Andy Wren shook his head. Had he heard the guy right? "You want me to do what to be on your show?"

The guy sighed. "Look it's called Reality TV, and that's not just the genre, it's the title and the whole schtick. A houseful of people who will all go about their normal lives for a whole year while crossdressing."

 

Andy blinked. "You mean the -- the guys will dress as girls and the girls will dress as guys?" It sounded dumb enough to be a real Hollywood idea.

"That's right." The producer's assistant, whose name was Phil Bollard, nodded. "You got it." He had a soul patch beard and a shaved head and he was a white guy. He looked like Howie Mandell's creepy younger brother.

"I don't..." began Andy.

"Before you say no, listen to the whole deal. We pay rent and expenses for a whole year, find you a job, provide medical and dental insurance, and training to make this work. You get a monthly stipend, too, and a big bonus check at the end." Phil beamed.

"You've... It's got to be a joke, right?" Andy fidgeted in the interview chair. He'd taken a day off his job in the Palmdale library to come down to Burbank to interview for this show--in a Starbucks on San Fernando. He wondered if he had made a mistake, the hundred fifty bucks or so it cost him in lost wages, busfare, glossies and a digital sample video would make things tight this month.

Phil tried to reassure him. "No, no, we're perfectly serious about this. Rent and expenses up to $2000 a month. Stipend is $500 cash and $500 into a bank account. Stay all the way to the end and we will add triple the bank account plus $1000. That totals to $31,000 in addition to whatever you earn in the job we find you and we've paid your rent and household expenses --including wardrobe!-- and you got insurance to boot."

Andy shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, frowning. Living as a girl for a whole year? Wasn't that what those creepy people on Oprah and Jerry Springer did?

Outside it was February, windy and cold in the Los Angeles Basin--well, cold for LA--warm and comfortable inside the coffee shop. Phil leaned forward and pushed the venti latte cups aside. "Look, you want to be an actor, huh?"

"It's... Yeah." Andy kept it simple. Obviously he wanted to be an actor after preparing for this interview.

"Think about what playing a crossdresser did to Tom Hanks' career," suggested Phil.

Andy made a face again. First of all, Tom Hanks was brilliant and Andy would have to be a fool to think he was half as good. Second, that old sitcom probably didn't have that much to do with Hanks' later success.

Phil laughed. "Look, you're only 5'5", you weigh, what, less than 110 pounds? You're blond, blondish, don't have much beard, you'll probably be able to pass the first day. You got the face for it, too. We'll get you a job as a receptionist or something."

"It just feels weird, the whole idea," Andy muttered. It felt very weird in multiple very weird ways.

"You won't be alone," Phil said. "We plan to have eight people living together, four guys and four girls, with genders swapped. It'll be an adventure and you'll make money."

"I was planning to go to college, get my degree..." Andy trailed off. "I graduated high school midterm." The idea of other people being in on the whole thing, participating, knowing things about him, set him off on an entirely new tangential freak out.

"That's good!" said Phil. "We can pay tuition and buy your books, get you just a part-time job so you can study. What do you want to study? You been accepted anywhere?"

Andy shook his head. "I thought I'd go to Antelope Valley for a year or two. Just get some general ed out of the way. It's all I can afford anyway."

Phil looked at the screen of his tablet computer. "You're seventeen? Living with your folks? Think they'd sign for you to do this?"

Andy blinked. "Just my dad. Mom lives in Arizona." What would his father say to this deal? Andy blushed to think.

"We can get you into a better school than a JC in Palm-fucking-dale, kid," said Phil confidently. "We haven't decided where we're filming yet, maybe Malibu. You could go to Pepperdine, study Theater or Film. That ought to help convince one of your folks to sign."

"I dunno."

"What if we sweetened the deal a bit? Ten thousand dollar signing bonus, half for you, half for the Mom or Dad that signs you up?"

Andy blinked.

Phil doodled something on the iPad. "We might could go higher than that."

"When..." Andy started.

"When what?" Phil looked eager, ready to pounce.

"When would you start? Filming..."

Phil shrugged. "Taping. April. May probably. Get a year in and have time for post-production before going on the air next fall. Not this fall, next year." He looked at Andy with a sly expectant expression. "You're thinking about it, huh?"

Andy didn't speak. His expression might have meant anything. Jobs were hard to get, acting jobs especially. He'd tried out for several spots, figuring that he could play a high schooler on a soap opera. But nothing had clicked and the soaps weren't hiring anyway. Cable reality shows were just about all there was in Hollywood these days.

He sighed and bit his lip. He and his dad did not get along anymore. He needed to move.

Phil waited him out, looking confident.

Andy shook his head. "It's not enough money, what you're offering. A year of my life should be worth more than just double minimum wage." He hardly believed he had said that. What was more astonishing, that he might agree to be in such a whacked-out project or that they might pay what he was going to ask?

Phil smiled. "With rent and expenses, it's more than that already. How much do you want, kid?"

Andy swallowed hard. "I want a quarter million, total. And a play-or-pay contract, if you guys back out of everything you have to give me at least half of what I would have got paid. Oh, and a share of movie rights, gross."

Phil whistled. "Think big, huh?" He smiled. "And who told you about play-or-pays?" His smile widened to a grin. "You're lucky, the producers have seen your glossies and your sample. They want you for this. I'm not sure they want you that bad, but maybe we can work something out."

Andy smiled but not with confidence. I'm going to do it? I've got to be out of my mind, he told himself.

When does reality begin and fantasy end?

 

It bothered Andy only a little that his meeting with Phil in the Starbucks had been filmed. Modern cameras and the aesthetic of reality shows meant hardly anyone else had noticed. No big lights, no clapboard, no hanging microphones; just three guys standing a bit away from the table, one holding a reflective piece of cardboard, one a tiny camera no bigger than a juicebox and one heavy guy with a beard and a tablet computer.

The guy with the beard was Martin Wohlers, the director, who only said, "We can use some of that," before wandering off to another table where a half-eaten blueberry scone attracted his attention.

"We'll need to get with your dad and some of the lawyers from the network and the producer," said Phil. "Work out the details of an offer."

Andy shook his head. "I'll meet with the lawyers and producer, leave my dad out of it until you need a signature."

"Uh," said Phil.

"That's the only way this will work," said Andy. "Trust me, I know my dad."

Phil shrugged. "Okay, can you come by the producers' office tomorrow? About 10? We'll buy lunch."

Andy hesitated. "That's a long trip, I don't drive and I'll have to take another day off work."

Phil nodded. "Can you make some calls and just stay the night? Then tomorrow afternoon, we'll drive you home and get your dad's signature if everything is copacetic."

Andy thought about it. "I guess so. How about some front money, an advance?"

Phil smiled. "Two hundred enough? And an expense account for food, transportation and a hotel room?"

Andy braced himself and said in a cool voice. "Five."

Phil laughed and pulled the money from the belt pouch he wore under his sweater.

Andy made the calls on Phil's cellphone since his own was a pay-as-you-go plan. His boss, Dr. Sumpwell seemed pleased that Andy might be getting a job in television, which was all that he told her. Andy's dad seemed uninterested in the details except he asked if he was expected to cook his own dinner and breakfast.

"There's stuff in the freezer, Dad," Andy muttered before hanging up, glad that the calls at least were not being filmed or recorded.

Phil, who must have phenomenal hearing and didn't miss much anyway, asked, "So you're the little homemaker?"

"While I'm out of school and not working, yeah," said Andy. He didn't mention that he'd been doing the cooking, laundry and cleaning since his mom had left for Sedona three years before, even while in school. And Thomas Wren, his father, had nixed all full time jobs even as scarce as such things were once he'd gotten used to   the housework getting done without effort on his part.

Andy just hoped his face wasn't turning red. To avoid that he tried to think of roadkill puppies lying in a gutter, a mental image that always made him sad instead of embarrassed. And one easily turned around with the help of a little imaginary Dr. Demento.

Phil's amusement lasted through making arrangements for Andy to stay in a business suites motel near the producer's office. "I can take you there now," he offered. "And the network will send a driver for you in the morning. There's a good place for breakfast next door, if you like bagels."

Andy nodded, concealing his nervousness with more artificial cool. "Can we stop somewhere for me to pick up a few things?" he asked.

"Sure," said Phil. This seemed to amuse him again. "There's a drugstore in the same strip mall as the bagel place, so you could even walk over. Or do you need someplace that carries underwear."

"Uh," said Andy. "I guess so."

"There's a K-Mart practically on the way, or a Macy's not too far."

"K-Mart," said Andy. Macy's would be in a big mall and would take more time to park and get in and out.

Phil's smile got even wider.

Andy tried not to think of Phil as a sleazy Hollywood parasite but the man's smarmy grin wasn't helping. What's so funny about going to K-Mart? He thought about it as they left the coffee shop and climbed into Phil's Lexus. Oh, Andy told himself, going to K-Mart on an expense account is kind of... dorky. "Macy's on second thought," he said aloud while fastening the seatbelt.

Phil nodded, still smiling as he put the car in gear. "I understand they have a better selection of girl's undies."

Andy couldn't help it. He jerked around to stare at Phil who winked without turning his head.

"Just saying," Phil said.

Andy sighed. "I'm going to get a lot of such comments, aren't I?"

Phil nodded. "Get used to it, I guess. Keep a sense of humor or you'll go nuts. This is better than the other project that almost got the greenlight."

"What was that?" asked Andy.

"It was called, 'Apes Like Us'. Draw your own conclusions but at least you ain't going to be rooming with an orangutuan."

Andy laughed.

Phil grinned. "Need to work on your giggle," he said.

This time, Andy knew he had failed to keep from blushing which only seemed to amuse Phil more.

"Meet you in the food court," said Phil when they pulled into the parking structure at the mall.

"Uh?" said Andy.

"I don't want to see what you buy. Suit yourself." Phil got out on his side and when Andy was out, clicked the remote to lock the doors. "But," he said, "if you do buy yourself some panties, you want size 5 or S. Full cut briefs, they'll fit better." He grinned at Andy's expression.

"How do you know that?" Andy asked.

