’s dorm, steps slowing to prolong the tail end of the date.  The long summer day had finally surrendered to darkness, not that the humid heat had gone anywhere.  Campus was lit up around them, floodlights spilling across red brick and up alabaster columns.

“Me too,” Sammy murmured, and leaned his head against their shoulder.  He’d maneuvered them into a walking hug when the dorm came into view, savoring the contact.

“I really enjoyed getting to know you better,” they continued, and then grinned down at him.  “And I’m glad you decided to make it a date.”

“I didn’t decide that!”  Sammy recoiled, a little more affronted than he wanted to be.  “I decided that I’d like it to be a date.” He poked Finley’s shoulder.  “You decided it was a date when you asked me out on a date.”

“Is that what I did?” they asked, all skepticism and cheek.

“You may have played it cool when I asked if it was a date,” Sammy argued, trying to play it off as funny.  Why did this suddenly matter so much?  “But we both know what you were doing.”

They came to the foot of the stairs up to the dorm’s front door, and their steps came to a halt.  “Plausible.  Certainly sounds like something I’d do,” Finley said, and then their performative musing cracked into a devilish smirk.  “So.  Since this is and always was a date… may I kiss you goodnight?”

Sammy turned to face his date, slipped his arms around their waist, and smiled up at them.  “Please.”

Finley mirrored his smile, then slid one hand up his back until their fingers nestled into the hairs at the nape of Sammy’s neck.  They drew him close and gently pressed their lips together.  Soft and warm.

Sammy felt his eyes flutter closed more than he shut them with any intention.  Finley was taking their time, with slow, light kisses along his lips.  He pulled the genderqueer closer and might have made a little quavering sound he’d feel ashamed of if he wasn’t presently consumed by sensation.

And then Finley was pulling away gently, which brought out of Sammy a frustrated little squeal.  This wasn’t over, not yet!  He stood up on tip-toes to push his face into theirs, parting his lips to plant a little, inviting lick on Finley’s lower lip.

The movement unbalanced him and he wobbled slightly—damn sandals—but his date caught him with the simple expedience of their free hand cupped under his butt, holding him close.  Sammy giggled into the kiss; he could feel Finley’s lips curl into a responding smile.  Lips parted; tongues darted; Sammy started to run out of breath.  He didn’t particularly care.

Eventually, though, Finley set him back down on solid ground.  They pulled back, and this time Sammy’s head was spinning too fast to mount a bodily counter-argument.  His date nodded up the short stack of stairs behind Sammy.  “It’s slightly more pragmatic chivalry than holding restaurant doors open, but I’d like to see you safely through your front door before I head home.”

Sammy nodded absently; that made sense.  He staggered up the steps, fished keys out of his purse, and managed to get onto the other side of the glass door.  It latched and locked with an audible kerthunk.

Through the glass, Finley waved; without thinking, Sammy blew them a kiss.  He watched them turn and go, heart pounding.  At some point, after Finley was long out of sight, he rested his forehead against the door.  “Oh, this is bad,” he sighed to himself.  “So much for no distractions.”

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Title

The New Girl at Uskweirs Manor

a pastoral romance

by Miriam Robern

A Fateful House Party

---

Monmouthshire, May 1812

Miss Amelia Wright gained access to Uskweirs Manor by supplying a false name.  The attendant at the door dipped his head, murmured, “Of course, sir,” and gestured her within.

There was a party being held at the manor, but by popular account there was always a party being held at the infamous country estate.  The dull echo of music had flowed out of the open windows into the courtyard; as she stepped inside, the full cacophony of strings and voices and laughter washed over her.  The tide of noise was more than Amelia was entirely comfortable with, but she pressed on.

The foyer of the venerable manor house was peppered with guests standing in twos and threes, drinks in hand and smiles on their lips.  With so many conversations happening at once, everyone’s voice was raised in genial competition to be heard.  Amelia registered few personal details outside of the sweep of skirts and breeches pulled taut across finely-turned legs.  She was on a mission.

Lord Ashbourne, Viscount of Monmouth and master of Uskweirs Manor, was somewhere within this house party.  Amelia intended to secure an audience with the nobleman.  She willed herself not to think about the propriety of sneaking into someone’s house party without an invitation only to seek them out.  

