Recently I blew the dust from this very early story and was happy to get reacquainted with the Mendoza family. Please note: I do not speak Spanish, but was helped by a friend from Málaga, Spain, who lived for a time in Buenos Aires. Any errors in translation or idioms were probably typos on my part and not necessarily her fault!
“Mr. Preston? Care to join us?”
My heart nearly stopped when my teacher called on me. He called everybody ‘Mister’ or ‘Miss’ but it was his tone that was a warning. I tried to regroup.
“Uh ... yes ... the angle of C is ... uh–”
The class snickered at my failure.
“Mr. Preston, we finished that problem ten minutes ago. Pay attention, won’t you? Now, then, Miss Allen, could you tell us the cosine?”
The class resumed and I breathed a sigh of relief. No doubt he thought I’d been checking out a pretty girl. That would be normal; he might not think that what I’d been thinking about was normal, but it was a normal thought for me. Class ended, and as I gathered my books together he called me up to his desk.
“Mr. Preston, your inattentiveness is affecting your work, not to mention disrupting the class when I call on you. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry and I’ll do better?” I hoped he didn’t think I was brown-nosing; it was the truth.
“Not good enough, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to send a note to your mother–”
“Do you really have to?” I fought the whine in my voice.
“I’m afraid I do, for several reasons. With only three weeks left before finals, you’re going to be very unhappy with your report card unless you shape up. I need to see some immediate improvement; you’ve got this weekend ahead of you to get your head turned back right. I know it’s an uphill battle, but you’ve got to do it, and I’ve got to help a smart boy get his mind off the pretty girls and back on geometry.”
Oh, if he only knew! I thought. Well, it could have been worse; it could have been my Spanish class–there were only boys in it, so there would be no excuse. Of course, there wouldn’t have been pantyhose, either. But I would have been daydreaming about Susan’s pantyhose, or Brenda’s cute hairstyle, or Heather’s skirt …
Sighing to myself, I accepted the note unwillingly, mumbled another apology, and went off to my next class, the last for the day. It was PE, my least favorite. The coach was always on me about my long hair, which was dirty blonde and hung straight from a center part just to my collar. I didn’t see what his problem was; my mom obviously knew I had long hair, and I wasn’t going out for a sports team, so why should he care?
He told us to run laps; I walked the last part with Santiago Mendoza, a boy from Argentina. He was a bit chubby, maybe; enough that guys called him ‘fat boy’. Everyone assumed he was gay; in fact, ‘Argenteenan’ had become locker-room slang for ‘queer’, as in, ‘Don’t be so Argenteenan’, which was the way they said it, even though the word really should be ‘Argentinean.’ Santiago’s English was not the best, and it seemed like he assumed everyone was speaking positively about him, because he bobbed his head up and down and smiled. I walked with him for two reasons; first, I was tired, and second, I could practice my Spanish with him and help him with English. And then we’d gotten to be friends.
Our concept of doing laps wasn’t good enough for the coach, of course. He waited until we came up to him and leaned down.
“If you two faggots can’t run with the boys, maybe you’d like to transfer to the Girls’ PE?”
He’d said it quietly so there were no witnesses, and he knew we’d never haul him up on charges of talking to us that way. It was funny, though, because I would have given anything to be in Girls’ PE ...
After showering in silence, paying no attention to the glares of some of the other boys, I walked home, and couldn’t help but watch groups of girls in twos and threes walking together. I thought about being a girl, my skirt swinging in the breeze, walking home with my girlfriends, our books clutched against our breasts, talking about our day, and about the cute guys in class, and about new makeup, and–
I was nearly killed as a car braked and honked; I’d walked into the street without noticing. The driver still leaned on his horn, shouting at me, as I had to pick up the books I’d tossed when I was startled. I debated picking up my note from Geometry, but I knew I’d have to, and I got out of the way as quick as I could.
I got home without further incident, but the near-crash had shaken me. My mother wasn’t due until 5:30, so I got some cookies, focused on my homework, tidied up a bit and was looking through a People magazine when Mom came home. She worked so hard since the divorce, so I helped out with things like cleaning, doing laundry, taking out the garbage, and occasionally cooking. We’d always been very close, but lately I felt myself growing distant from her. Out of …self-preservation, I thought.
Mom had groceries; I went to help her put things away and we chatted about her day. Then I had to mention the Geometry note, which she wanted to see. I got it, handed it to her, and stood quietly while she read it.
“Well, honey? Do you know what this says?”
“No; I didn’t read it, but I can imagine: ‘Stop daydreaming. Pay attention!’” I said in a gruff voice like my teacher.
She smiled thinly. “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that. He says that he suspects you might have ADD or be using drugs or something. So that’s pretty serious.”
“Mom, I don’t have ADD!” I protested. “And I’m not using drugs; you know that.”
“Yes, I do know that,” she said softly, reaching out and stroking my hair. “But I could still be wrong.”
“You’re not wrong. I don’t use drugs!” I said with finality.
“But you do know what the problem is, don’t you?”
She looked me in the eye and I squirmed involuntarily. I was suddenly aware of everything–my day, the kitchen, her eyes–everything needed adjusting, including me. I had a sudden flash of the car’s horn and the driver’s anger, and I knew that this couldn’t go on. My self-preservation thing wasn’t working; trying to stay hidden was costing me too much. So it was time to tell my mother the truth.
“Mom, let’s sit down,” I said as we both sat at the kitchen table. I helped her fold the paper bags; it was welcome busy-work to cover my nervousness.
“Mom, there’s no way to gently tell you, so I’ll just tell you outright.”
She looked closely at me. “Kind of like pulling a band-aid off quickly?”
I smiled weakly at that. “Something like that. Okay ... I think that …No, I am …transgender.”
She looked at me and said nothing, so I went on.
“Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt like a girl, not a boy. I think about it all the time. Being a girl, I mean. What my life would be like as the girl I should have been. Every movie I see, every book I read, every song I hear, I see it or read it or think about it. I’m just more and more convinced that I should have been born a girl. And that I am a girl, in the way I think and feel.”
I looked at her; she was still giving me a neutral look. She knew I wasn’t finished, so I nodded once and went on.
“Today in geometry, I was looking at Susan Berger’s pantyhose and wishing I was wearing them. I was wishing I had long hair like hers that I could hold back in a scrunchie. But it wasn’t just that I wanted to wear girls’ clothes; just that it would …it would validate me to the world. And it’s more than just clothing; it’s the way I think. Like, well …some of the other girls in class had been talking about going to a slumber party and I was wishing I was going to, thinking about the fun we’d have. The coach called me a faggot and threatened to transfer me to Girls’ PE, which I really, really wanted. Because I’d have to be a girl, then, right? And then coming home, I was nearly killed by a car because I was thinking about makeup and didn’t pay attention. Mom ...”
I started to run down, and renewed my strength. “Mom, if I don’t get this taken care of, I’ll be miserable until the day I die, and that won’t be far off!”
I stared hard at Mom, as if defying her to dispute me. She looked at the stack of folded bags, thought in silence for some time, and looked back at me.
“The coach called you a faggot?” she said sternly.
I was saddened that after all that I’d said, it was the first thing she latched onto. I shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s not the first time.”
“Not the first time? How long has this been going on?”
“Ever since the semester started. Only he does it right in my face so there’s no witnesses.”
She digested that. “We’ll see about that. Anyway, let me ask you, how does that make you feel?”
“Feel? Well, I’m pissed off because he knows it’s wrong but he’s getting away with it anyway. But I don’t really mind; I just shine him on.”
“You don’t mind?”
“No, he’s a Neanderthal!”
She chuckled. “I think I know what you mean. Well, you won’t have to see him until Monday, so you’ve got two whole days without Neanderthals. Now, honey, we’ve got to get real serious now. Since you’ve been so open, talking about this, I’m going to be just as open. Here goes: What do you want to do about it?”
Actually, that stumped me. Ever since I could remember, I’d been wishing I’d been a girl. Every day I wished I’d been born a girl. Every night I prayed that I’d wake up a girl. But I’d never thought about doing anything about it; I was pretty well reconciled to a life of misery, hoping that maybe reincarnation was real and in my next life I’d be born female. But ‘do about it’ right now?
“Mom, I ... I don’t know. I never thought about it past …just wanting it. I just wished I’d been born with two X chromosomes, and since I wasn’t ...”
“Well, honey, think about it. And let me know what you think you want to do. I’ve got to get dinner started.”
And she left me, just like that! I’d been expecting yelling or tears or …anything but a head nod and ‘what do you want to do about it?’ I sat on the couch, staring out the window. I’d done so much reading on the internet about being transgender. So much research, so many nights of anguish, all the time wondering why I couldn’t have just been born a girl? I think I knew what she was getting at; that I should try being a girl–or at least dressing like one–to see if this was just a passing fancy, or if I was just a transvestite and wanted to stay male, or whether I was truly transgender. I felt certain it was the latter, but she was going to make me ask for it.
I’d been staring out the window, not really looking at anything, when Jennifer Bowen from around the block rode her bike past our house, probably on her way to the market two blocks further. She had a pair of white shorts on, which flared out over her tanned, shiny legs. She wore a pink and green tank top, and I could see the white straps of her bra next to the tank’s straps. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back in a white scrunchie. God, if only I could be wearing clothes like that, on a bike like that, out with Jenny or another girl, just best girlfriends …
Okay, that was it! Such a feeling of envy welled up inside of me that I threw embarrassment aside and went into the kitchen.
“Mom, I want to talk to you.”
“Gee, honey, I thought you were talking to me,” she chided me.
“I’m sorry, you know what I mean. About what we were talking about, you know, before ...”
She turned to me, drying her hands on a towel, and sat down at the table. I sat down too. She just looked at me, so I plunged in.
“Mom, I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but–I want to be a girl. Not pretending, but really. But of course, I’m a boy. So what do we do?”
She smiled. “Yes, what do we do?”
I hesitated. She wasn’t making this easy, for some reason. Okay, so I’d have to shock her.
“Mom, I’d like to start wearing some girls’ clothes at home. I mean, to try. I mean–”
“I know what you mean.”
There was a pause, while my stomach did flip-flops. Then she spoke again.
“Anything in particular?”
“Pardon? I don’t understand.”
“Anything in particular you’d like to wear? A blouse, a skirt, a dress, panties, a bra, a prom dress, what?”
I think I blushed at the word ‘panties’, because–yes, damn it, I did want to wear panties. And dresses, and skirts, and everything. But I think I knew where she was going, because she’d listed the items in ascending order of femininity, at least to a boy. I think she also wanted to gauge whether it was the clothes that were important, or being a girl inside of them. I knew that was the case.
“Yes. Yes, yes, and yes. Yes and yes! Mom, this’ll really freak you, but I want to wear the same clothes I would wear if I had been born a girl.”
“Hmm, I see. So, you mean, you want to wear jeans, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes?”
I gulped. She’d described exactly what I was wearing right now!
“Come on, Mom, that was a trick question!”
“Was it? I don’t think so. I wanted to make a point. There’s a lot more to being female than wearing a dress. Let me put it this way; think of a girl.”
“Okay.”
“I mean a real girl, not a celebrity. Who are you thinking of?”
“Jenny Bowen. I just saw her ride past.”
“Fair enough. What was she wearing?”
“Tank top and shorts.”
“Okay, if Jenny were here and the two of you were to switch clothes, you’d put on her tank top and shorts. She’d put on your jeans and t-shirt. Right?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Would that make you a girl? Or more obviously, if Jenny were wearing your clothes, would she be a boy?”