"Intuition," said Phil, "and a wide experience in girlfriends of all shapes and sizes."

Andy frowned, trying not to show that the teasing was leaving a mark.

Just before Phil opened the door to the mall for him, the producer's assistant turned to Andy and repeated, "Meet you in the food court. You can have a salad, you've got to start watching your weight."

"Now you're just being mean," said Andy but he realized that Phil was just enjoying teasing him. "What if I turn out to be a knockout?"

"Hey," said Phil. "I'm counting on it. You are going to be the star of the show, sweetcheeks."

The phony endearment startled another half-suppressed laugh out of Andy.

"Ah, there's that giggle," said Phil. "Half an hour? Oh, better make it an hour in case you want to look at some cute shoes."

"Dammit, Phil," said Andy.

"Okay, an hour and a half, but that's the max. After that I call out the coochsniffing dogs."

Andy stopped, staring at him. "The what?"

But Phil only waved, hurrying away toward the Food Court. "I'll save a big pickle for ya," he called back.

Andy shook his head. "Guys like Phil are why women think all men are creeps," he said to himself.

When does reality begin and fantasy end?

 

They met again in the food court, as arranged. "It would be stupid to eat here when we're both on expense account," Phil pointed out, leading the way to one of the nicer sit-down restaurants in the mall. "And I may be vain, greedy and too damn slick, but I ain't stupid."

"Yes," said Andy and Phil laughed. At the restaurant, he held the door for Andy, who after all was carrying several bags of stuff from Macy's.

They took a quiet table near the windows. Outside, a mockingbird sat huddled against the February chill, keeping an eye on the scrub jays and pigeons policing the sidewalks.

"Remember, eat a salad," said Phil as the server, a man named Simon who spoke English with a buzzing El Salvador accent, passed out menus. The place ran heavily to pastas and steaks, with shrimp and langostino for alternates.

"What I was going to have anyway," said Andy. "I'm thin because I eat thin already." He ordered a chopped chicken salad with vinaigrette dressing on the side.

Phil ordered a New York cut with shrimp and baked potato. "I know," he said. "I'm just having a little fun ragging on you."

Andy shook his head, annoyed and amused at the same time. He sipped his mineral water, Phil had insisted that he order something.

"I got a call from the producer while you were shopping," said Phil after the waiter had poured his rosé. "They really want you for this show."

"We've made a pretty good deal already, I'm in," said Andy.

"If we can get your dad to sign."

"He'll sign."

Phil nodded. "We've got a sweetener."

"You don't need it," said Andy. "He'll sign, he needs the money and it means I will move out." He looked out the window at the mockingbird. "We don't get along anymore."

"A sweetener for you," said Phil. The server came back with a plate of bread sticks, Andy ignored them.

Phil took a breadstick and buttered it, lightly. "A sweetener for you," he repeated. "A three year contract instead of just one. A second show, probably, and a movie deal, guaranteed. A ghost writer to help you put out a book."

"What?" said Andy, stunned.

"Look, we planned to start filming in April or May, soon as we got a full house, eight people. Film all summer, through the fall till about this time next year. The first episodes would air in September or October and we'd slowly catch up till we could air our final episode during sweeps next February."

"Um? Isn't that a usual sort of schedule?"

"More or less," agreed Phil. "But if we can sign you to these additional projects, we would start filming you almost immediately. Start showing episodes sooner, like August. Keep the production going longer with a second, follow-up show. Maybe a movie and certainly a book."

Andy felt afraid but he could not exactly say why. He looked at the sparkles in his mineral water. "That would be three years of my life. And you'd probably want me... dressing the part the whole time...."

Phil nodded. "That's the idea."

"How would I ever get any other sort of part? No one would take me seriously as a male actor."

Phil said nothing for a moment. Finally he asked, "What's more important, some future role or career that may not ever happen or a real chance at stardom now while you're young?"

Andy shook his head, unable to answer.

Their food came. Phil's steak was rare instead of medium rare but he did not send it back, leaving the bloody middle on his plate as he ate around it. Andy tried not to look at it. His own salad was fine, with a spicy taste to the chicken he couldn't identify. Phil offered him a shrimp on a toothpick and Andy ate it, savoring the plump buttery flesh and smiling.

Phil told stories about people he knew in Hollywood and Andy laughed in the right places. They didn't talk about anything relating to their mutual project again until Simon, the server, asked if they wanted dessert. Phil said no, and Simon turned to Andy.

"And you, miss? A small flan, perhaps?"

"No," said Andy, shaking his head.

After Simon had taken the check and Phil's American Express, Phil asked, "Does that happen often?"

"No," said Andy.

"But it has happened before," said Phil.

Outside the window, Andy saw that evening had come and the mockingbird had left the little tree. Headlights glittered unevenly on the freeway, some people had not turned theirs on yet. Across the corner of the valley, the backside of the Malibu hills showed a few lights of homes on their less fashionable but still expensive slopes.

Simon brought the check back, along with two mints in little twisted wrappers. Phil signed and took one of the mints. "You want the other?" he asked. "They're good, Swiss chocolate with a crunchy peppermint shell?"

Andy said no and Phil pocketed both of the candies.

Simon appeared from somewhere and held Andy's chair as he got up.

"Thank you," said Andy, a reflex of politeness.

"De nada," said Simon. He smiled, a tower of Hispanic machismo over six feet tall.

Phil gathered up the packages which Andy had almost forgotten.

The woman at the door held it open for them and wished them a good evening. For some reason, she smiled and winked at Andy.

"They're going to make some kind of offer to you tomorrow," Phil said as they walked toward the car. "You're a pretty tough negotiator but would you like an agent to be with you?"

Andy blinked. "Someone you would recommend? Someone who would take a percentage? With a kickback for you?"

Phil opened the door for Andy and stowed the bags in the backseat. "You sure you're only seventeen, you're awfully cynical for someone so young?" he asked as he slid into the driver's seat.

Andy snorted and rolled his eyes. "An agent is supposed to find work for you. I've got a job offer and I know what I want. I don't need an agent, though I may need a lawyer."

"Okay," said Phil.

At the hotel, Phil helped Andy check in and carried the bags again all the way to the room which had an outside entrance facing north. Miles away in that direction, Andy's father had already got the message that Andy would not be home that night.

The suite had a dining table, a couch and an oversize television in a front room, a tiny but complete kitchen alcove, a huge bed and another big television in the back room with a luxurious bathroom attached.

"Good enough," said Phil, dumping the packages on the bed. "I'll call for you in the morning. They planned the meeting for eleven now, so we've time for breakfast and...." He pause. "Who would you accept a recommendation for a lawyer from? Someone I could reasonably be expected to get ahold of tonight?"

"I don't know," said Andy.

"I don't want you picking someone from the phone book," said Phil. "Lots of shysters out there."

"How about that girl singer in the story you told? Is she still speaking with you?"

Phil grinned. "Lula X? A.K.A. Louise Alexander? Her mom is an attorney here in town."

"Okay," Andy said. "Maybe she could meet us for breakfast."

"Don't count on it, but I'll try. You gonna be up long enough for me to do some phone calls and get someone to call you?"

"Sure," said Andy. "Not sure I'm going to sleep at all."

Phil laughed and said good night.

Andy closed the door behind him, took a bottle of water from the miniature fridge then stepped out onto the tiny balcony outside the room. A small table and two chairs took up almost all the space. The view was nothing special, the lights of the San Fernando Valley laid out like a bright quilt, surrounded by the green gray of invisible mountains and the blotchy darkness of urban sky. The last crescent of the old moon hung above the eastern hills.

Andy sat, sipping water, watching the night gather and thinking until the phone rang inside and he went to answer it. "This is Wren," he said.

Real motorcycles don't run on maple syrup.

 

Attorney Helen Alexander met Phil Bollard and Andy Wren for breakfast at the Perky's on San Fernando. Mrs. Alexander, or Helen as she said she preferred to be called was a tall, curvy brunette in her late forties and probably outweighed Andy by forty to fifty pounds. She'd been briefed by her daughter, the singer Lula X, who had talked to Phil and Andy the previous night but she had trouble believing the situation.

After they got coffee and ordered --fruit and french toast for her, fruit and a waffle for Andy, and an omelet with potatoes and toast for Phil-- Helen asked if this was a real deal or perhaps she was the one who was being filmed on hidden camera.

"You don't look like Allen Funt except for the shaved head," she said to Phil.

"Who's Allen Funt?" asked Andy.

"Allen Funt sort of invented Reality TV back when the world was still black and white," said Phil. "Only they called it Candid Camera. No story, though, just gags; they goofed on people and filmed it."

"So is someone goofing on me or on our little friend here?" asked Helen.

Andy rolled his eyes but Helen could legitimate call him little, she was three or four inches taller even without her business heels.

They worked through the details as they ate. Andy finally turned down a fourth cup of coffee about the time Helen asked him. "If they offer you this extended deal Phil is talking about, how much do you think it's worth?"

He shook his head. "Possibly three years locked into a role that will probably get old in a month? I think I should ask for a million, don't you?"

She grinned. "Two million, and let yourself be talked down." She pointed a fork at Phil, "And you don't say a word to your bosses about what we're saying here, huh?"

Phil shook his head. "I'll tell them something but nothing to put Andy at a disadvantage."

That stopped conversation for a moment. Helen and Andy both looked at Phil.

Phil smiled which was not that reassuring since he looked like a man who could lie in any position, with or without a pillow. "I like you, kid," he said to Andy. "And I think this is going to work and you're going to be a star. I want to be part of a hit TV production."

Helen snorted. "I think it's going to be a flop and you should get as much as you can in front money."

Andy shook his head. "No, I can't go in thinking it's going to flop. I wouldn't even be able to do it at all. So, I'm going to ask for as much ownership of the project as they will let me have."

Helen frowned. "Am I your lawyer?"

"I think so," said Andy. "But I'm under age, maybe you're my dad's lawyer."

"Huh. You look about thirteen," she grinned. "We could get you emancipated so you don't have to answer to your dad. But that would take time. Can you call your dad, let me talk to him and get him to hire me?"

"I...." The last thing Andy wanted was another conversation with his father before meeting with the producers.