Her old self was not usually this brazen, but she reminded herself that this was the new her.  This was the Amelia who didn’t deny herself what she wanted—what she needed.  She was the Amelia that reached out, the Amelia who seized opportunities, the Amelia who made her own opportunities if need be.  Or at least, she hoped she was.

She was terrified.

Amelia drifted through a pair of flung-open double doors into the ballroom.  Ruffles and lace and ribbons and fabric whirled and twisted before her.  She knew what Lord Ashbourne looked like—tall and regal, almost stretched out, but that might only be how the engravers illustrated him in the papers.  No one in the ballroom seemed a likely match and she turned to go.

But she turned to stare again at the dancers, to confirm what she had thought she’d seen.  There was a man out of place in the quadrille.  She watched as he bobbed and pranced through the steps to make sure she had seen right, but she had.  He was dancing in place of a woman, sharing a smile with his dancing partner when they joined hands again.  Amelia dragged her eyes away and hurried out of the ballroom.  

Surely, she thought, scanning the rest of the thronged party, there were enough guests here that no man would be unable to find a partner.  Or the rumors really were true and the parties here really were as scandalous as she’d heard.  As she’d hoped.

She passed through a sitting room filled well past capacity.  The couches and chairs were packed to bursting, hips abutting, arms stretched out behind and tucked in front, a tangle of bodies stuffed together with no sense of propriety.  Every tabletop, too, was full of half-drunk glasses.  Gales of laughter and giggling filled the room.  Amelia spied one young woman who, for want of a seat, had simply sprawled across three other guests, smiling up from the lap of her conversation partner, chatting away merrily.

What would Amelia’s parents think of such a party?  What would they think of her, if they knew she was here?  Her heart pounded in her chest.  She didn’t care, she told herself, which wasn’t wholly true, but it was more true now than it had been yesterday.  Besides, they had never properly debuted her to society, so really, her ending up here was on their heads.  The thought made her titter uncontrollably.

A footman appeared at Amelia’s elbow, bearing a platter of coupes filled to the brim with champagne.  She gratefully accepted one, if only to forestall her titter from progressing further.  She thanked the servant and caught his eye long enough to ask, “Do you know where I might find Lord Ashbourne?”

Lord Ashbourne apparently preferred the cool of the gardens to the heat of the house, and the footman gave her simple directions to get there.  She sipped at her champagne and set off, fussing with her ill-fitting jacket.  This, in turn, reminded her of the breeches she’d struggled into, how maddeningly tight they were, and how if she walked too quickly the fabric would audibly creak.  She downed the rest of her champagne and let her head swim at the fuzzy burn of alcohol rather than let her mind blunder onward to complaining about the cravat, too.

Her route out of the house took her through a spacious parlor that had been turned into a labyrinth of guests sitting at small tables playing cards.  The din of conversation was muted, here, but interrupted every few moments by shouts and groans from one table or another.  Amelia threaded her way through the tables, trying not to bump into the players, who were all focused on their cards, anyway.

A man seated across the table before her threw down his cards in crowing victory.  The rest of the table’s melodramatic groans quickly gave way to jeers and pointing at another player who had revealed his cards with good-natured chagrin.  The winner beckoned him to draw closer.  He complied with a smile.

Amelia watched in fascination as the two men shared a lingering kiss as the rest of their table cheered them on.  When one of the men began to crawl into the other’s lap, she realized that she was staring.  She beat a hasty retreat—but turned back when she had put two tables between her and the display.  They were still kissing.  The rest of their table had apparently turned to conversation and shuffling the cards for a new deal.

Where in hell was she?

Amelia burst out of the house and onto the back portico.  The cool night air seemed to welcome her, brushing away the cloying atmosphere from inside.  She took a long, steadying breath and looked around to orient herself.  Steps swept down onto a wide terrace, the first of many that structured the elaborate gardens behind the house.  There were scattered guests out enjoying the gardens in the gathering twilight.  A few pavillions were set out on the lawn below.  That must be where the master of the house was holding court.

She had some time to collect herself as she decended the steps, chiding herself for her shock.  She had come all the way out to the edge of Wales, to the most notorious manor in the kingdom, to sneak into a party she hadn’t been invited to.  And she’d done it all alone, without a chaperone or guide.  She had no reason to be scandalized.