“You know she wouldn’t!”
“That’s right. That fact that she is female is inside her, no matter what she’s wearing. She could be dressed like a football player, with pads and even a cup, and she’d still be a girl.”
I felt depressed; this obviously meant Mom was against the whole idea and I’d embarrassed myself for nothing. She still had to drive her point home.
“And if you were wearing her tank top and shorts, would you be a girl? Obviously not. So where does that leave you?”
“Mom ...” I started, lamely. “It’s more than just wanting to wear the clothes. Like I said, I feel like a girl about things, and I think like a girl; sometimes I scare myself because I have the same reaction to things as the girls in my class. When it’s different from boys’ reactions, I mean. I hear them around me, girls and boys. And when the girls talk about things, I get it. I understand why they say the things they do the way they do. But when the boys are talking, it’s like …some foreign language. I can’t relate to the things they think are important or the way they …just the way they view the world. And the things they say about girls!” I was almost shouting. “I get so disgusted!”
“Locker-room bragging, probably,” Mom said dryly.
“Not just there. Mom, I don’t go for ‘guy’ stuff, you know that already. But the real thing is, if I could be and act the way I feel inside, my room would be yellow with white accents, maybe butter cream. I’d have a crocheted bedspread like I saw in the Penney’s catalog. I’d be best friends with Jenny Bowen. I’d learn how to really cook and sew and help you. I’d wear ... I’d wear ...Oh, it doesn’t matter what I wore if the world would only treat me as a girl!”
It was all too much for me and I broke into tears. I put my head down on the kitchen table and sobbed. Mom stroked my hair and kept saying things like, ‘There, there, my poor little angel’. That phrase both shook me and comforted me; she used to call me ‘her little angel’ when I was a kid. Hearing it now sounded odd. Finally, the crying jag was over and she handed me a tissue. As I dabbed my eyes, she gave me a strange smile.
“I think you just proved something. To both of us. Let me attack my own argument for a moment. Jenny Bowen is female, knows she’s female, and will always be female for three main reasons. First, because her body is flooded daily with female hormones. Second, because she was brought up to be female and feminine. And third, since that’s how society views her, that’s how she reflects society’s view of her. Dear me, that last one was a little convoluted! And by ‘society’, I meant everyone from her family to her teachers to her classmates. They tell her she’s female and it reinforces her sense of herself as one–”
Mom broke off, frowning. I let her regroup, and then she went on.
“Well, but the first reason I said was internal, her own body full of hormones. That’s something that …well, let’s just set the whole ‘medical’ category aside. But the other two reasons were, let’s call them ‘external’. Try it this way: Jenny looks and acts like a girl, so society accepts her as a girl and holds up a mirror that shows a girl, so she is allowed to act like a girl to match the reflection. With me so far?”
I nodded, sniffing.
“So, perhaps we need to start some re-education. Hmm. Wait here a moment.”
She left the kitchen for a few minutes, then came back with a catalog and some ad inserts from the Sunday paper.
“The internet must have thousands of sites for girls’ clothes, but I don’t know any of ‘em offhand. So let’s do things the old-fashioned way, browse the Juniors section and see what we see, alright?”
I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t need any further urging. We looked through the ads first. Mom asked me about some of the girls in the pictures; did I like this girl’s hair, or what about that top, or weren’t these cute shoes? I decided to be perfectly honest and not keep anything back. By being my true self–my female self–I could comment on this skirt or that hairstyle, and I think we almost had a mother and daughter kind of time together. If anything, it was something we’d never have done if I was a boy. Mom even looked at me …differently somehow, as I described things. I dropped all of my self-preservation cover and just spoke and gestured as naturally as I felt. Mostly it seemed like I just went along with her comments, but two pictures made an impression.
The first showed a girl with frizzy bleached hair, dark roots showing for three or four inches. She wore a pink v-neck sweater, which was okay, but carried her purse slung across her chest, with the strap between her breasts. I said while it might be comfortable, it never looked comfortable. She had a short black skirt with a slit up the left thigh; I told Mom it looked too sleazy for day wear. Finally, she had chunky black platforms and purple toenail polish, but her fingernails were peach. Didn’t match.
Mom stared at me for a moment. “Have you seen this picture before?”
“No, it just came out Sunday, right? I haven’t read the whole Sunday paper yet.”
“Your eye–” She broke her thought and went on thumbing through the pages. Two pictures later, I stopped her hand and looked. It was a shot of two kids dancing. The girl had straight blonde hair held back by two cute barrettes, and wore a short pink sweater over a soft pink satin minidress. She had silver strappy high heeled sandals, great legs, was tastefully made up, and just seemed to be having a great girlish time with her partner, a dark-haired boy in a tan suit.
“What is it, honey?”
For some silly reason, I felt tears well up. “Mom ... I just wish it was me ...”
She studied the picture. “What is it that makes you feel that way?”
“Just her cute outfit, and the sandals show off her pretty nail polish, and the dress looks like it makes her feel pretty, and her smile, and she’s having such a good time, and …” My voice trailed off, but I decided to plunge on, into the embarrassing land of honesty. “And I wonder what her girlfriends are wearing, and what kind of bag goes with this outfit, and my hair is darker, but I wonder how that shade of pink would look on me ...and I bet it feels good in his arms ...slow dancing …”
She sat back and looked at me. “Wow.”
I looked at her. “Wow?”
She nodded. “Wow. Do you usually think that way?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Only without the tears, usually!” I sniffed them back and shrugged. “Like today, when I got busted in Geometry, I was looking at Susan Berger and thinking about how that shade of stocking would look on me, with my coloring–”
She burst out laughing, then immediately looked embarrassed. “Sorry! I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with recognition. It was the words, ‘my coloring’, because I always used those words when I was talking with my mom. ‘Mother, I can’t wear that sweater, it doesn’t match my coloring’. You have an excellent eye for fashion details. My God!” She stopped abruptly, with her mouth slightly open, staring in the distance.
“What?” I felt tempted to look over my shoulder at whatever she was seeing.
“I just realized how it must be for you. Oh, honey, oh, my poor ...” She leaned across the table and hugged me. “... my poor angel.”
She held me for a long time. I returned the hug, but wasn’t sure what had happened, or why. Finally she gave me a final squeeze and leaned back. She looked at me strangely, then reached out and moved some hair off my forehead.
“Mom, what is it?”
She smiled sadly. “Just saying goodbye to someone. My son Andrew.”
“What?”
She folded her arms and looked at me. “You are my child. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a son or a daughter, okay? You’re still my child–that’s the important part, and always remember that. And it’s my job and my responsibility and my loving duty to see that my child is happy. I’ve just learned that my son is so unhappy that I can’t bear to see him go on this way. But the upside,” she said with the start of a smile, “the upside is that my child will continue and hopefully be happier. As my daughter.”
“You mean it?” I couldn’t believe she was saying this!
“I mean it. I was hugging my little boy Andy one last time. And now, I think that you and I should get to know the girl that’s inside of you, because if I had any doubts about it before, you’ve dispelled them.”
“Well ... how do we start?” I really had no idea.
She pulled the catalog over, pushing the ads away. “Let’s say that you’re going exploring to some uncharted part of the world. What’s the first thing you do?”
“I guess I’d do research on the place I was going, and start figuring out the things I’d need to take. What kind of clothing for the climate; that sort of thing. If there was a lot of hiking and stuff, I guess I’d have to get in shape. Maybe try to learn the local language, if there is one.”
She chuckled. “Exactly right! My God, you gave a concise definition of what we’re going to do! Only you’re going to explore girlhood, honey.”
I laughed. “I can’t believe that it fits so well!”
She nodded. “It fits exactly. So we’ll start by going through the catalog to ‘figure out the things you need to take, the kind of clothing’, as you said. We’ll ‘do research’ by picking up Seventeen, whatever the other teenage girl magazines are–and you’ll study them. That’s also how you’ll ‘learn the local language’, as you put it. So that only leaves ‘getting in shape’. For that, we’ll have to seek medical help.”
That rocked me a bit. “Medical help? Are we rushing things, maybe?”
She looked at me very directly. “Getting cold feet? I thought this was what you wanted?”
“It is, it is; it’s just that ... well, what if I’m no good at it? Being a girl, I mean?”
She patted my hand and gave me a warm smile. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m absolutely convinced that you will be far better at it than you think. Even–”
I knew she’d censored herself somehow, so I helped her. “Go on, say it.”
She sighed and looked directly into my eyes. “I’m absolutely convinced that you will be far better at being a girl than you have been at being a boy. I’m sorry.”
It hurt, but not as badly as she thought. “Don’t be, Mom. It’s true. I’ve been miserable for years, although I didn’t want you to know. And I don’t really have any friends, and the teachers don’t like me, and I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”
She got very serious. “Being female has its downside, too, honey. First of all, there’s the inequality–of pay, of treatment, of opportunities. Not all girls have friends, and believe it or not, teachers don’t like all kids. They may even dislike some girls! And the big plus of being female–having a baby–will be denied you.”
“So–we’ll adopt!”
She burst out laughing at my joke. “Fair enough. And there are mean girls, and you’ll find that there are teachers that don’t like girls just as much as they don’t like boys. Although maybe you will make friends, once you’re happier …” She shook her head, changing the subject. “But first things first. I’ll call to schedule an appointment for the right kinds of doctors. You start going through the catalog and make a note of the pages that have something interesting.” She slid a pad and pencil over to me. “When I’m off the phone we’ll go over the pages, maybe do some measuring, then head off to the mall and see what we can find. And we’ll pick up the magazines.”
It was a great plan. She went into her office–really just a spare bedroom–and I could hear her muffled voice. She was in there a long time; I don’t know if it was with one person or a dozen. In the meantime, I looked through the catalog and found several outfits I liked, quite a few I hated, and a few I loved. Finally Mom came back, flopping the phone book onto the table.
“All set for Thursday. Amazingly lucky, really, because they just had a cancellation; the next opening was next month. How are you coming?” She looked at my notes. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”
We went through the pages; she made some notes to herself. I’d mostly picked some tops, shorts, pants. At one point she looked sternly at me.
“And where are the skirts and dresses?”
I squirmed a bit. “I was kind of waiting for you to get back.”
She lightened up. “Okay, what about this one? Ooh, look over here. What about that?”
With her prodding we selected a few skirts and dresses, including one of the dresses I loved but was too embarrassed to ask about. She put down her pencil and rubbed her forehead.
“Honey, are you sure about this?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, because you seem embarrassed about things.”
I looked down at the table top. “I am, I guess.”
She brushed some hair off my face. “Don’t be. Actually, I think I know why you might be embarrassed; you’re still thinking about being a boy telling his mother he wants to wear dresses, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Exactly.”
“Fair enough. First, let me tell you I already don’t think that way; I already told you that I said goodbye to my son Andy. I’m already working on accepting that I have a daughter. And I’d be talking about skirts and dresses with my daughter, right? So there’s no reason to be embarrassed on my account, okay?’’
I nodded.
“But more importantly ... I think we need to get you out of thinking of yourself as a boy.”
I looked up at her. “Well, isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”
“We’re starting, but it’s going to be all uphill the way it’s started, and this should be a joyous time. I think I know what will help.”
She gave me a Cheshire Cat sort of look. The silence lengthened and I had to break it. “What will help?”