Helen pushed her phone toward him. "Is he at work?"

Andy shook his head. "Not yet, he doesn't go in till about ten when the weather is cold like this."

"You want me to just call him?"

"No, I'll call." He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.

The phone rang several times before Woodrow Wren picked up. "Who's this?" the familiar voice demanded.

"It's me, Woody," Andy said. He waited out the profanity. "I told you about the job I'm interviewing for?"

"Didn't fuckin' get it, did you?" his father asked. "How come there's no fuckin' toaster waffles? Am I s'posed to just drink the fuckin' maple syrup?"

"Haven't had the interview yet," said Andy. "I need a lawyer before I see these guys to--to negotiate a contract."

"So?" said Woody. "Get a fuckin' lawyer. Fuckin' shyster will probably take half your money, if you fuckin' get anything."

"I've got a lawyer," said Andy. "But you need to hire her because I'm underage."

"You ain't underage in my book, and I ain't got time to go look for no damn lawyer for you."

"You don't have to," said Andy. "I've got her right here, you just need to tell her to act as my lawyer."

"Her? You got a cunt for a lawyer? For Crissakes, put her on."

Andy tried to think of how to warn Helen about his dad but finally just handed the phone to her.

"Mr. Wren?" said Helen, then she just listened for a moment.

Phil looked at Andy. "You call your dad 'Woody'?"

Andy nodded. "He won't answer to anything else."

"Sounds like a character. What's he do?"

"Uh, he, uh, he's a motorcycle mechanic. But he can fix anything that has a motor or wheels."

Phil nodded. "That's cool. Maybe we can do a show about him next." He grinned but Andy only shook his head.

Helen talked into the phone with Woody for a few minutes, but her answers were mostly short and to the point. She made the mistake of calling him Mr. Wren a few times and had to correct that before being able to continue. She rolled her eyes a few times.

Andy listened in to her part of the conversation, wincing. Phil grinned and stroked his soul patch.

"Well, okay, uh, Woody?" Helen said into the phone. "I can represent you and your son in the negotiations. I'll just need a token payment upfront. No, no...." She had to wait out some sort of rant that Phil and Andy could hear part of from the tiny speaker she held away from her ear for a moment. "A dollar is fine, Mr. Wren. Uh, Woody. A dollar will be enough to make me legally your son's representative."

She listened again for a moment then handed the phone back to Andy.

"Give that nice lady a dollar, kid," said Woody. "Woo-eee! She sounded fuckin' sexy. How's she built? Got some damn tits on her?"

"Yeah, but...." Andy blushed. "No. Woody. Please. Just don't."

His father laughed. "Give her a dollar, she says that's enough and she'll take 20% to be your lawyer, agent and manager. That's actually a pretty good deal, kid. She's going to bill you for two hours today but will take that out of her fee if you actually get a contract. And if you don't, I'll lend you the fuckin' six hundred."

Andy could hear his father lighting up a cigarette. "That's okay, Woody, but thanks."

After a couple of puffs, Woody continued. "I told her I used to work in Hollywood as a stuntman myself and not to try any fast ones. Huh? Your fuckin' old man is watching out for you, kid. I shoulda sent you to my old agent but I think his fuckin' liver died years ago. You just take Helen's advice and you'll be good. Fuckin' A, boy. Being an actor is a pansy sort of job but you still got to be tough enough to get what you deserve, hey? Remember that. Don't puss out."

Andy sighed. "Thanks, Woody. Yeah, I'll be home tonight. Yeah." He hung up.

Helen grinned at him. "Your dad sounds like he came from central casting to play a character part himself."

Andy nodded and got out a dollar from his wallet. "He's a good guy, just--difficult. He told you he used to be a stuntman? Yeah, well he had a few speaking parts, too. Years ago, back before I was born. Usually, he played the heavy's sidekick who gets killed right away." He handed the dollar to Helen who touched it but left it on the table, perhaps as a tip. "If the picture was made in the late seventies and had motorcycles in it, Dad's probably there somewhere."

Phil thought a moment. "How old is he?"

"Uh, he'll be sixty on December second but don't tell him I told you. My mom was his second wife, twenty-three years younger than him. He's got two other kids by his first wife, I call her Aunt Donna. She lives in Antelope Valley. My half-brother, Dan, is a cop in the Valley and our sister, Julie, is married to one."

"Well, okay," said Helen. "I've got another appointment at nine, so I have to run but I'll meet you at the studio at eleven." She checked the address with Phil, gave Andy a peck on the forehead and hurried off.

Phil started laughing and Andy frowned at him.

Phil explained. "You ain't anybody in this town, kid, if your agent won't kiss you. You're in now."

Andy nodded, smiling and blushing a bit. He'd dreamed about making it in Hollywood for some time but this whole deal was not exactly what he had ever had in mind.

"Just Wren," said Andy.

The director, Martin Wohlers, rolled his eyes but grinned at the same time.

Davis Jordan Bloom, the producer's representative, asked, "You want your credits to just read 'Wren'?"

"That's right," said Andy. "That's going to be my professional name."

 

Phil and Helen said nothing to this and the producer and the studio lawyer hadn't said anything since the introductions at the beginning of the meeting.

They'd got started late, closer to 12 than 11. The long room with it's twelve-foot oak table and full-height windows looked out on the mountains above the city. Expensive homes, high in the forest above the smog looked back.

Davis seemed to think about it then smiled. "I like it. What about you, George?"

George Upshaw, the producer assigned by the studio to this project, grunted. "Style," he said.

Davis nodded. "Yeah, it's got style. But your legal name has to be on the papers."

"I know that," said Andy. "But if I'm going to have a career after this, I need a way to put some distance between it and what I do in the future. If I go back to Andy Wren in the future, I can play male parts again."

Several people nodded. Phil grinned. "Kid's always thinking," he said.

Wohlers laughed. "You sure you're only seventeen? Or did your agent think of this wrinkle?" He looked at Helen.

She shook her head. "No, that's all Andy's idea. The numbers in our offer are all his, too, but I agree with them. If this is worth what you think it is, Andy deserves a share of ownership."

Davis smiled. "Six percent is a bit steep for an untried talent."

"We're asking for six and a quarter," said Helen.

"And the point of your show is that all of us that will be in front of the cameras are untried talent. It's a necessary part of what you are selling so you can't discount for it; it's a positive not a negative," said Andy.

Everyone stared at him.

Finally, just when Andy thought he could not keep from breaking down and apologizing for speaking up, Upshaw laughed. "Moxie," he said.

Wohlers and Davis nodded and smiled, though they looked a bit uncomfortable about it. Phil grinned.

 

"This be Glendale, yo," said Phil, clowning around.

Andy suppressed a smile.

"We here in the heart of things, Hollywood, that way; Pasadena, that way; the Valley, that way, Malibu that way." Phil pointed while turning in a slow circle.

"You grew up here?"

"Thass right, ma chile," said Phil. "But sometime you gon' tell ol' Phil how you do shit like that."

"My father talks the same way about Oklahoma," said Andy. "But why the fake accent?"

"Because, heah is wheah Ah is a homeboy."

Andy shook his head, laughing.

Phil pointed. "Bus stop at the end of the block, one change of bus gets you to the studio one way, or to the office the other way." He gestured at the little cottage, "What you think of the pad?"

"Haven't seen inside it yet," said Andy.

After the meeting, Davis had directed Phil to take Andy and show him the apartment that he would be staying in until the rest of the cast of the show was ready. "Bungalow," the producer had said.

Andy looked at it. Yes, it was what passed for a "Spanish" bungalow in Southern California. One of six stand alone houses on a single lot, each had an arched porch, two wide windows on the front shaded by red tile awnings, and a security door of steel mesh and angle iron.

"What kind of neighborhood is this?" asked Andy.

"It's a good neighborhood," said Phil. "The studio owns these 'bungalows' and they are all empty right now, you can take your pick."

"I don't want the front, the back or the alley side."

Phil scratched his head. "That only leaves one of them."

"That's right," said Andy going up the center walk, past the two front bungalows and turning to the middle one on the left, away from the alley. "This one." He took the two steps onto the porch and tried the door. "Locked."

Phil produced a set of keys and chose the one tagged 'C'. He opened both the security door and the inner door and stepped inside. Bare wooden floors, peach-colored stucco walls and white-painted ceilings throughout; a couch, an over-stuffed chair, a bookcase, an entertainment center, a coffee table and a dining room set. The L-shaped front room had two openings off the back walls.

An open archway went to a small kitchen with antique range, oven and sink and a recent-make refrigerator. A black glass microwave hung under a much repainted cabinet. A large bottled water dispenser occupied one corner next to a small table. Through the kitchen, a back porch held an apartment-style washer-dryer combo and a storage cabinet full of cleaning supplies and more bottled water.

The other door in the front room opened on a tiny bedroom with two twin-size beds, a table between them and a small walk-in closet. The attached full bath had been refitted sometime in the last decade or so with modern fixtures. The tub had doors and a multi-function shower head. Way better than the water tank in a tree that Woody had set up one time when the plumbing failed in their mobile home.

Andy smiled. "I like it. When can I move in?"

Phil smiled. "You mean when can Wren move in."

 
"If Woody were driving from Glendale to Palmdale, he'd take California 2 to the crest and pick up Angeles Forest Highway," said Andy as they merged on to I-5 heading north.

Phil made a noise like he'd had a sudden chill or someone had dragged fingernails over a blackboard. "Your dad is crazy. That would take three or four hours on those twisty mountain roads. In good weather; I wouldn't try it this time of year."

"Don't tell him that," said Andy, smiling. "He'd bet you he could do it in two, or even one. He probably could which is why I don't ride on his motorcycle with him anymore."

"I...." Phil thought a moment and grinned. "I don't blame you." He laughed.

Neither of them said anything until they reached Burbank then Andy turned almost sideways to face Phil and asked, "You grew up in Glendale? Did you know anyone famous?"

Phil shrugged. "Besides the people in Forest Lawn? Not really. My dad went to kindergarten with Freddy Krueger, though."

"Robert Englund? That's cool. I hear he's a really nice guy and a hard working actor."