Was she scandalized, though?  Shocked, certainly.  None of this was something that one was accustomed to seeing.  She had imagined quite a lot of it, if she was being honest, but her mind’s eye was not the same as seeing.  And sure, she’d slipped out of her father’s townhouse before, to visit houses of ill repute, even.  There she saw everything put on gaudy display, but somehow it was different when it was ladies and gentlemen, not professionals plying their trade.

Perhaps it just took some time to get used to.

Amelia hoped that she’d have the opportunity to get used to it.

Snippets of a conversation came to her through the cool garden air, equal parts muffled words and smothered laughter.  Probably a pair of lovers, she thought, flirting on the other side of the tall hedge she walked down.  Scandalous anywhere else, of course: a man and a woman, out of the sight of their chaperones, would ruin both their reputations.  But perhaps it was different, here at Uskweirs.  Perhaps it could be simple, innocent fun, instead of needlessly and permanently labelling them as a slut and a cad.  Amelia turned the corner at the end of the hedge, stumbled to a halt, and gasped.

It was not a man and a woman.  It was a man, a woman, another man, and another woman.  They were not flirting.  They were quite naked.  Clothes were strewn all around them on the close-clipped garden grass.  The four of them were arranged like nested spoons except for the last woman, who sat astride the other woman’s face— Amelia looked away.

“Hey there, handsome!” called the woman whose tongue wasn’t already engaged.  It took a moment for Amelia to realize that she was being addressed.  She hazarded another glance at the quartet, who had not slackened their pace for her sake at all.  The woman crooked a finger at Amelia.  “You wanna join us?”

Amelia stammered something politely negative as she staggered back around the thick hedge.  Laughter followed her, but she couldn’t tell if it was directed at her, or the natural product of the open-air bacchanal she fled from.

She was more careful about her route through the gardens from there on out, keeping to the broader, more open areas, where she could see what she was walking into.  This did not mean she avoided other nude couplings—the gardens were apparently full of such assignations—but she was at least able to give them a wide berth.

It occured to her that the viscount might be one of the disrobed men that she was avoiding, and she worried not only over missing him but also making a poor first impression.  Finally she concluded that, even if he were, she would hardly be able to have a chat with him while he was… otherwise engaged.

Someone, somewhere, was calling out a name, now, not in the throes of passion, but as if they’d lost their friend in the maze of gardens.  That seemed plausible enough.  Amelia turned at another call, this time clearer; the caller had appeared at the opposite end of the terrace that she was about to exit.  A stout gentleman in a dark blue jacket and cream breeches, it looked like.  She turned onto another gravel pathway and down the steps to the next terrace below.

“Mister Frobisher!” rang out the call again, and Amelia shook her head at the futility of the search.  Wherever Mister Frobisher was, it was doubtful he wanted to be found.  The searcher was apparently following the same path that she was, as the voice seemed to grow closer and clearer.

Something nagged at the back of Amelia’s brain.  She was most of the way across the terrace before she remembered where she’d heard the name Frobisher before: it was the false name she’d supplied to the doorman.  She stumbled to a halt and looked behind her.

“There you are, Mister Frobisher,” laughed her pursuer, and strode down the pathway with an extended hand.  “I didn’t expect to see you here, but in London next week.  What a happy coincidence.”

Amelia bit back a swallow.  As the figure came closer to both her and the light of a nearby bonfire, she could see that what she had mistaken to be a stout gentleman was in fact a woman in the clothes of a gentleman.  A handsome woman, with strong features, jet black hair cut short and pulled back in a sailor’s knot, and a generous bustline gamely contained in what must have been a inventively tailored jacket.  Amelia hardly knew what to make of her.  She extended her hand to shake and said something clever, like “Um.”

“Theresa Chesterley,” the woman introduced herself with a fierce smile.  “We’ve corresponded by post.  You’re printing some pamphlets for me.  The Daughters of Wollstonecraft.  I can’t tell you how happy I was to find someone who’d take on material that is so maligned and yet so important.”

Of course; Amelia had only realized the need for a false name while reading in the carriage-house the night before.  She had seized the name closest to hand: the publisher of the book she was reading.  “I’m sorry,” she stammered.  “I think you’ve… got me confused with someone else.”

Chesterley tipped her head, expression cloudy.  “The doorman said you were Mister Frobisher.  You’re not Edwin Frobisher of Fleet Street?”

“Oh, ahm, no,” Amelia scrambled to answer.  “That’s my—my brother.  I’m… John.  John Frobisher.  I’m not in printing.  Like my brother.  Edwin.”