“You need your name. Your girl’s name. It’ll be hard to be embarrassed as a boy if we treat you like a girl with a girl’s name.”
That relieved me considerably, and excited me. “Well, what name did you have picked out if I’d been born a girl?”
She smiled ruefully. “We didn’t. We knew you were going to be a boy very early; we had tests done.”
“Okay, dead end. But was there a girl’s name you liked?”
“Oh, there’s lots of names I like. But first let’s ask you the same thing. What names do you like?”
“Well, it just seems like there’s a lot of girls with the same names right now. A few Heathers, a lot of Jennifers; a couple of Susans, I don’t know.”
“I don’t have a baby name book any more, but let’s wander through the phone book at random.”
We went through columns of names, stopping briefly at ‘Zoe’, ‘Katie’, ‘Rebecca’, ‘Beverly’, ‘Danielle’–we both decided we didn’t want a name that could be a feminized boy’s name, like making ‘Andrew’ into ‘Andrea’.
Mom said, “It might help if we think of the negatives of each name, too. And nicknames, shortened names. For example, um, if you chose ‘Rebecca’, your nickname might be ‘Becky’. I don’t know if that’s really you or not.”
I laughed. “No one knows who ‘me’ is! If you’ll excuse my syntax.”
“It’s excused. Well, you’ve got Beverly becoming Bev, Catherine becoming Cathy, Kate, Cat, and–” she broke off and started to smile. “You know, there was an old movie called A Thousand Clowns. A long time ago; my mother loved it and made me watch it. Anyway, this boy could pick his first name, and keep changing it until he found one he liked, up until he turned twelve. Then he had to settle on one name for the rest of his life. I remember that he kept getting library cards with the new name so he could see how it looked and felt. Anyway, we could try that; we’ll see what names you like up until, let’s say the doctor’s appointment next week. What do you think?”
“Sounds great to me. But I don’t know if I’ll do too much changing; the more I think about it, the more I like ‘Angela’. You remember? You used to call me ‘your little angel’ when I was little?”
She gave me a big smile and hugged me. “And you were a little angel, so cute, so ... pretty ...” She looked at me sheepishly. “Honey, I swear that I never tried to make you into a girl–”
“I know, Mom. Believe me, if you had tried to, I’d have changed happily and fast!”
She chuckled. “That might have saved us some heartache, do you think?”
“No kidding!”
Mom frowned. “Wait a second. Are you saying …are you saying that you felt like this, like a girl, when you were little?”
I nodded.
“How …” Her frown deepened. “How young were you when you first felt that you were a girl?”
“Well, however old I was when I was first in a mixed group of girls and boys. I wanted to play with the girls–in fact, I remember the teacher making me go sit with the boys.” I frowned. “The room had blue walls and yellow walls and I wanted to sit with the girls on the pretty yellow side. I hated leaving the girls ..”
She stared at me. Then she swallowed. “Meadowdale Kindergarten. Oh, sweetie! You knew at five? You should have said something then.”
I thought about it. “Maybe. But maybe I had to reach this decision at this time on my own.”
“I think you’re right. Oh, my sweet angel!”
“And that’s what I’ll always be for you, Mom. I’ll be your Angel. Your Angela.”
Tears came to her eyes as she hugged me. “I love you, my sweet daughter Angela.”
I got the most incredible rush of warmth; not just a blush but like a blush all over. To my mother I was Angela! God, it sounded so good!
“I love you, Mom.”
She ended the hug. “Let’s see what else we need. You end on page 896; what, no shoes? No underwear?”
I started to blush, but she headed me off.
“Angela, honey, a girl as pretty as you has to have pretty underthings! Let’s see what we can find!”
We looked through the catalog and made notes, then Mom told me to strip down to my underwear. It felt strange yet natural at the same time. Using the diagrams in the catalog, she took a tape measure to me and measured, computed, and wrote down what should be my Juniors sizes. We did the same with shoes; she figured out what my foot measurements were for boys’ shoes, then translated them to the appropriate girls’ sizes. She said that for shoes there was really nothing better than actually trying them on, but it was too soon for that. She said she was determined to get me some Mary Janes ‘just because’, and some flats. For the other clothes, though, it would give us a good start, and even though there was no standardization in girls’ sizes, we could always take something back if it didn’t fit exactly right.
Mom figured the best place to go would be Target, because they had a wide variety and a great return policy. I was wearing my uniform of jeans and a t-shirt; we decided that Mom would do the shopping while I browsed the electronics section. I figured we’d get just one or two items like a jumper or skirt and sandals, but I wasn’t prepared for Mom’s determination!
I’d been in Target a million times, but this time would be the most important, I thought. Mom suggested I hang with her, looking bored, for the first few minutes. We passed through the sportswear section, and she pointed to some shorts. As we kept walking, she turned and spoke quietly.
“See the denim shorts?”
I nodded.
“Okay, we’ll have to work out a signal. I didn’t ask the right question. When I say, ‘do you see the denim shorts’, what I mean is, ‘do you want the denim shorts?’. Then if you nod I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. We’ll just cruise through the section, then you drift off and I’ll pick things up.”
I smiled and said quietly, “I’d love the denim shorts, Mom.”
She said, “What about the khaki or white ones?”
“Both look great.”
“Okay, look past me at the tops. There’s a gray, white and black tank–”
“Cool.”
“A white halter, then some scoop-necked tees in various stripes.”
“Tees are cool. I don’t think the halter would work.”
“Just checking; wanted to see if you were just saying ‘yes’ to everything. I didn’t think so about the halter, either. Okay, let’s cut through to electronics, passing through dresses.”
I swallowed; this would be hard. Although I’d always longed to wear dresses, and admired other girls’ dresses, I had always avoided walking through that department. It just hurt too much to think about dresses in so much detail, if I never could have one. I looked at everything I could, as nonchalantly as I could, and when we got to hardware Mom turned to me.
“Well? See anything you like?”
“Actually, all of it. But do you want me to choose one?”
“Just tell me which ones strike your fancy.”
Turning to view the store, then turning back to Mom, I began in a quiet voice.
“I like that denim jumper with the embroidered flowers; the gray and black t-shirt dress–no, maybe not that one; but definitely that blue and gray scoop-necked dress; oh! and that yellow sundress–”
“Hold it down, honey, you’re getting excited!”
“Sorry! I don’t know; whichever one you think we should try. I just wish I could feel the fabric.”
She gave me a searching look. “Spoken like a true female. Tell you what, honey, go get a shopping cart. I think I know how to proceed from here.”
I did that and brought it back to her; she told me to go to electronics until she got me. I browsed through the little computer section, cameras and stuff, and looked at Nintendo, but it didn’t have the thrill for me that it was supposed to; never really had, anyway. I wanted to be among the dresses and skirts. I wanted to be a daughter shopping with her mom. I didn’t know if Mom’s little experiment would work to her satisfaction, but I had a feeling it would work to mine.
I was getting bored in electronics when Mom swung by with a shopping cart piled with things. Not just clothes, but some boxes. I could see a desk lamp, and realized that all this stuff wasn’t for me. I relaxed a little, because I didn’t want Mom spending a lot of money on me and putting extra pressure on me because of the money spent.
We went through the checkout line; I looked at an Entertainment Weekly magazine while she grabbed a few magazines and threw them in. I really wasn’t paying attention; it was my role in our little play–the bored kid. As I pushed the cart to our car, she beeped the car and then surprised me.
“I just thought about some other things I need. I’m going back in; please load up the car, take the cart back, and then you can wait for me and look at the magazines.”
“Okay. I didn’t notice; what’d you get?”
She grinned. “Your new favorite reading, I’ll bet. Seventeen, Teen Vogue, and something called J-14. And a CosmoGirl. Those should give you a good start!”
I couldn’t believe my luck–all along I’d tried to sneak looks at those magazines, and now she was encouraging me to go through them! I put the things away, almost tossing them in because I wanted to get to the magazines, then curled up in the passenger seat and began looking through Seventeen. I didn’t even notice the time passing before she called to me to unlock the door; she had another shopping cart of things! She unloaded the cart quickly; I took it back to the stand, and we left to get something to eat at Denny’s. We found a booth in a corner, empty on either side, and after we ordered salads–I’m not sure why I did, but it seemed right somehow–she began talking quietly.
“Here’s what I was thinking. We can put away the things from Target, then start getting to know Angela. We’ve got the weekend to start, but you’ll have to stop when school starts on Monday. Here’s the deal: I know there’s less than a month of school left, but if you can get your grades up, maybe we can spend more time with Angela. Is that a deal?”
“Deal. Oh, I hope you like me and don’t laugh!”
She gave me a strange smile. “I’m sure I will like you and I’m sure I won’t laugh. And, I’m sure you’ll like being Angela; something just tells me that she’s what’s missing from your life.”
She might even be my life, I thought.
We got home and to my surprise she told me to start a bath. I began drawing the water, and she came in with some boxes which she placed near the tub.
“Honey, I’m going to put some bath oil in with your water. I want you to stay in at least twenty minutes so it can soften your skin. Then, use this cream to lather your legs, and use the razor to shave your legs.”
“Mom–”
“Oh, you don’t want to go that far?”
“That’s not it; I just don’t have very much hair on my legs; you know that.”
She smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s one of the reasons why I think this will work splendidly. Well, shave what you have, carefully, okay?”
I nodded. “But wait …what about PE? The coach will–”
“Don’t worry about the coach; I’ll handle things on Monday morning. Okay, once you’ve shaved, drain the tub, run the shower, and shampoo and condition with these bottles; they’re much better for your hair than what you normally use. Plus, the shower will rinse you and the tub clean. Be careful not to slip; the tub will be oily.”
“Got it.” I started for the bath oil box.
“Not so fast, honey. Every girl has a regimen, and this is your first time so it may seem like a lot, but it’ll all be second nature very quickly.”
I wondered what else would be second nature, but I nodded and sat back down on the edge of the tub.
“Next step–pat yourself dry, and then use this oil on your legs; then use the hair dryer on cool all over your body, but here’s where I want you to try something different. When you dry your hair, don’t just stand there and use a brush. Instead, bend at the waist so your hair falls forward, use the dryer all over your hair, then splay your fingers and use your hand for a brush. When you stand back up, don’t brush the hair or anything; let me see it first.”
“Yes, ma’am. Anything else?” I said with a grin.
“Yes, silly, use that deodorant, and then fluff that talc over your body. I think you’ll like it!”
Then she left me. I was really looking forward to this bath, and did exactly as she requested. While I sat in the bath oil for the twenty minutes, I looked down at my penis and testicles gently floating in the water. Suddenly I thought, ‘Not for much longer, fellas!’ I don’t know where that thought came from, but it was strong and sure. Well, I might be able to get started on things …I’d read somewhere that Sumo wrestlers did something with their testicles, so in the relaxing warmth of the bath, I decided to try it. I felt around for a bit and found the holes where my testicles had descended from my abdomen, and gently as I could, I shoved them back up. It kind of hurt, and made my stomach knot for a bit, but once they were up I decided they were going to stay there for as long as I could keep them there. I wanted them gone, anyway, I reasoned.
Shaving my legs felt strange, but only because I’d never done it before. Mom hadn’t said anything, but I decided to shave under my arms, too. I went super-slow and didn’t even nick myself–I was lucky that I had almost no hair there. The shampoo and conditioner really thickened my hair, and smelled like apricots.