Phil nodded. "He transferred to some private school for gifted students so my dad lost track of him until he appeared as that alien in V."

Andy laughed. "He's good."

They fell silent again until Phil took California 14 toward Palmdale.

"What do you think your dad will say when he finds out what you're going to be doing?"

Andy shrugged. "Woody won't care. I mean, he cares what happens to me but as long as it's something I choose to do, he'll be okay with it." Another moment of silence. "I think he already thinks I'm gay."

Phil said nothing for a bit until he pointed at the road that led to the Vasquez Rocks, famous in western and science fiction movies for the odd formations there. "Kirk and the Gorn at the Vasquez Rocks," he said.

Andy laughed because Phil had said it in the exact intonation of the aliens in one of the weirdest of all Star Trek episodes, the one where Picard had to decipher the communication of aliens who talked only in allegory.

Phil grinned. "I'm surprised you've seen that one."

"Which one?" asked Andy, turning again in the seat to almost face Phil.

"Either of them, are you a Trekkie?"

"Not really but I guess I do geek out about classic television."

"Ouch. Classic? I remember that one."

"Which one?" asked Andy, grinning.

They climbed the pass above Agua Dulce while talking about favorite television shows and came back down into the Acton Valley discussing movies. "There's the turnoff to Tippi Hedren's place," said Andy. "She has tours of her animal rescue park. Lions and Tigers and Heffalumps, Oh, My."

Phil waggled a hand. "You're mixing your children's classics there."

"Hmm," said Andy.

Phil glanced at him sideways. "You look a bit like Tippi Hedren."

Andy, still facing Phil, shook his head. "Not what she looks like now, I hope. It's the forehead, I've got a tall forehead. I get that from Woody but since he's going bald he's got a really tall forehead." Andy demonstrated by moving his hands apart until the upper one hit the roof of the Lexus. "But Tippi Hedren has blue eyes, very blue. Mine are brown."

"Hazel," Phil said. "Always say your eyes are hazel."

"Huh? What color is hazel, isn't that like, brown?"

"Yeah, but nobody knows for sure, some people think it means green or gray or puce. And no one knows what color puce is."

"Puce is the color of French dressing, no one has eyes that color."

"No, it's not, it's more like French dressing made with pomegranate juice." They laughed, again, a lot.

Phil kept glancing over at Andy. Finally Andy asked, "Now what?"

"Why do you always turn almost completely toward me when you look at me?" asked Phil.

"Speaking of eyes," said Andy. "I'm almost blind in my left one. It's why I don't drive."

Phil blinked. "You could drive with one eye, lots of people do."

Andy shook his head. "It scares me. I won't do it."

"Okay," said Phil. "Huh."

"What?"

"It, uh, it...." He rolled his own eyes. "I think it's part of your charm. That eye is always catching up to the other one when you look at someone. It attracts people to look right at you."

Andy muttered something.

"What?" said Phil.

"I said, I've got Tippi Hedren's forehead and Sammy Davis, Jr.'s eyes," said Andy, louder.

Phil started laughing and couldn't stop.

Andy chuckled a bit but didn't seem that amused.

Phil laughed some more.

"All right, what is it? It wasn't that funny."

In a breathy, gulping voice, Phil sang, "She's got Sammy Davis eyes...."

They laughed until they went through the pass into Antelope Valley and the edge of Palmdale.

After they quit laughing, Phil said, "Barbra Streisand, too."

"At least I don't have her nose," said Andy.

"Point," said Phil.

"Woody's place is all the way through the town, on the way to Lancaster." Andy turned sideways in the seat to look directly at Phil again. "You are going to stay and help me pack and take me back tonight, right?"

"Of course. To the motel one last time, then tomorrow, everyone starts calling you Wren."

"And I get to move into my cute little bungalow," said Andy.

Phil squinted. "Cute?"

Phil and Andy pulled into Woody's Harletopia and Cyclevana before four.

 

The former Richfield truckstop just outside Palmdale city limits had three main buildings and a mobile home parked on the back of the lot. The front building was the working garage with a small attached show room where Woody sold cycles on consignment. The building on the south side of the lot had once been a small diner but was now used mostly for storage, though the front room still with tables, booths and a counter was sometimes rented out for cycle club meetings. The back building contained more storage, three showers and a barracks-like room with six bunk beds and thirty lockers.

Andy had used Phil's cellphone to call ahead when they were passing through Palmdale and Woody came out of the garage to met them, wiping his hands on a red-orange shop towel. He wasn't a tall man but only a little under middle-size with a lean stringy build in comfortably worn Levi's jeans and a black Burning Man t-shirt. He had on motorcycle boots, a Harley-Davidson baseball cap and yellow prescription sunglasses. A neatly trimmed graying goatee and mustache surrounded his smile.

He stuck out a knobby-knuckled hand to Phil as he walked up, "I'm Woody," he said. "You must be Andy's boyfriend, Phil, right?" Then he spent ten minutes laughing about Phil's and Andy's expressions after he said that. He even told them about it three times just so they could appreciate how funny they looked.

"Shoulda seen it," he said, "shoulda seen it. But 'course you couldn't, you were on the wrong side of yer own faces, hah! I shoulda had a mirror with me, hah!"

Andy rolled his eyes. "Let's get inside the house, okay?" he said looking around. No one else had heard the exchange because the shop was empty but Andy wanted to get inside before somebody showed up.

Phil got Woody to laughing again when he asked, "What if I had said yes?"

"So this is it?" Woody asked when they had settled around the dining table in the mobile home with Cokes.

"It's the contract for the TV show, for me to appear in," said Andy, pushing the paperwork toward his father.

Woody made a show of taking out a pair of reading glasses, the kind with only the lower half of the lenses, and perching them on his noise. He read a few lines to determine that it was indeed a television contract. He looked back up at Andy. "You read all this?" he asked.

Andy nodded. "And I had a lawyer read it, too. You talked to her on the phone."

"Lawyers, woo," said Woody. "Holl-ee-wood! Double woo."

Phil grinned and Woody smiled.

"Kid's way smarter than his old man," Woody said to Phil. "You must be happy with it or you wouldn't have brought it to me to sign," he said, turning to Andy.

"Happy enough," agreed Andy.

"I think the kid is smarter than some producers I know," said Phil.

Woody chuckled. "I knew some of those kind, too, back in the day before I got so ugly the cameras would break when they pointed them at me."

Phil opened his mouth and closed it again quickly, as if he thought better of saying something. Both Andy and Woody cut their eyes at him and smiled. Phil shook his head.

"Where do I sign, I gotta sign cause Andy is under age, huh?" He turned to a shelf behind him and pulled a pen out of a jar shaped like the bottom half of a hula dancer.

Andy found the places and Woody signed quickly, an unreadable scrawl beside which Andy wrote in block print, "Thomas A. Wren, Jr."

"Ah, you didn't have to include the junior, did you?" asked Woody. He looked up at Phil, his eyes twinkling. "My dad's living in Cucamonga with his fifth wife, a gal in her twenties. Fat gal, but pretty, Rhetta is her name." He grinned. "She'd make two of the old coot, but it evens out, he's nearly four times her age." He laughed, "but he calls himself Alvin Thomas, now, he don't go by Thomas A. Wren, Sr. -- so I don't see why I have to have that junior on there."

"It's on your driver's license," said Andy.

"Bullshit," said Woody. Then, "It is?"

Andy nodded.

Woody hauled a thick leather billfold out of his hip pocked and searched through the pockets until he found a battered California Driver's License. He examined it through the half glasses, "Son of a bitch, you're right," he said. He took three twenties from the wallet before he put it away again and held the money out to Andy. "You two go have dinner somewhere, and bring me back a plate from Dave's, you know what I like."

Andy nodded, taking the money. "You like barbecue?" he asked Phil.

"I do," said Phil. "But we can...." He stopped when Andy shook his head.

"We'll be back in an hour or so, Woody," said Andy, getting up to go.

"Yup," said Woody. "I'm gonna close up and wash up. Be sure you get some corn-on-the-cob."

When they got back in Phil's car, Andy explained. "Woody wanted to pay, he knows you have an expense account."

"I got that," said Phil. "Why do you call him Woody?"

Andy shrugged. "Everyone does."

"Yeah, but why Woody?"

"Oh, it's for Woody Woodpecker," said Andy. "I guess he was a troublemaker in school and back in the fifth grade someone said he was more of a Woodpecker than a Wren." He grinned.

Phil laughed. "I guess he is at that." And he did the woodpecker laugh.

After an early dinner, they delivered a platter of St. Louis style ribs, with an extra corn-on-the-cob, back to Woody. Phil waited in the car while Andy walked the food into the mobile home kitchen.

Woody sniffed appreciatively. "It may be a chain restaurant but that Dave's really does some Famous ribs."

"Yeah, they're good," said Andy. "I gotta go, Woody. I'll be staying in Glendale, call you with the info tomorrow."

"Moving out, huh?"

Andy nodded.

"Guess I'll have to take Edna up on her offer to move in and mother me," Woody said trying to keep it light.

"She'll do good by you," said Andy. Edna Lofton was the widow of one of Woody's oldest friend, her husband Gene had been killed on his motorcycle by a wrong way driver two years before.

Woody took the styrofoam container out of the bag and lifted a corner to snag one of the corncobs. "You ain't coming back, are you, son?"

Andy didn't answer right away. He watched his father add salt and pepper to the corn-on-the-cob. "Probably not," he finally said.

Woody nodded. "This corn is still hot," he said. He took a juicy bite, stripping the kernels off the cob and making appreciative sounds.

Andy waited.

"I'm sorry about what happened with your mother," said Woody. "She didn't have to leave. You know I haven't had a drink since she moved out."

"I know, Pop," said Andy.

Woody looked at him and smiled. "Not even a beer," he said. "When I feel the urge, I call my sponsor and he reads me the right words." He shrugged. "But you don't want to live with and take care of an old drunk, not even a dry one. And you deserve better."

"That's not why I'm leaving, Woody," said Andy. "I've got to do this. And you've got to see a doctor about those pains. But we've argued enough about that, maybe Edna can convince you." He suddenly moved forward, putting his arms around his father and pressing his face into the taller man's shoulder.