The woman considered Amelia for a long moment, eyes slowly narrowing.  And then, quite suddenly, her hand came down like a clamp on Amelia’s elbow and a knife had appeared in her free hand.  “Edwin Frobisher doesn’t have a brother.”

“Oh my, that’s… that’s not at all necessary,” Amelia begged.  “It’s… it’s a false name, I admit it; but there’s no need for—”

The knife pressed up against Amelia’s ribs.  “Who’d you come to malign and denigrate, hm?  Which of my friends’ lives did you think you’d ruin with exposure?”

“No, it’s not that—” Amelia gasped, but her captor wasn’t hearing any of it.

“Start walking,” she directed, with a shove towards the lawn.  “I’m taking you to Ashbourne.  For his sake, not yours, because I’m a considerate guest.”

Amelia decided not to mention that she was looking for the Viscount, herself.

Ashbourne was, in fact, under the white pavillion on the lawn.  A number of rugs had been laid out across the grass, populated with couches and chairs and endtables to hold the ubiquitous drinks.  Most of the seating stood empty; twilight had fully fallen and what guests had been enjoying the lawn had since left it to seek other diversions.  Two older men reclined on a single couch, one in an eye-wateringly bright fushcia jacket, the other in pale powder blue.  The man in pink was resting his head in the lap of the man in blue, and they were sharing a private chuckle when the two ladies came into the tent.

The man in blue noticed them first.  “Miss Chesterley, have you brought me a present?  At knifepoint?”

“An interloper,” the woman responded, not letting go of Amelia’s arm.  “Impersonating my publisher.  I don’t know who he’s here for, but I thought I’d bring him to you.”

The pink-clad man didn’t bother to sit up, but watched Amelia from the other man’s lap, eyes alight.

“I apologize, Lord Ashbourne,” Amelia blurted quickly, before everyone else in the tent could decide her fate for her.  “I gave a false name.  I’m here without invitation.”

The man in pink tittered.  “Invitation.  Invitation!  Can you imagine?”

“My dear, no one is here by invitation,” Ashbourne chuckled, absently petting the balding pate of the man in his lap.  “Committing such details to paper is just tempting fate.”  

“If it comes to it, my lord,” Chesterley offered, “I can dispose of a body so no one will find it.”

All the blood rushed out of Amelia’s head and she teetered on her feet.  What had she got herself into?

But the viscount’s lips only twitched upwards at the woman’s suggestion.  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Theresa.”  He then leaned back and considered Amelia for a long moment, his pale grey eyes roving up and down, lingering on her hands, her face.  “In fact, I think you can dispense with the knife entirely.”

“Milord?”

Now Ashbourne rolled his eyes.  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Chesterley, but I think I have the situation under control.  You may go.  I’d like to speak with my guest in private.”

Whatever other civilized rules were ignored here, a dismissal from a viscount was not one of them.  Chesterley released Amelia’s elbow, made the knife disappear, and stalked off into the night.  The handful of others under the pavillion decided it was time to see the rest of the party.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Ashbourne asked as if Amelia had not been held at knifepoint until a moment before.  “I am, of course, Lord Ashbourne.  This creature splayed out like a drunken kitten is Lord Mulvey.  And what may we call you, my dear?”

“Think before you answer,” Mulvey advised, eyes closed.  “You shouldn’t lie to a great lord of the land.”

Amelia sat down on a chair that was mostly facing the two lords, folding her hands together between her knees.  She obviously couldn’t continue with Frobisher.  Not that she had come here to lie to Ashbourne, great lord of the land or no.  She had imagined this moment, over and over again, in her mind’s eye.  She would stand before Lord Ashbourne, give her proper name, and ask for his help.  But now that the moment was before her, she quailed before it.

“I thought I’d be standing up,” she murmured.

Ashbourne didn’t answer immediately.  “Then by all means, stand, if it makes it easier for you.”

She laughed off the suggestion, but then she stood, anyway.  He watched her patiently.   “My name is Amelia Wright, milord.  And I am hoping that you can help me.”

He nodded once, slowly, as if he had known her name all along, breeches and cravat or no.  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Wright.  How can I help you?”

“You see, it’s a… it’s a strange request.”

“We get a lot of interesting requests here at Uskweirs,” the viscount assured her, the correction so mild she almost missed it.