Getting out and toweling off, I really noticed the difference in the way my legs felt–I just felt sort of sleek all over. After doing the bend-over thing with my hair, I looked at myself in the mirror. It looked like a lion’s mane. Well, I thought, it’s what she ordered. I saw new slippers, waiting for me; backless terry things, and Mom had hung a new bathrobe on the door while I was showering, pink chenille, very warm and cuddly–and definitely not for a boy.
I went into my room and to my surprise found that Mom had put everything away. I looked in the closet and was shocked–there were several dresses, skirts, tops, and other things all neatly hung up. I looked in my dresser and was dazzled by the many colored panties and other things folded there. Mom came in while I was staring.
“Angela, are you done? Did you have a good bath?”
I got another tingle hearing my new name, but I had to say something important. “Mom ... you did all this ... I think you went overboard. You spent way too much. And I would’ve helped you put things away–”
She cut me off. “Thanks for wanting to help put things away, honey. By the way, the tags are still on everything; never remove them until you know something fits. As for spending too much, it’s important that we really see what’s what with you, I think. Rather than just wearing boys’ undies and putting on a jumper, you really need to see what wearing girls’ things is like. Just being a regular girl wearing regular girl clothes. I mean, we should give it a fair chance, right?”
I nodded, dumbly.
“Besides ...” she trailed off. Then, firmly, she said, “Besides, I want my pretty daughter Angela to have lovely things.”
I’m sure I blushed; I do know there was a warm rush to my head, heart, and stomach. Or tummy, I guess I should say. I realized that I could finally allow myself to be thinking like a girl and using girlish words and gestures openly, directly, with my mother. I was so excited by the prospect that I almost couldn’t stand.
She looked at me carefully. “Are you alright, honey? Did you stay in the bath too long? By the way, you smell wonderful.”
“Thanks, Mom. No, I feel great ... maybe greater than I’ve ever felt before. It’s all a little overwhelming, that’s all.”
“I thought as much. Well, trying on your nightie might be a little overwhelming as well. I hope you like it.”
She handed me my new nightgown. All my life I’d wanted to wear one but had always been too cowardly to sneak into one of my mom’s, and here she was–smiling and handing me one! It was a simple chemise, white with sprigs of yellow flowers, with a lacy neckline, and a shirttail hem with ruffles. I loved it immediately.
Well, I thought, this is it! Right here in front of God and Mom, I was going to dress as a girl. There were panties that matched the nightie, so I took the panties from Mom and stepped into them, pulling them up under the robe. Sliding them up my legs, they felt quite nice, but when I got to my crotch, there was an obvious problem. I looked at Mom; she understood and turned away and began thumbing through one of the teen magazines laying on my bed.
My testicles remained up inside me, so I did my first ‘tuck’. With the testicles gone I could easily tuck my penis back between my legs and pull the panties up tight. Looking down, I was amazed at how real I looked. I’d seen girls’ crotches in magazine pictures and catalogs, and I’d been too embarrassed to tell Mom that I certainly knew the websites for girls’ clothes, so I knew that in my panties, I just looked the same as any other girls. I resolved again to never let the testicles down, and to get used to being tucked–and to look forward to the time when all that stuff would be removed. I was sure of it!
Then it came time to slip the nightgown over my head. I let the bathrobe fall around my feet, and held my arms up with the nightie; it slid down my body like a caress. I felt like I was passing through a special, magical tunnel, and when the nightie rested on my shoulders and I pulled my hair out of the neck, I felt utterly transformed. I wanted to take a moment and feel the nightie against my skin, but I was too embarrassed in front of Mom. I even wanted to hug myself, but instead I bent down and picked up the robe, carried it to the bathroom, hung it up, and looked at myself in the mirror.
I think I studied myself too hard, because all I could see was a boy–me–in a girl’s nightie. That bothered me, because I noticed Mom smiling at me from the doorway, and she didn’t seem to think anything was wrong. So I glanced back at the mirror, like a refresher look, and was startled–staring back at me was a cute girl in a short, pretty nightie. Her hair was tousled and needed brushing, and she could use some makeup, and she was very flat-chested, of course–but she was a pretty girl. Mom’s smile became huge.
“You’re so pretty, Angela, even dressed for bed! Now we’ve got to do something about your hair. Thanks for following my instructions not to brush it.”
She took a brush, stood behind me, and began brushing as she talked.
“You’ll need to do this for yourself, of course, but the first one’s on the house. Brush your hair gently, don’t break it, and brush it back.” She pulled my hair back behind my shoulders; I have to admit it was a luxurious feeling having her do the work.
“I always wanted to do this with my little girl …” she said softly. She began gathering my hair in her hands. “Then pull it together, and put this ribbon around it.” She put a light blue ribbon under my hair and tied it over my head. “In fact, I think you could use a soft braid.” She braided my hair loosely a few times, then tied off the end with another ribbon. She looked over my shoulder into the mirror. “There. How’s that?”
I reached up and felt the hair. It felt wonderfully full, not at all like a boy’s hair. “It feels great, Mom.” I especially loved the bow of the ribbon at the top of my head.
“Now, like all good girls, moisturize. Here, use this.” She handed me a new Bonne Bell jar.
I began applying it to my face like I’d seen in commercials. I wiped the excess with a tissue and looked at myself again. The strange thing was, with my skin all shiny from the cream, I looked even more like a girl!
I got into bed, and Mom actually tucked me in, like I was a little kid. Mom gave me a big hug.
“Sleep well, Angela. This might seem like a lot of work, just to go to sleep, but it’s worth it, believe me. And it’ll go faster as you get used to it, and it will all become second nature to you. See you in the morning, my darling daughter.”
After she left, I stared at the ceiling in the dark for awhile, thinking about everything. Was this all happening just because I looked at Susan Berger’s pantyhose? Mom’s reaction to my admission about wanting to be a girl was so beyond anything I’d imagined, it must have just been the tip of the iceberg. I mean, when I first put on the nightie and looked in the mirror, thinking the old way, I just saw me as a boy. But when I looked with fresh eyes, not thinking about seeing a boy, there was a girl looking back at me–an obvious girl. Maybe all this that Mom had done–and whatever she had in store for me tomorrow–was a way of ‘seeing with fresh eyes’ what was obvious to her, that I should be a girl. Well, all I knew was that I was happier than I could ever have imagined!
End of Part 1
I woke up Saturday morning and felt absolutely wonderful, but didn’t know why. There was a momentary thought of ‘hey, these aren’t my boxers and t-shirt’, but I quickly remembered that I was in a nightie–and was delighted! I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, lifted the hem of my nightgown, lowered my panties and sat to pee. It all felt so natural that I actually sighed with happiness, just like in a movie or something.
I splashed some cool water on my face, put on the bathrobe, and headed downstairs. Mom was already up, and when she saw me coming she laid out a placemat, bowl, and melon.
“Morning, honey, how’d you sleep?”
“Like a princess!” I said, laughing.
She laughed, too. “That’s my girl!”
“Is this what I’m having?” I stared at the melon.
“Yes, honey, and you might as well face it–you were eating pretty poorly before, just typical carbo-heavy boy stuff. Probably thought it was you were supposed to eat, as a boy, not that it ever put an ounce on you. I always wanted you to eat healthier, and now’s a perfect time to start anew.”
She poured a glass of juice and set it before me and added some wheat toast when it popped up.
I had to admit she was right, so with a funny thought about ‘keeping my girlish figure’, I tucked into the melon. It wasn’t bad at all, and I felt pretty good after I ate it. It surprised me that after the toast and juice, I was pretty much full. I started to get up from the table and Mom gave me a ‘harrumph’ and a stern look. I realized that I’d left my breakfast things on the table, so I picked them up, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher.
“Sorry, Mom,” I said as I turned from the dishwasher. “I guess I had some bad habits.”
“Typical boy habits, and my own darned fault,” Mom nodded.
I thought for a moment she meant how I was now was her fault; my face must have done something because she came to me and hugged me.
“None of that, honey! I meant that it’s my fault that I fell into the routine a lot of women do, picking up after the men-folk, that sort of thing. Doing the laundry, doing the dishes, whatever.”
“Women’s work,” I nodded, reaching out to give the words ‘air quotes’.
“Exactly. But you know what’s silly about the whole thing? Bachelors. Nobody ever considers that if a male lives alone–or even with other guys–he’s got to do his laundry, do his dishes, and so on. So there’s no woman around; what do they call the work then?”
I giggled, remembering some TV shows and movies I’ve seen. “I think a lot of guys don’t do their laundry or their dishes!”
Mom nodded. Then she got more serious and held me at arm’s length. “And it’s the fault of mothers like me who raise their sons to think that basic cleanliness and courtesy is beneath them. I made that mistake with my son Andy; just fell into it.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, patting her hand. “For all the dishes I left, the laundry I didn’t help with …”
She smiled and hugged me. “That’s alright. We’ve got a chance to do things right, now. And now it’s time to start your day, honey. You’ll get to see some of what it’s like being a girl. I thought that because of the newness of it all, we’d ease into things. You usually wear denim jeans, a t-shirt, socks and tennies, right?”
“Sure. You know that.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘ease into things’–I couldn’t wait to spend my day as a girl!
“So I thought that that’s what we’d start with–”
“Mom, I don’t want to wear my old clothes–”
“Young lady, you must stop interrupting!” she said with a mock-serious tone.
“Sorry.” Still, I got a warm rush at the words ‘young lady’.
“I thought we’d start with the same sort of things you wear, only a girl’s version. I actually do have my reasons, but we’ll talk about that later. Come upstairs with me.”
I followed her upstairs; she had been busy while I was eating breakfast. She had laid out a v-necked yellow t-shirt with capped sleeves, denim skirt, white cotton panties, short white socks, and white Keds. I had to chuckle; except for the obvious differences, there really wasn’t any difference from my usual ‘daily uniform’!
“I’ll step out and let you dress, Angela, then we’ll see to your hair.”
As the door closed I went and felt the panties, and realized that I’d guiltily looked around to see if anybody saw me. Then, of course, I realized that nobody could see me, and it was okay, because I was now entitled to wear them. They were my panties!
I dropped the robe, then thought about my new life and personality, and remembering my breakfast dishes, I picked it up and hung it on the door. It sounds silly, but I wasn’t sure how to get undressed; should I take off the nightgown, then the panties, or the reverse? Well, I had to pee again, so that solved things. I picked up the panties and carried them into the bathroom. I sat down and peed, then wiped myself and tried on the panties, tucking myself back and away. They fit closer and more securely than the nightgown’s panties, and I thought they’d feel great all day. I pulled on the t-shirt, pulling my hair out the neck hole, and spontaneously shook my head. My hair floating back and forth felt wonderful.
Now came the moment of truth–the skirt. I pulled up the denim skirt. I zipped it and stood, looking down at my legs. So far, I didn’t feel anything earth-shaking. But I did think my legs looked surprisingly good. Well, I might as well finish, I thought. The socks and shoes were no big difference from what I usually wore, except the socks were low and had a pretty design, and the Keds were narrower than my usual tennies. And clean.
Fully dressed, I took my first steps as a girl. Oh, God, I prayed, please let me do this! Please let me pull this off–no, that’s not right. Please let me become the girl I truly long to be–no; even that wasn’t quite right! How about this: Please let me live as the girl I really am!