"Hey," said Woody, holding the corncob out of the way. "You'll get butter on your nice shirt." He returned a one-armed hug. "You ride and dump as many bikes as I have, you earn a few pains. Hell, I broke my neck once, remember that? I got better. I'm a tough old bird."

Andy held onto his father a minute longer and neither of them said anything about tears.

"Gotta go," said Andy. They separated and shook hands.

"He's a nice looking fella," said Woody, looking at his corncob as Andy headed toward the door.

"Who? Phil?" said Andy.

Woody grinned slyly. "Your boyfriend," he said.

Driving back, they watched the sunset in glimpses between the mountains.

 

Andy told several stories about his father and Phil laughed at all of them. After they passed the Vasquez Rocks, he started a new one. "Back when he was a stuntman, Woody doubled for Tim Robbins in Howard the Duck."

"Wait," said Phil. "Robbins is six-foot-five, your dad is like five-nine?"

"In his boots, maybe. I mentioned that when he told me the story. He said, 'That's why they call it a stunt.' He had the same skinny build as Robbins back then. Anyway, this footage ended up cut from the film or I suppose it would have been a big hit." Andy grinned and Phil chuckled. "Robbins' character is in this ultra-light airplane, so Woody is dressed as him and sitting in the back seat of the plane with one of the people doing the stunts for the duck sitting between his knees holding the tiller or whatever that steering thing is called."

"Uh huh," said Phil, turning off the Antelope Valley Freeway and onto the Golden State. They'd reached the north end of the San Fernando Valley and lights on cars and buildings began to come on all around them.

Andy continued, "They're going to lift the plane up in front of a blue screen and shake it and Woody is supposed to climb up and fix the motor or something and then fall out and hang upside down from the landing wheels."

"That is in the movie, I've seen it."

"Yeah, but it's cut into about eight different shots and some of them really are Tim Robbins. This shot was supposed to be all one take, a wild idea the second unit director had, I think."

"Oh, okay," said Phil.

"Well, they tried it a few times, and something kept going wrong, one thing or another and they would start over and try it again. The director is getting pissy and the cameraman is getting pissy and Woody is getting pissed-off."

Phil grinned. Andy hadn't used such words in front of him before but the story was about Woody, it sort of required them.

"So he's climbing back into the cockpit, if that lawn chair thing is a cockpit on an ultra-light, and he says to the duck --who's been doing nothing but holding the tiller and bouncing around a bit in the seat-- Woody says, 'Why don't you try stroking that thing a few times and maybe we can all get out of here quicker?'"

Phil laughed.

"Well, the person in the duck suit right then was a stuntwoman and she thought it was funny, too, but the director got offended --he said on her behalf-- but probably because the whole crew laughed, and Woody was fired. And they didn't use any of the footage they had shot."

They both laughed.

"Is that a true story?" asked Phil.

"As true as it gets in Hollywood," Andy admitted. "What Woody actually said was much cruder but I didn't want to quote him exactly."

Phil glanced over at him and grinned. "You're blushing so I think I can guess."

"The sun is down, it's too dark for you to tell if I'm blushing," said Andy.

"Yeah, but you didn't deny it."

"I'm not blushing."

"Too late. I can feel the heat from here," said Phil.

Andy laughed and they drove on toward Burbank.

# # #

"You wanna make any stops before we get back to the motel?" asked Phil.

"I guess not," said Andy. "Woody packed the things I wanted from home and we got that. And I bought other stuff yesterday, so I'm good."

"Got your nightie?" asked Phil.

"You're never going to see me in a nightie unless the camera is rolling," said Andy.

"Ouch," said Phil.

Andy laughed.

"This whole idea of dressing as a girl, living as a girl, for a whole year doesn't bother you?"

"Not as much as you might think," said Andy. "I've done roles in drag before."

"The military school thing...?"

Andy nodded. "Yeah, four years ago, Woody was hospitalized with a broken neck; my mom had a nervous breakdown and her parents, my grandparents, took me in. Amos Wilson decided I needed to man-up so he signed me into a military-themed middle school in Texas. When he found out I played Lady Macbeth in the school play, he about laid an egg. And that was the end of that little experiment."

Phil laughed. "Didn't know that part. But I saw the pictures, you made a rather striking Lady."

"It was the red wig and the black dress, costuming was sensational. Nearly white makeup, too, and I will take credit for that idea."

"You said roles?"

Andy shrugged. "We had a band for a bit, some friends and I. Since I sing alto, I used to use some stage costumes to do the girl numbers."

"You sing alto?"

Andy suddenly belted out, "Michael Rennie was ill, the Day the Earth Stood Still but he told us -- where we sta-a-and!"

"Yikes. Isn't that Riff Raff singing that?"

Andy nodded. "Richard O'Brien, in the movie, with Quinn lip-syncing. But in the stage play, it's Magenta as Usherette."

"Huh? You played Magenta in the stage play?"

"No, we just did a show of some of the music, the better known parts. Lot of costume changes."

"What happened to the band?"

Andy blinked. "Terry and Bobby, our songwriting guitar brothers, were killed in a car wreck. Hayseed, uh, Henry, our drummer, joined another band and moved away. Carla, the..., our soprano, got married and quit performing. I don't know what happened to Dixie Rogers, our bass player. He just disappeared."

"Were you guys any good?"

"Good enough for Palmdale, I guess," said Andy. "Anybody can make an MP3 and put their music on the internet today. We didn't get offered any studio contracts."

"What was the band name? Any You Tube videos?"

"Uh, yeah, bad ones. The name was bad too. Rocky Vasquez and the Antelopes."

Phil laughed. "Yeah, that's a pretty bad band name."

"We didn't even have any Hispanics in the band," said Andy, laughing, too. "Someone writing in the school paper called us 'Vast Noise and the Cantaloupes.' We almost changed it."

Phil laughed even harder. "That would have been better," he gasped.

"I know, right?" said Andy.

# # #

"You got any plans for tomorrow?" asked Phil as he pulled into the parking space near Andy's room in the motel.

"Not really. I figured the studio would call me with a schedule."

"Yeah, but it might be days. This is not the most efficient business on the planet, you know," said Phil. "I'll pick you up and we can go to breakfast again, they'll call to tell me your schedule before they call you, anyway."

"Okay." They got out of the car and Phil carried in the larger bag of things they had picked up at Woody's, a tan suitcase. Andy got the blue overnighter and what looked like a suit bag.

"What's in that?" asked Phil pointing at the suit bag.

"My prom gown," said Andy. "I thought maybe I could wear it on the show."

Phil blinked as he set the suitcase down near the bed.

"You are kidding, right?"

"Sort of," Andy said. "It belonged to Carla but she got pregnant and dropped out of school to get married and left the gown with me. I was going to try to alter it for a stage costume. But the band broke up when the...."

"Oh," said Phil.

"You sew?"

"Sá­," said Andy. "So-so."

Phil laughed. "...and Kook -- amunga! You're too young to know those guys."

"So are you," said Andy. "But Jack Benny and Mel Blanc are classic."

"Can I see the gown?"

"No," said Andy.

"Why not?"

"'Cause then you'd want me to try it on for you."

Phil laughed. "Not without the cameras running?"

"That's right," said Andy, smiling.

"You altered it already?"

"No, and that's another reason. It fits like a tent."

They stood there for a moment, neither saying anything.

"Get out of here, Phil," said Andy.

Phil picked up the suitcase and put it on the little folding stand provided for that. "Breakfast at eight?"

Andy nodded. "Out," he said.

Phil left, whistling.

It wasn't till after the door closed that Andy recognized the tune.

Andy spent a lot of the last evening in the motel taking a long soak in the bath.

 

He thought about shaving his legs but decided the studio might want to film that so he'd let it go. He didn't wash his hair in case they wanted him to dye it, hair with a bit of oil and grease took dye better and he knew that.

When he got out of the tub, he wrapped the towel around himself, girl fashion and looked into the mirror for a long time. After drying off, he put on mint green pajamas and settled in front of the widescreen television while he surfed the channels. He found an old Grace Kelly movie and left it on that while he put the room in order for leaving in the morning.

Then he took the prom gown out of the suit bag and some patterns he had found and spent time deciding how the alterations should proceed. It would be possible to convert the prom dress into a sort of retro cocktail gown, something like the women in movies made in the fifties and early sixties wore. He thought he would like that look.

Then he sat with his feet curled up beside him, watching old movies for a few hours and using a seam-ripping tool to disassemble the gown. Around midnight, he put everything away and went to bed, dumping the heavy, scratchy, motel bed cover on the floor as he had every night there.

He lay under the sheet and thin blanket, wearing only his pajamas. February wasn't really cold in the San Fernando Valley and despite other failings, the motel room was tight. He lay there considering moving into the little bungalow he had seen. It would be the first home that was his alone, other than this motel room. He looked forward to it, planning how he would arrange the furniture and what pieces he would need to acquire.

He felt only a little nerves about what else would be involved in moving into the bungalow, living and working and dressing as a woman. That wouldn't necessarily be that hard, he didn't have a lot of emotional investment in being male, anyway.

He spent a few minutes thinking about Phil and wondering just what the producer's assistant's real motives were. Then he fell asleep and if he dreamed, he remembered none of it when the alarm woke him in the morning.

* * *

Phil showed up at the motel room a few minutes before eight. "Change of plans," he said when Andy answered the door. "We'll eat in the commissary at the studio. You won't believe it but they are actually moving ahead with this. You're due for a makeup and wardrobe consult at nine."

Andy smiled. "That's a bit startling. I thought you implied that things would move at a more leisurely pace until some deadline loomed."

"Executive producer in charge of manufacturing deadlines produced one, he wants film in the can for post production by the end of March. Everything packed?"

Andy nodded, again taking the smaller suitcase and heading for the Lexus. Phil went into the motel room to grab the rest and noticed immediately the suit bag rolled up and tied to the larger bag. He carried it to the Lexus and opened the trunk with his key fob. "What happened to the prom gown?" he asked.

Andy looked at him blankly. "What prom gown?"