“Yes, milord,” she agreed with a slight smile, and paused to gather herself.  She’d already given him her name, after all.  “They say a lot of interesting things about Uskweirs.  That you can help with a lot of interesting situations.  And perhaps you can help with mine.”

Lord Ashbourne lifted a single eyebrow.  “I’d like to try, Miss Wright, but you’ll have to tell me what it is, first.  You need to say it out loud.”

Amelia steeled herself, fists clenched.  Forced herself to speak the words: “I don’t want to live as a man any more.”

When she opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—Lord Ashbourne was watching her with a soft, avuncular smile.  “Of course you don’t, my dear.  It doesn’t seem to suit you at all.”

“It doesn’t,” she breathed.  “But it seems… impossible.”

“Difficult and impossible are two different things,” Lord Mulvey opined from Lord Ashbourne’s lap.

“Indeed,” the viscount agreed.  “Miss Wright, may we have the pleasure of your company for an extended visit to Uskweirs?  We’d be ever so happy to have you.”

---

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Title

The New Girl at Uskweirs Manor

a pastoral romance by Miriam Robern

The Impossible

---

Monmouthshire, May 1812

The dress was nothing special, but it was taunting her from across the room.

That is where the maid, presumably, had laid it out while Amelia slept.  The Uskweirs house staff had also fetched her luggage from the nearby carriagehouse and quietly unpacked it into her room.  She could see her trunk in the corner; her hair brush had been placed on the vanity.  But in addition to the breeches and waistcoats and cravats that she’d brought to Monmouthshire, someone had added a house dress, carefully spread over the back of the vanity chair.

And it really was nothing special: light cream falling in soft folds, the same short bodice and long skirt as almost everyone had been wearing last night. She could feel its silky texture from across the room.  Under that sheer colored fabric lay a white muslin shift, neatly folded in the seat of the chair.

The latter was presumably an identical garment to the one that Amelia was already wearing, that she wasn’t terribly sure the provenance of.  The details of the prior evening were all murky after accepting the Viscount’s invitation.  She had been shown to a room, the bed had been turned down, she didn’t have a nightshirt but the shift had been provided (had it been laid out on the bed?).  She had stripped off waistcoat and breeches, pulled on the sleepwear, and collapsed into bed.

This morning she’d spied the dress before rising, and like a terrified prey animal, she hadn’t moved since.  Now she and the dress were locked in a staring contest.

Her belly informed her that it expected breakfast soon.  Breakfast, which would be served downstairs among all the other houseguests, strangers all.  Did the Viscount expect her to come down dressed in that?  That was exactly what Amelia wanted to do—the impulse was thrumming under her skin, compelling her to snatch up the soft, silky garment and bury her face in its folds—but the prospect was nothing short of terrifying.

If she went down dressed in that, everyone would look at her.  They would know.  They would wonder what was wrong with her—or perhaps they wouldn’t wonder, because they were houseguests at Uskweirs, after all, but then that was worse because then they would know.

She briefly considered vomiting, which would preclude hunger and postpone dressing that much longer, but didn’t want to make a mess for the house staff to clean up.

She debated putting it on in the privacy of her room.  Trying it on, seeing what it looked like in the mirror: that didn’t necessarily mean that she had to wear it downstairs.  But would she be able to take it off again?  If wearing the dress felt like she hoped it would, she would be filled with such terrible confidence that she might just march downstairs in it.

She couldn’t.

Her stomach complained again—dimly, she realized she hadn’t eaten anything the evening prior—and she hauled herself out of bed.  Without looking at the dress, she crossed the room to the wardrobe and found her familiar ugly clothes.  They would do for breakfast.

—

Only once the Viscount had led her outside, the breakfast table far behind them, did Ashbourne ask how she was feeling that morning.  His voice was gentle, his expression kindly.  Amelia stopped up the immediate rush of tears that threatened to spill all over everything.

“That well, hm?” he murmured, and glanced backwards.  “We are out of everyone’s sight.  It is terribly forward of me, but I can offer you an embrace and a shoulder for you to cry on.  I’m sure there is an absolute tumult inside of you.”

Grinding tears from her eyes, Amelia looked back herself, finding only hedgerows and flowers behind them.  “That’s… very kind, but… I don’t think I could…”

“An arm, then?” he suggested, proferring said appendage.

She grasped it as if it were a liferaft in a freezing storm.