Okay, so it was a sloppy prayer with bad grammar, but as I walked around the room, feeling the skirt against my legs, it just felt great, and it felt real. I felt real. I hadn’t had too much of a chance to feel the hem of the nightie, because I got into bed right away, and then I had robe on this morning. So this was my first real feeling of walking with that open feeling, that skirt feeling–and I loved it. I walked to the closet and began checking out my new things more closely than I had last night. Mom had moved all my boy’s clothes to the far right, kind of shoved together as an afterthought. New hangers held my clothes–Angela’s clothes–neatly, according to type of clothing.
I couldn’t believe how much she’d bought! When she asked me what outfits I thought looked good, I never dreamed that she’d buy them all, and other things as well! I went out to thank her and to talk about things. I found her in the laundry room.
“Mom, I can’t believe how much stuff you bought last night!” I moved a laundry basket aside for her.
“Don’t worry about it; I’m sure it’ll all be needed. Now, Angela, we need to talk about today.” She leaned against the dryer and blew some hair out of her face. I leaned against the wall, rolling one leg on my toe.
“Angela, you’ve got to start learning girl’s chores. Much as I love you, you weren’t any great shakes at doing your chores as a boy–”
“Well, I did the garbage …”
“Yes, that’s true, you did the garbage and I thank you for it. And like I said, I fell into the trap of letting a son get away with things. But please, there are things every girl knows how to do and does for her family, and I need you to help me.”
“You mean like sewing and stuff?”
She smiled. “No, that’s a skill that you’ll learn, but I’m talking about basic chores. Okay, today we’re going to strip the beds, wash the bedding, make up the beds with new bedclothes. Follow me so far?”
I nodded, thinking what a drag it would be, then catching myself on the bad pun. And also chastising myself for that automatic ‘boy-thought’, because I didn't ever want to be the ‘lazy son’ again!
Mom saw my glum face. “Don’t worry, honey, there’ll be lots of things to talk about to pass the time. So we take care of the beds. We’re going to have chicken tonight, so you’ll clean the chicken, washing it and salting it to soak. And then we’ll see where we are. But first, there’s something I want to show you. Follow me.”
I followed her up to my bedroom; she made a detour into her room on the way, coming back out with a small box. She sat down on my bed and motioned for me to do the same, so I did. She cleared her throat; whatever this was, it must be heavy, I thought.
“Angela, do you remember me saying that you’re basically wearing the same things you wore as a boy? Except for the skirt, I mean?”
“Sure. And the skirt feels wonderful, by the way.” I realized that I had kept my knees together when I sat, and it just felt and looked normal.
“I’m glad to hear that. Well, you haven’t mentioned this, so maybe it slipped your mind. There is one item of clothing you aren’t wearing ... a bra.”
I blushed and looked down at my skirt’s hem. It took a moment to speak. “Well, I don’t have anything ... that is, I don’t think I’d fit ... and it seemed like you might think I was, I don’t know, presumptuous.”
She smiled. “I think I understand. Well, if you haven’t already, look in your top right dresser drawer.”
I got up and went to the drawer, and in it were several bras neatly folded. They looked smaller than Mom’s, of course, but they also looked so intensely feminine that I got another warm rush.
Mom might have noticed my reaction.
“I understand that you don’t fit now, but girls your age have developed a bust, right?”
I thought of the girls in my class. Yes, they all had busts, all except Sharon Dodson, who weighed a thousand pounds so it was hard to tell. But Denise Waverly had big enough boobs for both of them; she’d started developing around fourth grade.
Suddenly I realized that those were uncharitable, unkind thoughts. Well, it was true that Denise started developing in elementary school, but …I was mad at myself. They were either the thoughts of a typical boy–which I didn’t want to be–or a ‘mean girl’–which I also didn’t want to be. I resolved to be kind and compassionate; I’d been so unhappy and now my mother was helping my dream come true. The least I could do was be a nice person!
These thoughts flashed quickly and my resolution was made. But it all happened so fast that Mom didn’t notice. Aloud, I just said, “Yes. Nearly all over them developed by the end of eighth grade.”
Mom’s voice was soft and very gentle. “So it’s past time for you to wear your first bra, Angela. Choose one.”
I picked a white cotton one that had a small geometric pattern in the cups. I carried it back to the bed and sat down, holding it like it was a wounded bird. Mom was as gentle with me.
“You’ll need to remove your top, honey, and I’ll help you put on your bra. Ready?”
I nodded, and pulled off my top. I can’t explain, but I felt very vulnerable right now, and had the urge to cross my hands over my puny chest. Instead, I held my arms out and Mom put the bra on me, hooking it in back. She tightened the straps, then pulled here and there until it fit securely. As long as I’d dreamed of wearing a bra, I hadn’t known how wonderful it would feel!
“Angela, when you put on a bra as a daily routine, there’s a quicker way to do it alone. Put it around your waist, turn it around so the cups face behind you, hook it, turn it cups forward, put your arms through the straps and pull it up. Then lean forward–” She broke off. “Sorry. I mean once you have breasts, lean forward and get the bra to fit in place.”
The casual way she said ‘once you have breasts’ gave me another huge warm rush. She hadn’t said, ‘if you ever have breasts’, or ‘this is what it would be like if you did have breasts’; she said it like it was only a matter of time! Oh God, if only it were true!
So I was standing there with the bra on. It fit around my chest and over the shoulders, and the stretchy fabric of the cups clung to my chest but was obviously loose. I was wondering what to stuff the cups with when Mom opened the small box.
She looked into the box full of tissue paper and began speaking in a ‘small’ voice; I guess she was embarrassed. “Before your father left, I tried different things to try to save our marriage. It seemed ... he told me he wanted a sexier woman, one with bigger breasts ...”
“Mom, it’s okay; you don’t have to tell me anything that’ll hurt you.” I laid my hand on her shoulder.
She looked at me with a sad smile. I could see tears at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, honey. That means a lot to me. But I think you’ll need to know the hurt a woman can feel, too. I just hope it’s only second-hand and not have any man hurt you so …” She looked again at the box. “You were too little to notice anything, but I began dressing sexier around the house, trying to keep your dad. I didn’t know that he already had somebody else waiting.” Her jaw clenched. “I even began wearing sexy lingerie and tried to be something I wasn’t.”
My mom was a wonderful mother, and a hard worker. She wasn’t one of those 1950s ‘June Cleaver’ types with pearl necklaces, white gloves, and a vacuum; she was modern and more than a little hip. One time I’d looked at her with other than a son’s eyes and thought she would be a catch for a good man–not the skunk my father turned out to be. He left us in the middle of the night after cleaning out the bank account. Before the courts could catch up with him, he’d died in a drunk driving accident. Needless to say, he was not a good role model.
But I already knew that it wouldn’t have made any difference if he was a wonderful guy and they’d stayed married. I knew–I knew, absolutely–that I always would have felt that I was a girl, regardless of my family circumstances. That her marriage had been unhappy wasn’t a reflection on Mom.
Mom continued with her story. “I bought these for the sexy lingerie, to give me bigger boobs. God, I can’t believe how I tried to make myself be something I’m not! Anyway, I think maybe some good can come out of them.”
She reached through the tissue paper and pulled out two small breast forms, made of a flesh-colored gel. I realized what she meant by ‘some good’ and began getting excited, damping it down because this was a solemn, important moment. She held the forms between the palms of her hands.
“I wore these under my breasts to push my breasts up and out.”
I swallowed with embarrassment, because my mom was talking about her own body so frankly. She must have noticed, because she looked at me and chuckled.
“What, didn’t you know I had breasts? Of course I would never talk to my son this way, you understand.”
She gave me a serious, direct look.
I nodded. “I understand, Mother,” I said formally. There was this flood of happy warmth as I truly understood her meaning.
She smiled. “I think you do, Angela. Well, these are not full-size mastectomy forms; they’re smaller and designed to work like I described, under an adult woman’s breasts, but I think they’ll suit your needs. While small for a full-grown woman, they’re perfect for a growing teen-age girl, don’t you think?”
I nodded seriously, realizing that she was quite literally giving me her breasts. “Mom, these mean ... they mean so much to me, I can’t tell you.”
She leaned over and gave me a hug. “Thank you again, honey. Okay, stand up. Time to develop your boobs!”
We laughed together as I stood. She pulled a cup from my bra, inserted the form, and moved it around, then moved it again. Then she looked at it, and moved it again. I cracked up.
“What, did I tickle you?”
“No, Mom, it’s just that you’ve got the same look of concentration you have when you’re rearranging furniture!”
She laughed too, then continued moving the form slightly. Then she inserted the other form, did the same adjusting–and look–and then stood back to admire her work.
“They’ll warm up with your body temperature and you’ll be amazed how they feel like part of you. Hmm ... jump up and down on your toes.”
I did that and felt an incredible sense of jiggling weight on my chest. So that’s what breasts felt like! I loved the feeling! And with the bra there was a sense of support, of …protection, and I loved that, too.
“Mom, they feel ... Oh God, Mom they feel so good!” I walked to give her a hug, and felt my breasts against hers, and suddenly we were both weeping.
“Oh, my sweet angel ... my pretty Angela! Someday, my darling ...” she said as she pulled back, holding my head between her hands and looking at me. She didn’t finish her thought; instead she kissed my nose gently. “You’re adapting quicker than I thought you would. Maybe not, actually …Well, let’s get on with our day.”
I put my top on, feeling for the first time the pull of my breasts against the top, and looked at myself in the mirror, with my denim skirt and yellow top. Yep, I thought. That’s the real me!
My first full day as a girl started out ridiculously simple. But busy! I stripped the beds, carried the bedclothes down, then got our two hampers and watched as Mom explained the best washing procedure for all the items. Then we made the beds together; I’d never done that before and floating the sheets in the air was kind of fun. As I lifted the sheets, I could feel my bra pulling against my chest and shoulders. I rather liked it.
Then it was time to get a cooking lesson. Mom told me how to prepare the chicken we’d be having for dinner, by washing it and salting it and letting it soak. When she’d first told me about it, I’d thought it was a long, complicated procedure. It was so simple–but the raw chicken felt weird!
My next assignment was to tidy my room and vacuum. I decided to attack my room like it wasn’t mine; I never really tidied things up when ordered to because I’d get distracted by something. Or I’d spend time daydreaming, thinking about how my room would look if I could decorate it like a girl’s. My vanity would go there, I’d have a hat stand or tree or whatever they called it for my pretty scarves over there, and so on.
So looking at it now, through Angela’s eyes, it was a stranger’s, and it was very easy to see the mess. It also helped to distance myself from the boy who made the mess. I would be a neat and tidy girl. As I bent over to pick things up, I learned to keep my knees together and roll them to the side when I lowered myself. I could also feel the weight of my new breasts. Beyond that, I just concentrated on the task at hand.
We folded laundry next; it was strange when it came time to fold the boy’s clothes. I actually thought about it like that–the clothes of some boy. There were no girl’s clothes, of course, since I hadn’t gotten anything dirty yet, but I did watch Mom closely to see how she folded her bras and panties.
Next was the dusting and vacuuming; as I pulled the vacuum towards me I could see my legs under my skirt; it probably sounds silly, but they looked like they ‘belonged’ there. I found that I wasn’t the least bit sexually excited by wearing the clothes; it was only the newness and the ‘at last!’ feeling that was exciting. Good, I thought; I don’t want to be a transvestite; I want to be a girl. There’s a difference, and I guess I’d already figured out that I enjoyed wearing a girl’s clothes because I was a girl, pure and simple.
After a wash-up in the kitchen, Mom declared a break in the action; she’d made ice tea so we went out to the patio to sip the tea and relax while the chicken cooked.