"The one that..." Phil didn't finish the sentence but just grinned at Andy. "Actors," he said with a snort.

"I don't know what you mean," said Andy, still looking innocent.

Phil just shook his head. They got into the car and closed the doors.

"All set?" Phil asked.

Andy nodded.

"Wanna check for anything left behind?"

"Nope," said Andy. "I don't have that particular neurosis, I didn't leave the burner on or the water running, either."

Phil grinned and started the car. As they pulled through the arch at the front of the motel leading back to the street, he said. "Okay, you win. What did you do with the prom gown?"

Andy stared at him like he was losing his mind. "What..." he began but Phil interrupted.

"Don't give me that," said Phil. "Look I believe you could keep a straight face through the whole 'Who's On First' routine so tell me what you did with the prom gown."

Andy grinned. "Took it apart last night and folded the pieces up with a pattern I bought earlier."

"Ah, ha!" said Phil. "So, am I going to see you wearing it?"

"When the cameras start rolling, Phil, you'll see me wearing a lot of stuff."

Phil nodded smiling.

* * *

"Is that...?" whispered Andy after they had filled trays and taken seats in the studio commissary.

Phil didn't look. "Just another working stiff, and he eats breakfast here every morning he's on site."

Andy nodded. "I guess so." He looked at his tray, a bowl of oatmeal with a small mound of fruit on it, a single slice of bacon and a mini-bagel with low-fat cream cheese, a tall glass of OJ and a small one of milk. "The food looks good," he said.

"Most of the studios learned a long time ago, don't cheat the working people on food. It pays off when everyone ends up working sixteen hour days."

"Huh," said Andy. "You'd think that would apply everywhere but there's a lot of really terrible food served in cafeterias like this one."

Phil grinned. "That's why they call this a commissary, so people won't think they're getting cafeteria food."

Andy smiled and noted that almost no one took their items off the trays unless they were too crowded. That way, whoever bussed the table had to just pick up the trays and carry them to the pass-thru to the dish washers. Still a lot of people bussed their own tables. A few came in, took trays of food and left with them, presumably to go eat in their offices or maybe their trailers, or even to carry the food back to a boss who was too busy to come get it.

It must be past the most crowded part of the morning, they'd had no trouble finding an empty table. Several tables had yet to be bussed and a few busboys worked diligently at clearing away messes. Unlike in an ordinary Southern California restaurant, not all the busboys looked like illegal immigrants. About half of them looked like unemployed actors. Andy grinned, a category he had only recently escaped.

He glanced at the movie star and his entourage in the corner and caught the man himself looking back. A million dollar smile flashed briefly and then the celebrity went back to his Denver omelette. He ate his breakfast and twice more caught the gaze of the famous man when he glanced that direction. "Um," he said to Phil.

"He's checking you out," said Phil.

"Why?" asked Andy.

"A studio lot is like a small town, everyone knows what everyone else is doing. He probably knows what I'm working on and is wondering about you."

"I was wondering if I were wearing mouse ears without knowing about it," said Andy.

Phil grinned. "He's a friendly cuss, don't be surprised if he tries to talk to you sometime. Probably not now, they're shooting a tight schedule. Sixteen one hour episodes in a year and a movie doesn't leave a lot of social time."

"What's the movie? Are they shooting it here?"

Phil shook his head. "Somewhere in Canada this summer. Some retro-superhero movie, I think."

"Um," said Andy looking back toward the corner and the man with the million dollar smile.

* * *

"This is Wren," Phil introduced Andy to Deanna Lopez-Santoro, the make-up artist who would design Wren's look for the production.

"Mmp," said Deanna with a distinct lack of emotion.

"What the producers want, to begin with," said Phil, "is a minimum alteration in Wren's appearance so that the audience watching will be unsure of whether this is a boy or a girl."

"Phmp," said Deanna, with a tinge of contempt.

Andy smiled.

"Costume? What are you going to be wearing, dear?" she asked Andi directly.

"Something a bit old-fashoned, I think, but not a costume. No cowgirl boots or tie-dyed bell bottoms."

Deanna snorted, clearly with amusement this time.

"Is this something you're going to want to apply yourself or will you be here every time you have to go in front of the cameras?"

"I'll be doing it, it's supposed to look that way and if it actually is, that will be easier."

"Bmph," said Deanna. "What do you need me for then?"

"Expert advice?" suggested Andy.

Phil kept quiet. He'd never seen Deanna so tractable. Andy was doing great and needed no help.

"You'll need commercially available brands then," said Deanna. "I may have a few things." She moved away, muttering to search through the bins and drawers of her workspace. She stopped and turned back for a moment. "Hair? Jewelry? Colors?"

"Do you have suggestions?" asked Andy.

Phil moved out of the line of sight, this would go much better if he weren't there to remind Deanna that this wasn't just an exercise in creativity but a producer's fiat.

They experimented with blush, mascara, eyeliner and lipcolor.

Phil watched from a distance.

Finally Deanna sighed. "Can't do more without seeing what you will be wearing and what they've done with your hair. But here's a start."

Andy looked in the mirror. With his shoulder-length hair pulled back by a clip, he looked like -- a tomboy wearing lipstick? Close enough.

Deanna had highlighted his cheekbones and rounded his chin in some subtle way. She'd colored in his thin, almost transparent eyebrows without making them look deliberately shaped. A half-touch of olive eyeliner gave his eyecolor an almost golden radiance and darker shadow on the deep part of the upper lids made them look larger. The lipstick was most noticeable, an off-red with orangey glints and purple depths. It looked retro enough to go with fashions from the forties, fifties or sixties and as modern as a homemade You-Tube music video mashup; the sort of happy accidental resonance a talented amateur make-up artist might discover.

"You're a genius," Andy told Deanna.

"Now let's clean it all off and you do it, using just this drugstore crap," she ordered. "Twice," she added, "to be sure you know what you're doing."

The second time through, Andy called Phil over before he put on the lipcolor. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Kind of androgynous?" Phil risked saying, not looking toward Deanna in case she took offense.

Andy removed the clip from his hair, shook it loose around his face then applied the lipstick, blotted it carefully and applied it again. "Now?"

Phil nodded. "I'm impressed," he said. "You look kissable now."

Andy blinked and stared at him a moment, then grinned. "Not before?"

"Not quite," said Phil. He grinned too.

"Hmp," said Deanna.

Blonde Destiny.

 

Andy followed Phil through an unexpected gated archway between buildings and into a little garden lined with shopfronts. A boot repair shop, a fruit juice bar, a tiny dress shop and a florist lined one side. On the other, a dental office, a hair salon and an optometrist sat together. The end of the little garden area opened onto a side street with diagonal parking.

"I didn't know this was here," said Andy.

"The neighborhood is pretty old and a lot of people who work here live nearby and shop in this place. It's called Studio Alley," said Phil.

"It kind of looks like a movie set."

"Well, some tv shows have been filmed here but no movies." Phil pointed back the way they came, "That's Studio 3C and 4, game shows mostly but they redress 4 for pilots sometimes. And once in a while this turns into New York or Milano or even Bangkok."

Andy laughed. "Why are we here?"

"We're going to get you a haircut by the best hair stylist who doesn't work inside the studio. It's already set up."

"Oh." Andy noticed the cables, booms and lightstands now. The whole front of the hair salon had been pulled out into the sidewalk to make room inside for the equipment. The facade had obviously been constructed for just this reason.

An assistant director barked orders and Andy went through the charade of entering the shop and waiting a few moments before sitting down in one of the styling chairs in front of a tall brunette wearing a peach-colored tunic and white slacks.  

"Hello, darling," said the stylist in a surprisingly deep contralto. "I'm Penelope Nicholls. Or Penny."

"I'm..." Andy hesitated only a fraction of a second. "Wren Andrews." I am Wren Andrews, now.

"Mm-hmm," said Penny. "You live somewhere dry and desolate, perhaps uncivilized. You've never had your hair styled properly, have you?"

"Uh?" Wren didn't know how to answer. "Probably not," seemed safe enough.

"Well, I'm here to fix that," said the stylist. She ran her fingers through Wren's pale brown locks. "You've never had hair extensions?"

"No."

"Would you like to? Your hair is long enough to cut into a feminine style but you'll have more -- authority in your role if I give you longer hair."

Wren blinked, thinking about it. Penny obviously knew what was up and perhaps had been primed to offer the extensions. It would make good theater to have long hair, Wren decided, nodding.

"How long?" asked Penny. "Shoulders? Waist? Ass?"

Wren giggled, startled at how Penelope had offered the last option. "What do you think?"

"The longer the hair the more I get paid so if you leave it up to me, you're going to get the longest I've got strands for," Penny said smiling. "I think you would look stunning with hair down to where you sit."

"Okay," said Wren. "Uh, this is, going to take a long time?"

"All day, probably," said Penny. "We're not going to use clip-ins. But first, we need to dye your hair to match." She turned to one of the other women in the shop. "Sally, bring the 26" off-black and platinum blonde extensions." Sally, a young woman with dark hair and cinnamon skin, nodded and headed toward the back of the shop.

Wren made a face. "Those are my color choices?"

Penny looked thoughtful and felt of Wren's hair again. "Easy to dye your hair to match either of those, or dye one of them to match you. Your hair is kind of a meh! color though."

Wren laughed. "I've often thought that."

"Not quite blonde, sort of medium-light ash brown. It would be a waste to dye the extensions that color."

"No," agreed Wren. "But I don't think I'd look natural with black hair and platinum blonde is -- such a cliche."

Penny laughed. "Remember what business you're in. You want to look so good no one gives you a second thought?"

"Uh?" The double-back logic escaped Wren for a moment.

Sally returned with the hair extensions, lying them across the backs of the unoccupied chairs on either side. Both sets of extensions were very straight, two masses of hair tied in thick swathes, one blond as light, one dark as night.

"We could go with blonde curls, these take permanents very well and your hair will, too," said Penny, fingering one of the swatches. "It's natural hair from women in India who have these thick, positively gorgeous manes. They get their heads shaved for religious reasons and the temples sell the hair. It takes dye and curls wonderfully well."