“There, now,” he murmured, patting her hand on his arm and directing them deeper into the garden.  “And before your brain leaps forward to worry how anyone might perceive two people in breeches leaning on each other in the gardens, I assure you it’s quite an ordinary sight around here.”

“I… came upon a few people in the gardens last night,” Amelia said, without thinking.

“I’m sure they did, too,” the Viscount responded with a twist in the corner of his lip.  “What happens here can be rather… intimidating to the uninitiated.  Was it a difficult gauntlet to run?”

“No,” she answered immediately—politely, deferentially—but the trailing vowel drew out longer than she intended, and to her surprise she found she wasn’t done speaking.  “Well.  There were a few rather shocking tableaux… more than a few, in all honesty.  But the difficulty wasn’t in seeing them, but in feeling… somewhat guilty at being shocked by them.  Naked lovers in the garden aside, most of it was just… a party.”

The Viscount made an encouraging sound and turned a corner down a hedgerow, letting her speak.

“There was one woman, early in the… well, early in my run through your gauntlet,” she went on, a slight smile tugging at her cheek.  “There were three or four people hip-to-hip on the sofa.”

“Scandalous,” Ashbourne hissed, softly enough so as not to actually interrupt.

“Yes, but on top of them, laid out across them all, was this young woman.  And she was simply talking with the gentleman in whose lap she rested her head.”  She paused, looked at a rosebush without really seeing the blooms.  “She looked so comfortable.  I envied her desperately.  And also I was shocked at her pose.  And also I didn’t think I should feel shocked.  Because it seemed so… natural to her.  At ease.  I think that’s what I envied the most.”

“The siren song of the libertines,” Ashbourne mused.  “Drop your burdens and be at ease with yourself.  Which is easier said than done, of course.”

“It seems impossible.”

He nodded, looking off into the trees.  “It’s meant to, I think.  The walls of the corral must look unscalable, lest the sheep remember they can jump.”

“I couldn’t wear the dress you had laid out for me,” Amelia confessed, rather needlessly given that she was plainly not wearing said dress.  “I… I wanted to, but… I didn’t know who would be at breakfast, and I couldn’t—”

“Hush, dear,” Ashbourne soothed, petting her hand.  “I apologize if it was too much.  I wanted to give you the option, if you were inclined to take it.  Most of the current houseguests will trickle off over the course of the day.  Breakfast tomorrow will be a much more private affair.  You can wear the dress then, or not, however the morning takes you.”

“Perhaps it is for the best,” she found herself saying.  “I haven’t embarassed myself before the crowd.  I can set out today as well,” her mouth kept moving, flapping along on a wave of panic flooding through her.  “We can forget I was ever here.”

Ashbourne rested his hand on top of hers and brought their leisurely pace to a halt.  “I think that would be a poor choice on your part,” he told her gravely, seeking out and holding eye contact.  “If you wish to leave, of course you may, and if you wish to be forgotten, I will do that for you.  But I think that path will only deliver you to sadness.”

She looked into his grey eyes for the longest time.  Finally, she breathed, “But it’s impossible.”

He smiled, making the wrinkles around his eyes bunch up tighter.  “I can tell you with certainty that it is not.  I’ve seen it with my own eyes.  Watched the entire process.”

Amelia’s heart threatened to hammer right out of her ribcage. 

Ashbourne started moving again, his arm under hers gently guiding her back into motion.  For a moment she stared down at their intertwined arms, trying to make sense of the image.  His arm jutted out, elbow gently cocked, steady and unmoving.  Hers wrapped around and over his, curved and coiled, taking the proferred support.  Had she ever linked arms with someone like this?  Like a woman?

“Tell me how you came to us?” he suggested, the soft upturn in his voice making it clear that it she could dissemble as easily as answer.

“I’ve had your name for months, nearly a year, but I hesitated,” Amelia admitted with a sigh.  “I was referred to you, if you can call it that, by Mademoiselle d’Eon.”

Ashbourne immediately made an awkward, half-choked sound, as if he were beating down an involuntary response.  “Nasty business,” he growled, and then his voice turned even darker to snarl. “Those proceedings should never have been performed, let alone published.”  But then he sniffed and forced a smile to bestow on Amelia.  “But I gather it brought you to us.”