After a sip and sigh of satisfaction, Mom said, “So, how are you doing, honey?”
“Fine, Mom. Do you ... have you been doing this work every week?”
“The laundry’s done every week, of course; beds every couple of weeks. I usually give up on your room, though.” She grinned.
I grinned back. “I don’t blame you! That boy was so messy! Why couldn’t he learn to put things away?”
She stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing. “Yep, Angela; boys are so messy! But girls can be kind of messy, too, if they don’t keep their room tidy!”
“I will.”
The calm certainty with which I said this made her get serious quickly. “Well, let’s not rush things. Angela’s only been around less than a day–”
“That’s all I need, Mom. This is me! I’ve been trying to imagine what it would be like to go back to being Andrew forever, and I can’t. But I also don’t want to be Angela just on weekends, you know?”
“I think I do, honey, but let’s just take it one day at a time to find out just where you really fit. I just want you to know that I love you and I’ll support your decision–whatever it is–100%.”
“Thank you, Mom. You know, the weird thing is that I haven’t been thinking about this at all–”
“I don’t understand?”
“Well, as soon as I got dressed, you threw me into chores so I didn’t have time to sit around and go, ‘oh, look at me, I’m a little princess’. I plunged into the work, and I guess the back of my mind was working, because my decision’s already made and I never consciously thought about it. I think maybe you had that in mind all the time.”
She laughed. “Caught me! Yes, I thought that just sitting around dressed in a skirt wouldn’t do anything for you. Remember what I talked about yesterday? The essence of being a woman isn’t just the clothing. Of course, it’s not doing all these chores, either. Tell you what; let’s check on dinner and then see what the rest of the night holds.”
We’d finished the tea; we took the things inside and I helped Mom get dinner together, listening and learning. She told me that every girl has to know how to keep house, because even if she never married she’d be keeping house for herself. Continuing what she’d said earlier about bachelors, she said that she suspected some men marry only because they want another ‘mother’ to take care of them, but women were stronger and always took care of themselves.
My usual eating procedure–Andrew’s procedure–had been to wolf down as much as possible as fast as possible. Maybe it was because I’d helped prepare things, but I decided to take my time and enjoy the meal. I sat carefully, my knees and ankles together, the napkin across my lap. It felt right and wasn’t uncomfortable; I was glad that my testicles were tucked away. Mom complimented me on my eating manners so I made a resolution to continue this way.
It seemed like each resolution came naturally; even the word ‘resolution’ seemed too heavy. They were just simple facts. I would help clean. I would not think unkind thoughts automatically about girls I didn’t really know. I would keep my knees together. Just simple facts.
As I cleaned up the dinner things, Mom looked through the newspaper and suggested we see one of the new movies.
“Cool, Mom, I heard that’s a great–oh-oh!”
“What?”
“So I’ve got to change, right?”
She looked at me over the top of the paper. “It’s not fancy; you know that. Unless you want to.”
“Mom, you know what I mean. I’ve got to dress like a boy!” Amazingly, my eyes stung at the thought.
She looked at me for a long time without speaking. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Then I’d rather not see the movie, much as I want to.”
“You mean you’d rather ...”
“Yes, I’d rather continue being Angela.” That sounded odd. “I mean, I am Angela …you know what I mean.” She nodded. “So I’d rather …not go if I have to go as a boy, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. Listen, honey, you can have what you want, you know. Come to the movie with me. As Angela. As yourself.”
“Oh, God, I’d love that, but what if someone should see me?”
“The movie’s playing on the far side of town, too, so we’ll go there and we shouldn’t see anyone we know. It’ll just be a regular mom ‘n daughter night out.”
“Mom ‘n daughter ...” I started weeping again. “I can’t believe how much I’m crying lately! Oh, Mom, I want to be your daughter in every way and all the time–”
“Remember, Angela, one day at a time.”
“Okay, okay. Well, what do I do?”
“You can wash your face if you’d like, put on a little makeup. Wear what you’ve got or change–”
I interrupted her belatedly, because what she said had just sunk in. “Makeup?”
“Sure. Every girl wears some when she goes out.”
“I know that, silly! I mean ...”
She gave me a knowing look and went with me to my bedroom. She stood at the door and surveyed the now-neat room. I opened a drawer and pulled out a baby-blue long-sleeved top with a scalloped neck. As I put it on, I noticed Mom was murmuring quietly.
“Maybe wall paper, some lace curtains ...” She spoke up. “Well, I think you would need to exchange that desk for a vanity, don’t you think? Every girl needs one.”
“Fine with me, Mom!” I’d already spent hours dreaming of my girl’s room and my vanity, and now it might actually happen! And I really didn’t have any friends that came over, so nobody would ever see my room but us.
“So normally you’d sit there to do your makeup.” That simple thought, of that simple action, made me tingle. She turned me into the bathroom. “So you’ll have to do your makeup in here.”
“But–” I saw a brightly colored tackle box that had never been there before; I recognized it as a Caboodles makeup kit. I opened it and it was filled with really cool makeup–not Mom’s makeup, but teenage brands.
“Mom, thank you! But I don’t know how ...”
“I understand. Well, the movie won’t wait; would you mind if I helped you?”
“I’d be honored!” I grinned.
Mom sat me on the toilet and holding my chin in one hand, rubbed and brushed and stroked. It was all over so quickly that I figured she’d given up. Then she brushed my hair and put clips on both sides, so my hair was pulled back off my face and then hung down, framing it. She left the bathroom to get something. I looked in the mirror. I couldn’t believe it–a pretty girl stared back at me. Mom had put a touch of soft brown shadow, a bit of blush, and a soft pink shiny lipstick, and I was absolutely transformed. The effect was so startling that I let out a yell; she came back in the bathroom and I hugged her.
“Do you want to change into some other shoes? You’ve been in those tennies all day. How about some flats? They’ll be more comfortable.”
It was a great idea, but of course I wouldn’t have thought of it since everything was so new–and I really didn’t know everything I had! Mom had bought several flats with almost no heel in different colors; I carefully put my tennies away and threw the socks in the hamper. Andrew would have dumped everything on the floor. I slipped my feet into the white flats and we were ready. Walking to the door, I almost bumped into things because I was looking down at my feet. I was probably flipping out, but I thought my feet looked so pretty in the flats and not at all boyish. No boy could have such pretty feet, I thought.
Mom had more surprises. At the front door she handed me a yellow sweater to carry, and handed me a purse–a shoulder bag, really. It was not an old lady purse; it was a young, hip bag. I was once again amazed at how she’d thought of everything.
“I’ve put some things you’ll need in there, like tissues and a brush, and some lipstick for touch up. You can put whatever you want in, of course. Now, lift your hair.”
She reached behind my neck and attached a necklace; a thin gold chain with a cute, stylized heart pendant.
“Of course, you can pick out your own jewelry, but I saw that and thought it’d look pretty on you.”
I was delighted. “Oh, Mom, I love it!”
“It’s a little weird for a girl not to have rings and bracelets, earrings and necklaces and personal jewelry, but I don’t suppose anybody’s going to be too critical in the dark theater.”
Still in awe of her complete thoughtfulness, I followed her to the car after she locked the door. It wasn’t until I got in the car that it dawned on me that I was out on the street dressed as a pretty girl!
Dressed as me!
The movies were all the way across town, as Mom had said, and it took awhile to get there, allowing me time to think about things. I realized that I had received no feedback as to how I looked–beyond Mom’s reassurances, but she had to say reassuring things; she was a mother. I began to get nervous. We pulled up at the theater and I was reluctant to get out of the car; Mom had to coax me. As we crossed the street, she told me to stand up straighter and walk proudly as a pretty girl should. I think I did it; either way we got to the box office.
I dreaded the bright lights of the front of the theater and lobby, but we just whisked through with the crowd. There was a hitch though; the movie we came to see had been bumped by a sneak preview, so we decided to see it. It was about a hip young girl starting her business career and the men who tried to romance her or block her way. It was all very breezy and everything, but I realized that I was following the girl much more closely than I would have if I was sitting there as Andrew. In fact, as Andrew, I would have been at the action flick next door, watching aliens get zapped.
The odd thing was that Andrew would only have been at the action flick because it was what boys did. And he would have been miserable. There would have been a Damsel in Distress for the Hero to sav e from the aliens, and Andrew would have stared at her and wanted to be her, to wear her clothes, to be with her girlfriends, maybe …
But it would seem to any observer that Andrew was just a regular boy at a regular boy’s movie, never knowing how unhappy he was, and how much he wanted to be in the theatre next-door, watching the romantic comedy.
But Angela could watch the romantic comedy. And I could freely giggle at the funny parts and sigh at the romantic parts. And I could freely identify with the girl. Without forcing myself to maintain a boy’s perspective, I was wrapped up in this girl’s life. Could it ... could it be mine?
Halfway through the movie I had to pee. No problem, I thought. I knew I’d have to use the women’s rest room, but I wasn’t worried because everybody was watching the movie. Wrong! I immediately learned one of the downsides of being female–lines at the toilet! There were four women waiting for a stall; a mother and little girl and two older teenagers. The girls were talking about their boyfriends or their dates; I wasn’t eavesdropping but there was no way to avoid hearing them. Even the mother heard them, and I could tell she disapproved and didn’t want her daughter hearing.
The odd thing was, I immediately panicked when I saw the others, but had to pee so bad–and the men’s room was not an option–that I stayed there, trying to be invisible. I was playing with my necklace, sliding the pendant tight along the gold chain. But listening to the girls, I got caught up in their stories, and forgot to be self-conscious. It also helped immensely that none of the females there paid me any attention; in their eyes I was one of them.
The mother and daughter went into a stall as an older woman came out, washed, and checked her makeup before leaving. One of the girls made a comment about a guy named ‘Chuck’, and her friend jumped right in.
“Yeah, but Chuck’s an asshole, Gina! I’ve told you that, Diana told you that–heck, even Becca told you that!–and face it, girl, you know it yourself!”
The girl named Gina looked sad. “Yeah, I know he is. But he can be so sweet when we’re alone.”
“That’s just an act he’s putting on to get laid. You know it, Gina! The best thing is, you haven’t slept with him yet.”
“I know ... But he can be so nice, Carrie ...”
Carrie snorted and turned to me as if I was already in their conversation. “He’s an asshole.”
She shook her head at me, as if I should join her in being exasperated with Gina. I just smiled weakly, wishing I could disappear. I was so sure that she would realize I was a boy.
Gina turned to me, also. “He can be really nice! You know?” She looked at me hopefully.
I realized that both girls thought I was a girl, too, and I got an incredible warm rush of happy confidence. They were both looking at me–I know it seemed like minutes but it was really only a second or two–and I felt I was supposed to say something. I thought about a jerk I knew in class.
“Well ...” I checked to see if they really wanted to listen; they did so I went on. “I don’t know the guy you’re talking about, but I know one guy that’s sort of like that. The only question is, which guy is the act? Is he a nice guy who is sometimes an asshole, or is he really an asshole that occasionally does something nice?”
The girls looked at me, thinking about it. Gina’s eyes widened and she went, ‘oh wow’, and a smile formed on Carrie’s face. Gina looked shell-shocked; just then a stall came open and she went in. The former occupant checked her face at the mirror for a second, fluffed her hair and headed out.
Carrie turned to me. “You’re right. Boy, are you right.” She leaned her head against the wall and looked at the ceiling. “Poor Gina. I think it’s the second one.”