"I dunno. I can't imagine how long, blonde curls would look on me."

"Sally," said Penny. "Fetch the Dolly Parton wig."

"Oh, my God!" said Wren, laughing.

"It'll be classic," said Penny. "Trust me."

The cameras turned and microphones hovered, ignored by everyone in the shot. Phil sat on a stool against one wall and watched for a bit but eventually left without saying goodbye. The director followed him to the pulled-out front of the shop and talked with him on the sidewalk for a moment. Then he and Phil pushed the shopfront at an angle to block the February wind from coming into the shop.

Wren heard the director say to Phil, "We just won't tell the union about that."

Phil laughed and walked away.

Wren noticed him go and suppressed an urge to call to him, thinking, "He's probably got other things to do and I'm going to be here for hours."

Phil did not look back and Wren could not help but feel a bit abandoned.

Sally suddenly plopped a massive curly blonde wig down on Wren's head causing a startled jump.

"Sorry I frighten' you. Di'n't you see me?" asked Sally in her soft accent.

"Uh, no." Wren never admitted to being half-blind without a better reason than getting momentarily startled. Phil knew and that was unusual.

Penny adjusted the wig and gestured into the mirror. "Is he your boyfriend?" she asked.

Wren had expected a question about the wig. "Oh, no. Phil's the producer's assistant."

"Ah, ha," said Penny but she smiled as if Wren had shared a secret. She gestured again at the mirror.

Wren frowned. "That's a lot of hair."

"I thin' you look adorable," said Sally, adjusting the set of the wig a bit.

"She does," agreed Penny.

Wren blushed, then grinned and turned this way and that, examining different angles. "I look like a ditz."

"An airhead," agreed Penny.

Sally giggled.

"A bimbo," said Wren.

"A tart, as our British friends would say," said Penny. All three laughed.

"They're filming all of this," said Wren, acknowledging the film crew with a nod. Only two people were left, a cameraman and a soundman; the director and script girl had apparently left right after Phil. Why did a reality TV show need a script girl, Wren wondered.

"They'll use the good parts of that," said Penny. "So, the blonde curls are a go?"

Wren sighed. "I think so. It's cliched but cliches sell. If I'm going to be a starlet, I might as well look the part."

"Thatta girl," said Penny. "We'll get started."

 

They worked through the rest of the morning, first bleaching Wren's hair completely to translucent white with a faint lemon tinge. Wren didn't like the smell of the chemicals but said nothing. After the hair had dried completely, color was added back; platinum was actually darker than the neutral lemon-white.

Meanwhile, Sally had worked at another station, curling the strands of the the platinum extensions to a bit more than wavy but much less than tight curls. This had been done with heated curlers and some really smelly solutions that probably could not be used on hair still attached to a head. Now dry, the long blonde waves had been clipped up to air a bit.

"We almos' ready with the esstentions," said Sally to Wren. "You goin' to be beautiful. Beautiful hair."

But Wren seemed fascinated with the look of the short blonde shag. "I could just go with this."

"Too late," said Penny in her oddly deep voice. "We're going for the full do. You know how much I get to charge the studio for this?"

Wren giggled. "Oh, well. I wasn't using my brain for much anyway."

Penny laughed. "Let's take a break and then I'll give you a body curl that I can blend in with the extensions. No one will be able to tell it isn't your own hair. After the perm, I'll have to use some restoratives on your hair, too, so it doesn't break while we do the fusion. Then you can just treat it like your very own, should last a year unless you ride around with your head out the window like a dog."

Penny had explained the whole process to Wren during the dyeing. The hair extensions would be fused to the hair roots, a few strands at a time by the application of heat and some more chemicals. This would have to be done hundreds of times to provide a full head of hair with plenty of body. Afterward, the extensions could be treated like natural hair, combed, brushed, shampooed and styled. Even with both Sally and Penny working, it would take another six to eight hours to do all the work.

Wren sighed, dreading the tedium of such a process.

"Here comes your boyfriend," said Penny, causing Wren to look up.

Phil came through the door with a tray of drinks and sandwiches from the commissary. "Lunch," he called.

The technicians took a break, too, and soon everyone was munching on thin-sliced roast beef, tuna salad or chicken filet sandwiches and drinking iced tea.

"Hey," said Phil to Wren.

"Hey."

"I like the color."

Wren nodded, vaguely embarrassed but trying not to show it. "Wait till you see how I look with all the big hair Penny is making for me."

"Can't wait," said Phil, smiling.

Dreaming of Dallas...

 

The extensions did take the rest of the day and into the evening. While Penny did most of the work, at times, Sally worked on one side while Penny worked on the other. Each skein of hair had to be glued to a matching lock of real hair, twenty-five strands at a time. Penny and Sally worked fast, more than a twenty locks an hour for ten hours, trading off for breaks with two other shop employees.  

The job involved separating out a lock of Wren's own hair and preparing it for adding the extension, then aligning the extension and fastening it in place. There were different ways of doing this but Penny chose glue as being the most permanent and most like having your own hair.  

They worked upward from the nape of Wren's neck, five locks at a time, then widening it to six, seven and eight, then starting another row on each side above Wren's ears. It was careful, painstaking work and required artistry and technical knowhow of a high degree. The three sets of rows came together like a pyramid until locks could be set across the crown of Wren's head in a pattern that followed the growth of Wren's natural hair.

"Good thing you had long enough hair for this to work," said Penny at one time. "You need at least four to five inches of natural growth to attach the extensions."

"I like long hair," said Wren. "This is going to be something different though, I can feel it all the way down my back." Although Wren tried to keep still, every movement seemed to make the new locks of hair rustle and tickle. "I thought it would take me ages to grow it out that long."

Penny laughed her deep laugh. "You'll have to brush it out of the way when you sit down in some chairs. And it will keep growing with the locks of your own hair that it's attached to. I may have to do maintenance on it every month or two but it can last a year if you take care of it."

"Iss gorgeous," said Sally in her soft Island Spanish accent. "You make all the other girlss yealous."

Wren laughed softly and blushed.

"She's not kidding," said Penny. "You'll see. And no one is going to know for sure that it isn't your own hair unless you tell them."

"How do you remove it when it comes time?" Wren asked, curious.

"There's a solvent that turns the glue into powder," said Penny. "Then we just comb it out, shampoo and you're ready to do it again."

"What about when my mousy roots start showing?" asked Wren.

"No problem," said Penny. "We deal with that all the time, we just recolor only the roots."

Wren wasn't sure how that would work but trusted Penny to know what she was doing.

Another girl, Estelle, gave Wren a manicure and a pedicure, staying out of the way of people doing the extensions. Wren picked the color, a softened red with tiny metallic magenta flecks that nearly matched the shade of the lipstick that Deanna had picked earlier.

"You want nail extensions, too?" asked Estelle when she started on the manicure. "Make them all the same length, maybe a quarter inch?"

"Go for a half-inch," said Phil.

Wren had forgotten that he was still there, watching everything with the camera crew and the director. Glancing in his direction, Wren nodded. "A half-inch."

"That's really a lot," said Estelle. "More than you might think."

"I'll try it," said Wren. "If they're too long, I can come back and get them trimmed down."

"It will make your hands look so nice and elegant," Estelle cooed. "You have good hands, slim but strong. And smooth, I'll give you a lotion that will help keep them soft."

"Thank you," said Wren, smiling.

"You want them cut square across? It's stronger that way but it looks prettier if they are rounded."

"Prettier," said Wren.

"Wearing long nails is different," said Estelle. "Have you had your nails this long before?"

"No," said Wren. "It'll be a real experience, like the hair."

Estelle nodded. "You have a little trouble picking things up and remembering to use the side of your finger instead of the tip for some things. You don't type a lot do you?"

"No."

Estelle smiled. "You shouldn't have too much trouble then. Maybe since we'll have time and the studio is paying for this, I can paint flowers on your nails?"

"Really?" said Wren. "I think I'd like that."

"A small flower on each nail, and three with rhinestones for the thumb. And one flower on each big toe," said Estelle. "It's very pretty. Green and white and gold on the red, you'll see."

Phil came over to talk with Wren but stayed well back of the cosmeticians. "You up for coming in extra early tomorrow?" he asked.

"Sure," said Wren. "How early?"

"Be here at seven, which means you'll have to get up at five, probably."

Wren laughed. "It's obvious you've never worked in a small family business. That's normal hours at Woody's, most days."

"Would you want to come at six?" Phil asked.

"If that's what it takes."

Phil nodded. "It's going to be another long day for you, let me ask around, see if the techs want to get here that early." He threw a mock salute toward Penny and wandered off to talk to the director.

Penny scowled. "He's okay but he can be an asshole sometimes," she said.

Wren laughed. "He's management, production, I guess if he couldn't summon his inner prick he wouldn't make it very far."

Penny chuckled. "You're right. Sometimes you have to be the bad guy when you're the boss."

Estelle grinned and Sally snorted.

"They're laughing 'cause I'm a big softie," said Penny. And everyone giggled at that.

# # #

Wren ended up dozing in the chair through part of the long afternoon but heard Sally talking to someone and woke up.

"You chould wake her wit' a kiss," Sally was saying.

Wren recognized Phil's chuckle. "I'm afraid she might hit me if I woke her up like that."

"Won't know until you try it," said Wren, sitting up and looking directly at Phil's grey eyes.

Phil looked as if he were considering it then smiled and laughed. "Get your bath tonight, cause the guys in technical costuming are going to be smearing you with mud tomorrow, starting at six."

"I can't wait," said Wren.

"Why they going to do that?"   asked Sally.

"It's for a special costume. Wren will come in here in it and you won't even know her," said Phil, his eyes twinkling.

"They better not get their mud in this hair, I'll take some hide off those boys," said Penny.

"Look," said Wren, holding hands out palms down with fingers spread so Phil could see Estelle's work on the nails.

"Nice," said Phil. "I'm not sure why women do that though. I don't think men look at nails that much."

"Poo," said Penny. "Some things we do for the beauty of them and some we do for ourselves, men aren't the center of our worlds all the time, you know."

Phil grinned and winked at Wren. "Yes, ma'am," he said to Penny.