“Yes,” she answered with a bob of her head.  “You see, I thought at first that she’d been putting me on.  I… paid to have an audience with her, which sounds tawdrier than I like to admit.  And I thought perhaps she was only telling me what I wanted to hear, to string me along.”  She looked at the gravel path slowly passing under their feet and tried to not remember the damp little room with its moldering wallpaper and the pathetic little bed in its center.  “The interview was not pleasant, and to be perfectly honest I had a decidedly uncharitable reaction to the conditions to which she’d been reduced.  I resolved to put it from my mind entirely, but then the autopsy…”

The Viscount looked off to the horizon.  “‘Roundness of limbs, breasts remarkably full,’ if I remember correctly.  So kind of the newspapermen to banish all speculation as to the lady’s sex at the trivial cost of stripping her corpse of what small tatters of dignity remained.”

Amelia nodded guiltily.  “As you say.  It should never have been performed or published, no matter how much celebrity she’d gathered in life.  But I am ashamed to say that I was just as tempted as any other voyeur, and when I read the articles… there it was, in black and white.  Which made me consider her referral in a different light.”

Ashbourne nodded slowly.  “The mademoiselle was a regular guest here for some time.  As far back, in fact, as when she called herself Charles.”  He pronounced the name with a French curl to it, and a soft ch.  “We knew she was a spy, of course—she never made it much of a secret—but she was also a friend.  For some time.”

“And the… techniques she used,” Amelia pressed, “she learned here?”

He chuckled at that.  “In the end, I think she taught us as much as we taught her.  But yes.  The techniques she used are available here.  If you’re willing to apply them.”

“How can I not?” Amelia breathed, heedless with relief and hope.

“Some are rather distasteful,” he told her, as if she wanted an answer to her question.  “And many take a great deal of time, and patience, and quite frankly harder work than that which someone of your station is accustomed.  It is not an easy thing, and others have started only to give it up.”

She bit back her immediate response.  Unlike many of her peers, Amelia understood that she enjoyed a life of relative luxury.  She knew from experience that her family’s money and station meant that she could have most anything she wanted. The girl had blown through all manner of indulgences, especially after she had realized what she actually wanted.  That one, the impossible one, she could never ask for.  So she asked for all the others for a good long time, not that they ever satisfied for long.  Not when she knew what she really wanted.

Here in the cool morning air of the most disreputable manor house in the kingdom, she wondered at her long refusal to ask.  She had not shared how she felt with her parents, her brother, her best friend.  Had it been fear of their censure that held her back, or the fact that this want, unlike all the other trifles, would take work?

She hadn’t known it was even possible… but no.  That was a lie she had told herself.  She had known it was possible.  Possible and scandalous.  Unnatural.  Sinful, even.  But there had always been stories, and for all her adult life there had been the Mademoiselle-Chevalier d’Eon gallavanting through the newspapers.  The crowing over whether d’Eon was a ‘he’ or a ‘she’ banished all confusion.  The possibility had always been there.

The simple fact was that she had made herself forget that it was possible many times over.  She had convinced herself that d’Eon was a charlatan, that the other stories were just rumors.  She told herself that it might be possible for some blessed others—specially touched by the gods like Tiresias—but not for her.  Possible for those who would put in the work.

All she had ever been was a spoiled little girl.  The daughter of a duke who didn’t know he had a daughter because she’d never screwed up the courage to tell him.  She’d never worked at anything her whole life.  And now she thought she could do this?

“A friend of mine recently passed,” she found herself saying.  “We’d grown up together, gone to school together.  He was thrown from his horse in the street.  Broke his leg.  We thought he would recover, but… a fever took him.  He was gone before I could even visit.”

Ashbourne’s hand was warm atop hers.  “Condolences, my dear.  It’s so much more difficult when they go too young.”

“He was going to propose,” she tried to explain.  “He’d written me, confiding that he was… quite smitten, and hopeful.  He had her father’s permission.  He had been riding to her home when…”  Her grip on his arm tightened involuntarily. “When something startled his horse.”

They stepped out of the hedge maze onto a promontory that overlooked the manor grounds and the landscape beyond.  The rugged welsh terrain rolled out before them; the ribbon of the River Usk glimmered among the rippling fields and horse-dotted pastures.  Fingers of morning mist were still retreating into the crooks of hills.

“Anthony didn’t get to live his life,” she told the tableau.  “And I haven’t been living mine.  When my time does come, I want to have been living my life.  No matter how much work it is to do so.”