“Pardon me?” I had been worried for a second that I was the ‘boy’ she’d just referred to but realized it was just the saying, the exclamation, like ‘wow’. Or ‘man!’ I reminded myself not to be so sensitive; the girls seemed to be accepting me as one of them, so why didn’t I accept it?
Carrie sighed. “The second one you said. Chuck’s an asshole who sometimes is nice, because he thinks he’ll get lucky. And Gina’s going to be hurt. I’ve tried to be a good friend and warn her, but I think she’s gonna get burned.”
“Then you’ve got to be a good friend and be there for her afterward.”
Carrie looked at me. “You’re right; I will be. But I hurt for her. I’m Carrie,” she said, turning to me.
“I’m Angela,” I said, saying and hearing it out loud for the first time outside my home. It sounded right and fine.
“Do you go to Burl?” she said, using the slang for Burlington High School.
“No, I go to Westmont,” I said, and mentally slapped myself–I couldn’t believe I told her my school!
“That’s why I haven’t seen you–”
A stall opened and an old lady came out; Carrie started towards the stall and turned back to me.
“Listen, my email’s ‘burlgrrl–two R’s–at gmail’. Drop me a line if you feel like it.”
Then she disappeared into the stall. Gina came out next, and as I headed into the stall, she held the door.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
I said ‘sure’, wished her luck, and went in. Okay, I knew what to do, sort of; pull down the skirt, pull down the panties, sit, do it, wipe, make sure everything’s back in place. I was terribly self-conscious; I wondered crazily if anybody could tell that my pee sounded different from a real girl’s! I finished and left the stall; Carrie and Gina were gone and there were now two other women waiting. I washed my hands, checked my face–it still startled me to see this girl looking back with my eyes–and went back to Mom.
“I thought you’d fallen in!” she said in a whisper. “Any trouble?”
I whispered back. “No; just a line.” Mom nodded; she knew all about Ladies’ room lines. I leaned closer. “I think I might have made a friend.”
Mom turned in the dark and looked at me, smiled, and turned back to the screen. She whispered that I hadn’t missed much. A little bit later there was a love scene, and I got uncomfortable sitting next to my mother, watching the scene. Not because I’m a prude or anything; it’s just that I suddenly thought about it from the girl’s side. I wondered what it would be like to be held that way, to be kissed that way, and then when he put his hands on her breasts and kissed them, I got a quick hot rush. Where were these feelings going to take me?
Finally the heroine wound up with a promotion and a future romance with an artist. We all left the theater; out of the corner of my eye I caught Carrie and Gina with two guys, and I wondered if one of them was Chuck. Carrie noticed me and called out ‘see ya, Angela!’ before they turned the other way with their boyfriends. Mom looked at me again while we waited for the light to change.
“She seems nice. Did you know her before?”
“No, she goes to Burlington. She gave me her email address.”
“Are you going to email her?”
“Sure. I guess. I don’t know; do you think it’s a good idea?”
The light changed and we crossed. Mom smiled and said, “A girl’s got to have friends.”
We didn’t say anything more about that; we talked about the movie and agreed it would do okay, but probably do much better in video release. It was a long drive home, and I found myself getting sleepier with each mile. When we got home, I didn’t even think about neighbors seeing me; I followed Mom in a daze.
I went upstairs and flopped down on my bed. Mom passed my door and looked in.
“Oh, no you don’t, young lady! Get ready for bed and call me when you’re ready to wash up.”
I undressed sleepily. I put the flats in a line with the others, then stepped out of the skirt and hung it on the odd skirt-hanger. Then I pulled off the top and hung it up, too. I didn’t know the ‘hamper procedure’ for these clothes. I’d been wearing them but they weren’t dirty, so should they go in the hamper after one wearing? That was for Mom to decide. A big yawn overtook me, and I stretched my arms up toward the ceiling. As I did that, I felt the bra pulling against my chest, and felt the breast forms against my chest, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Damn! I really looked like a girl! And the stretch just felt so good, and everything was just so nice today, that I never wanted it to end.
Reluctantly, I removed the bra and placed the forms on the dresser, removed the panties and hampered them. I didn’t know if I was supposed to put on the same nightgown and panties I’d worn last night so I put on the bathrobe and went to see Mom. She was in the bathroom laying out new items. She told me to wear the same nightgown if I wanted, as long as it wasn’t soiled, but to change panties every night and every day; that way I’d always feel fresher. We decided that I’d shower in the morning and just wash up now. I was going to remove the necklace but she said I could keep it on; I was glad because I loved the way it sparkled and hung down my chest. After I brushed my teeth, she instructed me in how to use the cleanser, astringent, and moisturizers she’d bought.
As I wiped the last bit of cream from my hands, she held my face in both hands and studied it closely, then smiled.
“You’ve got your grandmother’s pores.” I must have made a strange face, because she chuckled. “That’s a good thing, honey. Unfortunately they missed me, but those good genes are strong in you. Be glad for them. Rejoice in them.”
I nodded tiredly, and went back to change into my nightgown. After I was under the covers Mom came and sat on the edge of the bed.
“How was that for a first day?”
“Pretty–” I yawned, “–terrific, Mom.”
“I’ll say! Thank you for all your help today, honey. I promise we’ll do something fun tomorrow.”
“Going to the movie was fun ...”
“And you found a new friend, too! Well, good night, sweetheart.”
“Good night, Mom.”
She turned off my bed light as she stood, then turned at my door and looked at me with a sweet smile.
I heard her gently murmur, “Good night, Angela.”
End of Part 2
I woke the next morning and was so glad to still be in my nightgown that I hugged myself under the covers, my hands feeling the smoothness of the nightgown down my body. I felt slightly embarrassed, like some wanna-be Ann-Margret in Bye, Bye, Birdie,–a favorite of my mother’s and mine, now–but I just felt so good! I got out of bed, my nightgown falling down around my legs, and thought, this is the way it should be, always; it should be so natural a part of my life that I don’t think anything about it at all.
I put on the chenille robe and went downstairs. Mom saw me and pulled out some melon slices and poured a glass of orange juice. Toast joined the melon. I hugged her and sat down to eat.
She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and smiled at me. “My, aren’t we chipper today!”
I swallowed some melon and said, “I just feel so good. So natural and free.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t want to rain on your parade, young lady, but do you remember a certain note a certain geometry teacher sent home?”
I almost gagged. “Omigod, that completely slipped out of my head! Oh, there went the day.” I angrily speared another piece of melon and slammed my teeth down on the bite.
“Well, not entirely. After you’re dressed, why don’t you see how well you study. Maybe around one or so, I’ll give you a little quiz; we’ll see how you’re doing. Okay?”
“Great,” I grumbled, “studying and a pop quiz.”
“Oh, it won’t be so bad, you’ll see.”
I couldn’t read the look she gave me, and I didn’t know if she meant the studying or the quiz wouldn’t be bad; either way, I thought the day was shot. The way I’d been going in class, I’d be lucky to get two pages done, let alone the thirty or so I’d need to catch up. Damn, why hadn’t she reminded me yesterday? Then I’d have at least four pages done by Monday. Oh well, nothing to it but to do it, I thought.
I put my dishes in the washer and headed upstairs. After washing up and pulling my hair back into a high ponytail and holding it with a scrunchie, I changed into a new pair of white shorts. I loved the way they flared out slightly at the hem. I put on a white cotton bra, the inserts, and marveled again at how comfortable the weight and support felt. I realized that large breasts could be tiring, and I suddenly felt sympathy for some of the girls in my class.
I’d never thought of that before; just more learning about this new world. It also reinforced my resolution of yesterday; my unkind thoughts about the breasts of Sharon and Denise had no place in the person that I want to be–the girl I am.
Finally, I put on a peach and lime-green tank top, tucking my bra straps under the straps of the tank. I found a pair of low socks, pulled on the white Keds, and was going to leave but sat back down to apply a bit of lipgloss and, what the heck, the tiniest of blush. I just felt better that way, smiled at myself in the mirror, and headed back downstairs.
Mom had stacked my schoolbooks on the dining room table, along with a notepad and pencils. She was so thoughtful, but the best way I could repay her back was to really crack down on the work. I sat down, knees together, then decided to cross my legs at the knees. I’d never really tried it before, but tucked as I was, it felt fine, although a little unusual.
I started working, and after fifteen minutes, I’d already reviewed three pages! I only knew it had been fifteen minutes because the clock in the living room chimed the half-hour. I mentally stepped back to analyze whether I was really getting the math, or just skimming and faking it. As I reviewed my review, I realized that I really did have it! The only thing I could think of was that I wasn’t spending my work time daydreaming about what it would be like to be dressed as a girl, because I already was! I just felt like a normal girl doing her homework, and while I’m sure girls had distractions, too, for some reason I could just focus today. So, I jumped back in with enthusiasm.
The next time the clock chimed, I’d made up another ten pages, and I realized that I really did know this stuff; I just had been slagging it off while part of my brain absorbed it. Like when I’d answered wrong in Geometry; it wasn’t because I didn’t know the subject–I just hadn’t been paying attention to the teacher. All along I’d been half-way focused on learning Geometry, but then I’d get distracted. Now that I fully focused, it was all coming together.
I got up to pee. Even that was both normal yet odd; odd in that I peed sitting down and didn’t think anything about it until I was washing my hands. Why was all this coming so naturally? I’d have to think about that fully at a later time; right now it was back to the book.
By the time one o’clock rolled around, I’d done thirty-two pages of review and taken the test at the end of the last chapter. Checking the answers in the back, I’d only gotten one wrong and I immediately realized how I’d goofed–won’t happen again, I thought! I was starting on the next week’s work when Mom appeared.
“You’ve been going great guns, honey; how are you doing?”
“Mom, it’s hard to explain but it’s all come together and I think I’m caught up.”
“Ready for a test?”
“Bring it on!”
She produced a page from a folder she was holding; it was a photocopy of one of my Geometry teacher’s tests. It was one I’d never seen, and I realized that somehow she’d gotten it from him. For a brief moment, everything I’d learned threatened to crawl out of my ears and scamper away, but I pulled it together and attacked the test. Mom timed me; I had 45 minutes to do it and finished in about a half-hour, then checked my work, fixed one goof that I’d rushed through and handed it to her.
She even had the answers! She pulled a second sheet from the folder and checked my work. She smiled continuously and her smile only got bigger. When it was done, she raised her eyebrows, looked at me, and then wrote “100%” across the top in big red letters. I let out a whoop of victory, and she laughed.
“I knew you could do it! Oh, Angela, I’m so proud of you!”
The fact that she called me Angela gave me pause. I was getting strange feelings, but before I could analyze them or discuss them, I had some questions.
“Where did that stuff come from?”
She smiled a little shamefacedly. “Oh, remember when I went to call the doctor? I also called the school and talked to your teacher–no, don’t get excited, I didn’t tell him anything about Angela. I asked about your behavior in class, your daydreaming, and so on. He faxed me this test and the answers, but said it’s not the same one you’ll get. The same material, but not the same exact questions.”
“Aw, shoot!” I pretended to grumble.
“Anyway, he said that if you could pull yourself up to at least an 85% on this test, your final grade would come up a notch.” She looked down at my finished test. “He didn’t say anything about coming up to 100%!”
“Don’t tell him; let me do it again on Monday and give him a heart attack!”
“Well, I think he’ll be pleased. I know I am; you did excellent work, young lady.”
That was what was bothering me. “Mom, can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course, honey, anything.”