"Oh, get out of here. Come back in two hours, we'll be done," she said.

"Can I take you out to dinner?" Phil asked Wren. "I'm on expense account still, so we can go somewhere nice."

Wren laughed. "You talked me into it. Is there good seafood around here?"

Phil looked thoughtful, "It'll be too late for the best place in Burbank or the best place in Glendale, they're both lunch places. But The Hungry Cat will be open in Hollywood and it's not too far."

"Yumeow!" said Wren.

Phil laughed.

"I like the flattop look you've got going right now," he said. Long wavy platinum hair flowed from the back and sides but the top of Wren's head was still the original hairdo, though pinched off and pulled up into locks that had been laid forward to make it easier to work from the back.

Penny picked up a brush from a counter and threw it at him. "We're not done! Get outta here!"

Phil dodged three times, as if Penny had hurled a barage.

Wren and the camera guy laughed and everyone else smirked.

Phil bowed and left.

"He rubs me the wrong way," said Penny. "He's smarmy. And sarcastic. And he smells better than men are supposed to smell."

Wren swallowed a giggle at that complaint. Phil did smell good.

"He likes to flirt wit'choo," said Sally.

"I kinda noticed," Wren admitted.

"You need a reech boyfren' like him," said Sally. "You can be expensive girlfren'. It's fon," said Sally.

At this, Penny laughed.

"I'm not sure I want any boyfriend," said Wren.

"Oh, chess you do," said Sally nodding.

Wren made a face, half-frown, half smile. "Why do you say that?"

"You pick the pretty fingers," said Sally. "Womenss with the pretty fingers are looking for men."

"Unless they are looking for women," said Penny.

Sally frowned and looked at Wren doubtfully.  

Wren looked back and smiled, wide and bright.

# # #

In the mirror, the dream of every Dallas cheerleader became real, blond curls piled high and hanging down to the waist. The accessory seemed to do more to transform what Wren thought of as an ordinary face into something different, something beautiful. Even more than the make-up, which could be washed off, the hair made Andy Wren becoming Wren Andrews real, maybe too real for TV.

Penny looked at Wren and nodded. "You know, the hair is almost too much?"

"What do you mean?" asked Wren.

"People are going to look at your hair and not you. You'll need more dramatic make-up to draw attention to your face."

"Hadn't thought of that."

"Deanna will, don't worry," said Penny with one of her deep chuckles. "But there's something I can do, too. I'm going to dye a lock of your hair on each side a different color, that will bring the focus down from all the gorgeous curls to make people see the real you."

"The real me? I dunno…" said Wren, smiling.

"Pink," said Sally. "Two locks on one side and one on the other. Like it just happen by assident."

Wren blinked.

"I think Sally's right. You like pink?" asked Penny.

"Iss so feminine," said Sally.

Wren nodded. "Pink," she said.

 

In the end, they decided to skip the colored locks because the effect of the mass of platinum curls was so powerful. "It needs an off-side touch, though," said Penny. "Too much balance is boring."

"Could you bring the hair down over my left eye?" asked Wren. "I don't see much out of that one anyway."

"Really? Hmmm," said Penny. She worked quickly, adjusting the part and pulling one of the shorter, natural locks out and spraying it into place. It seemed to satisfy her and she stepped out of the way so Wren could see with her good eye.

"Yow," said Wren softly.

"I like it," said Penny. "It's modern but retro at the same time. Jayne Mansfield might have worn her hair like this, or Marilyn. But it's almost wild enough for Lady Gaga."

Wren laughed. "I don't think anyone is going to recognize me."

"Well, once they see you now, they'll recognize you," promised Penny. "Are we all done?"

"How do I take care of all this hair?" asked Wren. "And how do I recreate this look?"

They spent some time on instruction, demonstration and a little hands on education before Wren heard Phil at the door.

"Yow," he said.

Wren laughed. "That's what I said."

Phil tapped the cameraman on the shoulder and said, "That's it for the evening, fellas. Thanks."

The cameraman and sound tech started shutting down their gear and packing things away. They were the third crew who had worked with Wren during the day and had had the shortest shift.

Phil came around the crew to take one of Wren's hands in both of his, "You're stunning," he said.

She blushed. "This is going to take some getting used to. I look like a starlet."

"That's the idea," said Phil. He smiled at her and said nothing for a moment longer that Wren was comfortable with.

* * *

They spent a few more minutes talking with the salon crew but finally, Phil led Wren out of the shop and onto the street without going back into the studio. The side street ran along the studio's eastern side, away from the big gates and parking structure but Phil had moved his car to a smaller parking lot across the street. A blinking yellow caution light guarded a crosswalk and Phil somehow, naturally it seemed, took Wren's arm as they crossed the street.

Wren seemed a bit amused at this, it was a step into increased familiarity, but she didn't resist. With her new hair and more dramatic makeup, she felt on display and welcomed a reassuring touch from someone she trusted. Without much surprise, she made a mental note that she apparently did trust Phil.

Phil held the door on his Lexus for her and closed it when she said, "Thanks," then he scurried around the car to get in on the driver's side. He'd done this before but almost in an ironic way, it seemed more sincere now.

She sat almost sideways in the seat, one knee up, turned so she could see him without turning her head so far to the side. She gave him a dimpled smile as he climbed in, but he warned her, "You'd better buckle up. We're going through county area and the deputies love to give out click-it tickets."

She frowned but turned to sit square in the seat and buckled her belt. "Makes it hard to see you," she said.

"Sorry. Maybe we'll take the show to England so you can sit on this side and I won't be in your blindspot. Or hidden by that hair."

She grinned. "I'd like that," she admitted. She brushed a hand through her hair, carefully so as not to disturb the set.

Phil was quiet for a while as they cruised down the boulevard toward Hollywood. He kept glancing toward Wren and she smiled when she caught him at it.

"Where's this place we're going?" Wren asked.

"For dinner? It's called The Hungry Cat. It's in Hollywood. But I thought we might make another stop first. When's the last time you saw a doctor?"

Wren didn't answer right away. "More than a year," she said finally.

"This is a doctor who has kind of a specialty in Hollywood," said Phil. "I thought you might like to see him."

"Huh. He keeps late office hours?" It was after six, most doctors Wren knew of closed before that.

"Oh, yeah," said Phil. "Dr. Tran caters to a particular clientele, in and around Hollywood. Performers, most of them."

Wren nodded. "I think I'm getting the idea. Okay, let's stop. As long as it doesn't take too long, I am getting hungry."

* * *

Dr. Henry Tran turned out to be a small man of indeterminate age, probably of Vietnamese ancestry, or possibly Chinese. He had no accent and the diplomas on his walls showed degrees from Stanford, Houston and UCLA in various medical specialties accumulated over the last ten years or so. He also had board certifications from the American Institute for Metabolic and Endocrinologic   Research and Treatment and the American Board of Cosmetic Surgery hanging on his wall.

Wren waited in a small examining room wearing a back-to-front gown after having stripped down to panties. She didn't have to wait long, Dr. Tran entered and smiled at her. "The x-rays are good so we won't have to retake them. Did Miss Eulisle get a blood sample?"

Wren nodded, the technician had stabbed her in two fingertips and the bend of her left elbow which now had a circular bandaid in place.

"Hmm," said Dr. Tran. "I'll need to see the blood tests which we won't get back for another week but the x-rays and my exam are fairly disgnostic, Miss Andrews." Since Phil had told her that most of Dr. Tran's patients were in show business in one form or another, she had used her professional name.

His smooth brown face looked friendly, reassuring and interested.   "You present a rather unusual case, Miss Andrews. You're just under five foot four inches tall, and you weigh only ninety four pounds. You have no pubic hair and very little body hair at all with a small amount of gynecomastia. The x-rays confirm that you have the skeletal development of someone who has not yet reached puberty."

He continued smiling as he spoke. "I'll want confirmation from blood work but it looks as if you have a condition sometimes called delayed puberty accompanying hypogonadism. Do you know what that means?"

"I think so," said Wren. "I got a similar diagnosis about a year ago from my doctor in Lancaster. He wanted to send me to UCLA for more tests."

"Wouldn't hurt," agreed Dr. Tran. "We could rule out certain chromosomal abnormalities with tests. I can't get you an appointment with the right lab over there before next week. I'm confident of my initial diagnosis but I don't know enough of what might be the cause of your condition. Did anyone else in your family have a delayed puberty?"

Wren nodded. "My father, Woody. He was doing stunts in his twenties for children because he still looked young. He didn't have much body hair until he was twenty and didn't have to shave until he was twenty-seven, he told me."

Dr. Tran nodded. "Not common but not exactly rare either. Human development has a lot of variables in it. You're seventeen but you have the muscular, testicular and skeletal development of someone who is about twelve, pre-pubertal.   Assuming nothing in further tests contraindicates, the conventional treatment would be to induce puberty with gonadotropic hormones and possibly testosterone supplements."

Wren looked down and away.

Dr. Tran continued. "I'm assuming from your presentation and appearance and what I have learned about your career that this would not be desirable at this time."

She shook her head.

Dr. Tran nodded. "You're already a year past the recommended best age for starting such an intervention and the earlier such a thing is done, generally, the better the results in terms of normal development. But what is normal anyway but a statistical average that ignores the idiosyncrasies of individual cases. And desires."

Wren looked up and smiled a crooked little smile.

Dr. Tran smiled back. "You could be a very lucky young lady in some ways. Depending on the blood work, we could start a different treatment regimen within a week or so. One aimed at a more personally desired course of physical development."

She said nothing.

"A female puberty if that's how you would like to proceed," said Dr. Tran. "Your father already signed a medical release form, you know."

Wren frowned. "The doctor I saw before said that that could put me at risk for cancer. Gonadal cancer."

Dr. Tran snorted. "Everything is a risk but there are obvious ways to minimize that one depending on what your ultimate goal is."

"I.... I don't know," said Wren. "But I don't want to grow muscles or a beard."

"Well," said Dr. Tran. "You certainly have time to find out more about what you do want. In the meantime, we'll get some more tests done. And there are some minor things we can do to improve your current presentation."

"Like what?" asked Wren.