The Viscount contemplated the landscape with her for a long while.  “Very well, then.”

—

“Finally, some housekeeping details,” he said later, waving his hand as if they were trivial and unimportant even as he added, “Rather important housekeeping details.”  He scowled ahead to the house, which they were fast approaching.

She nodded and tried to look attentive.

Ahead of them, a handful of guests lounged about the patio, chatting and reading.  Ashbourne slowed his steps to keep the conversation private.  “You must treat Uskweirs a bit like Faerieland,” he explained.  “There are different rules here which must be followed, and there are grave consequences if they are not.”

She smiled in no small measure of relief.  “Your grace, there is nothing I would appreciate more than having the rules of this place laid out clearly and explicitly.  That is a favor which I have often longed for in other milleux.”

“No one is invited to Uskweirs,” the Viscount began, his measured tone belying how often he had recited the faerie rules of his manor.  “Everyone who is here found their own way here.  We went over that last night.  So no one is invited to Uskweirs, but also: no one ever visits Uskweirs.”

Amelia frowned softly.  “I’m not following.”

“No one admits to visiting Uskweirs,” he clarified, watching her closely for understanding.  “You don’t talk about your time here.  You don’t talk about who you saw here.  You don’t talk about what you saw here.  Not to anyone that you haven’t seen here at Uskweirs with your own eyes.”

She nodded, but that didn’t seem sufficient.  “I would never betray this confidence, your grace.”

He patted the small of her back with a smile that turned from affectionate to indulgent. “Now, feel free to talk about what you heard happened here all you like.  Hearsay.  Gossip.  Make up even more salacious details that you heard about; it’s something of a little game that many of our guests play.  But you were never here, yourself.  So you never saw anything yourself.”

“Of course.”

“Uskweirs is a house of secrets and trust,” he went on with less cant and more fluidity to his voice.  Off script, perhaps? “No one comes here for reasons that can be public knowledge. And many of us have more than one reason, layers of secrets, that bring us here, that make here make sense to us and for us.  If someone trusts you with any of their secrets, you keep them, even from other guests at Uskweirs.”

Amelia tried to make her nod as earnest as possible.

“There are some men here who enjoy sex with other men,” Ashbourne explained, without a trace of reproach to his voice.  “Some men here long for romance with other men.  Some men want both.  Some men are here because their wives enjoy sex with other men. Or the man may not be a man at all.  You can’t tell why any given man is here at Uskweirs, you should not presume to know, and you ought not ask.  A man might proposition another man for some naked exercise in the gardens, of course.  But that’s quite a different thing than asking if he’s here for dick over the canapés.  Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Amelia nodded.  “Just because manners are a bit more relaxed doesn’t mean discretion is completely disregarded.”

Ashbourne nodded.  “You will grow accustomed to it, and rather quickly. Just… err on the side of tact until then, hm?”

“I usually err on the side of intimidated silence,” Amelia said with a wan smile.  “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Ashbourne chuckled, and then started his litany from the top again.  “House of Secrets and Trust.  No one has ever been invited to Uskweirs and no one has ever visited Uskweirs… but a few people have been banned from visiting.”  His voice grew grave.  “They spoke when they ought not.  They took it upon themselves to invite others.  And now they’re no longer welcome.  I hate to do it, but it is occasionally necessary to preserve the safety of everyone else.  Many of our guests are of a social caliber that protects them from consequences, but most are not.  And I take the safety of my guests very seriously.”

“Despite no one ever visiting you,” she agreed with a slight smirk.

But he did not mirror her amusement back.  Instead, he looked pained to continue. They stopped, at the edge of the gardens with the doors back into the solarium a stone’s throw away.  “And lastly…. understand that if you try to go to the authorities—a magistrate, the church, the House of Lords—to stir up trouble for us…”  His blue-grey eyes were suddenly on her, boring into her.  She could not look away.  “I will destroy you.  Socially.  Politically.  Financially.  In every way that matters.”

Amelia tried to smile, to chuckle, to alleviate the sudden, vicious seriousness in his previously avuncular manner.  But her face refused to answer her; her eyes were trapped in his icy gaze.  She managed a shaky nod without moving her eyes at all.  “Yes, your grace.  Of— of course, your grace.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, and then nodded.  “Good.  Now since you’ll be staying with us for some time, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter.”  With gentle guidance, he directed the both of them toward the house.

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