“I’ve only been dressing for a day and a half now, really, but you’re already calling me Angela and ‘young lady’ like you’ve always been saying that.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Oh, yes, I love it, but ... well, it kind of sounds like you’re already familiar with saying it. I mean, you don’t have any hesitation saying ‘young lady’. And I was wondering if you ... if you kind of …already thought of me that way.”
“Do you mean, did I think of you that way before Friday?”
“Well, that, and do you think of me that way now, or are you just playing along?”
She twirled a pencil, studying the tip for a moment while she gathered her thoughts. “I’ve always thought of you as my child–after all, you are–but over the last year or so, I’ve seen how unhappy you were and I’ve lain awake nights thinking of reasons. I was wondering about your gender identity; in fact I’ve wondered about it off and on for years–”
“What?” That startled me!
“Well, you did things, said things when you were younger that sounded just like the things I used to do and say, and I began studying little kids in the playgrounds, boys and girls. When I watched you with the boys, even discounting my own subjectivity because you were mine, you just seemed …other. Apart; an outsider. Truth be told, it was quite rare that you were with a group of boys. I don’t recall ever seeing you voluntarily walk to a group of boys; usually you were herded together with them by a monitor or teacher. Left to your own devices, you invariably played with girls.”
Her smile was warm and a little sad with the memories. “And, again, trying to observe you as objectively as possible, you were …just like them. They were really no different from you; they were just dressed differently. And, of course, they were girls, but the games, the laughter, the chatter, the …movements …all were completely natural. You were just one of the little girls. And with the boys ...there was always that ...difference between you and them. That’s what I noticed, consistently. You just didn’t fit with them …but you did fit with the girls.”
“I never ... I mean, I never consciously tried to say or do girl things–”
“I know, I know; it was so natural, and that was what was so striking about it. Anyway, I was fairly certain that, deep down, you felt like a girl. Of course, it might be something you would grow out of, but I found myself wondering what life would have been like if you’d been born a girl.” She paused a long time.
“And?” I prompted.
She was reluctant to go on. “And ... oh, I shouldn’t …Honey, let’s just be glad–”
“Mom, you’re avoiding the subject, and I don’t think that’s fair right now. We’ve got to be absolutely truthful with one another; I know I have been, no matter how embarrassing it was.”
“I know, honey, and you’ve been very brave. I’m just reluctant to say anything that might influence you in any way.”
I was beginning to understand her–I hoped. So, I plunged in.
“Mom, I don’t know if this will influence you in any way, but you said let’s see where things stood on Monday. I’m going to tell you right now that I’ve never felt better, more alive, more …real, more ...human than I have since becoming Angela. The idea of going back to Andrew is almost more than I can bear; I don’t even want to think about it but I know I have to. But if there’s any way I can become Angela forever, I want to do it. Even before seeing any doctors or shrinks, I know that I want them to change me. Surgically. Completely. You know what I mean.”
She looked at me for a long time. “Wow. Well, you’ve been honest, I must say, and I’m sure that took a lot of courage. Don’t call ‘em shrinks, by the way; they don’t like that.” She frowned. “Well, I guess I have to say my piece.”
And then she didn’t say anything. She seemed about to, and then stopped herself. Frowned. Started to open her mouth, closed it and frowned deeper. I just let her have her space and time to put things into words.
Then to my surprise, she got up and went to the window. My heart sank; I was sure she was going to say that the whole Angela thing was a mistake and that I must change now and we’d take everything back to Target. She turned at the window and looked at me and sighed deeply.
“Honey, if you knew how many nights I wished to God that you could have been born female ...If you knew how many times I prayed that somehow it would all turn out to have been some medical mistake, that you weren’t a boy, that you truly were my daughter ...I thought that if that happened, then you had a chance at happiness. Because that’s what it was all about; not my happiness at having a daughter, but your happiness, my child’s happiness.”
She chuckled sadly. “And then I’d lay awake feeling guilty and beating myself up for denying my son. Honey, it’s been eating me up for years. When you came home Friday and we talked, I almost couldn’t believe my ears; it was all I’d hoped for. The only thing I never had was a name; as soon as I heard Angela I knew it was right, and that somehow I’d try to keep you Angela forever–but only if it was what you wanted …if it was what you needed. Then, of course, I began feeling guilty all over again for trying to influence you to be a girl.”
She looked sheepish. “I guess that’s why I kind of went overboard at Target. But it’s so good to be able to say ‘young lady’ and think of you–at last–as Angela, my daughter. And, like I said before, it just fits. And you …you are so much happier–happier than I’ve ever seen you, ever–and capable of so much more, as Angela, based on your schoolwork today, that I …” She sighed and smiled. “I just can’t deny the truth–you were meant to be my daughter, and should be!”
“Oh, Mom!” was all I could say as I rushed over to hug her.
We cried, looked at each other through our tears, and cried some more. She led me over to the couch, but I think she wanted us closer to the box of tissues on the end table. Finally, sniffling and wiping our eyes and noses, we sat up and laughed a little at our outburst.
Suddenly, I thought of something. “Oh, God, what about tomorrow?”
“You mean school?”
I nodded.
“Unfortunately, the law says you have to go. And unless you want to die a swift but messy death at the hands of the jocks, you’ll have to go as Andrew.”
“I figured that. I don’t want to, though.”
“I know, but it’s only three weeks. You’ve got to focus, though; don’t fall back into Andrew’s bad old habits. Think of yourself as Angela undercover, maybe?”
The phrase ‘Angela undercover’ somehow sounded comical and I laughed.
“Don’t allow yourself to daydream; just nail each class as it comes along. And anyway, you only have to be Andrew–”
“You mean, dress up as Andrew,” I corrected. “Not be.”
She smiled. “Yes, Angela, ‘dress up as Andrew’–until you get home. Then you can wear whatever you want. But!” She held up a warning finger. “No going half-way. Do not try to hide panties under Andrew’s clothes. You must wear only 100% boys’ clothes. It’ll be far safer for you.”
“I understand. Although I won’t really be a 100% boy!”
It was her turn to laugh. “It’ll be rough; keep your head down and focus your attention on your classes. It’s always broken my heart that you never had any friends, but maybe that’s turned out to be a good thing, now; they won’t bother you. And, I thought it was indicative of your future that the very first full day you became Angela, you made a friend. What was her name?”
“You mean Carrie? At the movies? We’re not really friends.”
“She gave you her email address, didn’t she? Don’t fool yourself; girls do things differently than boys and she wants to be your friend. Oh, did you tell her your email address?”
“No; I was just embarrassed enough that I told her my school.”
“Why don’t you think about a new screen name for Angela and send Carrie a note today sometime?”
“I could do that. I will do that! She was kind of cool.”
“But my point is this: In the two years Andrew’s been at Westmont, he has made zero friends. In less than twenty-four hours, Angela already has a friend. Coincidence? I think not.”
I laughed at her using the old cliché, but she had a strong point. “Okay.”
“Okay? To what?”
“Okay to everything. I’ll think of screen names and tonight Angela will email Carrie. At school I will dress as Andrew and act just like Andrew, the poor old schlub, until the end of the year. Once I get inside this house after school, Angela comes out. But Mom, what about summer?”
She looked at me warmly. “I was hoping my daughter and I could spend it together.”
I hugged her again. “You know she will!”
It was surprisingly difficult to stop being Angela. Mom and I discussed it and she felt that Sunday night should be the changeover time, not Monday morning.
“Going to need an hour or two to work the girl out of your system,” she teased.
“That’s never gonna happen!” I said, surprising even myself with my fierceness.
Mom sat. “Oh, sweetheart, this has disaster written all over it if we can’t get a handle on it. I blame myself for letting you so completely become Angela this weekend; I’ve just made things harder for you.” She thought for a moment while I brooded over the unfairness of the universe.
Then she looked up and said, “Earlier you laughed at the phrase ‘Angela undercover’ but it applies. Maybe it’ll help; if not, there’s always the mask thing.”
“Mask?”
She nodded. “If you’re dressing up like a werewolf for Halloween, do you walk around saying, ‘But I’m not a werewolf!’ or do you get in the suit, put the mask over your head and jump around and go ‘arrr’!” She raised both hands as claws and snarled.
I laughed and was about to say something but she cut me off.
“Or do you take the mask off, like you’re going to the bathroom or something, and still go ‘arr’!”
“No!” I laughed.
“Or do you realize it’s just a silly costume; you know how to act like a werewolf but it doesn’t mean anything to you; it’s just acting like the costume you’re wearing?”
“Okay, point made,” I nodded. “Geez, I’m not dense, you know!”
“Young ladies should not say ‘geez’–ah, there I go,” she slumped and shook her head. “Alright. Until doctors tell us different, Angela is the real child, the real daughter, the real person. Andrew is artificial, a costume, a mask, that Angela has to wear for fifteen days out of the next nineteen, and then only for six hours of the day.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
She continued. “And on the twentieth day, Andrew goes into a box or a laundry bag or even a Hefty Bag and that’s the end of that, God willing.” She gave me a piercing look. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said solemnly.
“Since we’re in agreement on that key point, I ask that you follow my recommendations. First, during the week, the Andrew mask is only to be worn from waking until you return home from school. You will do everything in the morning that you have been doing as Andrew and go to school. Wear the same clothes, walk the same way, say the same things. And walk home as Andrew. I expect–and I think you do, too!–that the mask will be dropped and Angela will be here when I get home from work.”
“Sixty seconds after coming through the front door!” I said enthusiastically.
She laughed. “Maybe a bit longer; you might want a shower or something. In fact, that’s a good psychological thing, a shower to …wash away the boy, maybe?” She grinned, and I did, too. She chuckled. “As if it were that easy! Anyway, do your homework, chores, watch TV, whatever. That would be your routine from the end of school Monday through Friday. But tonight, I’m going to ask something different of you. Because you’re coming off the first glorious discovery of Angela, with two fully-intense days of being a girl, I think you need to start your adjustment back to Andrew tonight. No nightie, I’m afraid; your old jammies after a shower. Practice the mask, the walk and talk. What do you think?”
“I think–I know–I’m going to be miserable. But I think you’re right and I’ve got to do it that way.”
And that’s what I did, and I was miserable, but kept thinking, ‘Fifteen out of nineteen’ and kept my fingers crossed.
Mom drove me to school the next morning; I could feel her observing me closely and she pronounced me ‘Andrew’ like it was a level of achievement–‘You have successfully achieved Andrew’. I went to class and she went to the Administration. I told her I could weather the PE coach’s stupid remarks but she said there was ‘a bigger picture’ and events needed to be documented. Nothing was said about what the picture was …
I wondered if girls would be even more distracting to me after the weekend, but knowing what I did about myself, and knowing that in a few hours I’d be in a skirt, too, eased things considerably and I was able to focus. I got an A in Spanish, which was my best class; all that time with Santiago was paying off. At lunch I sat alone as I usually did, but got a note in my next class to go to Study Hall and report to Ms. Roberts for last period, which was PE. So I guessed Mom was successful!
Ms. Roberts was one of the younger English teachers and just nodded at me when I showed up at her desk; she quickly told me the Study Hall rules and I managed to get all of my homework done! It was a light load because we were mostly studying for finals, but it was nice to know that it didn’t cut into my Angela time.
Walking home, I heard my name called, only it was ‘Andres’, which was Santiago. He was jiggling his way to me. I stopped and he arrived, winded.
“Why you no in PE?” he said between puffs.
“Why were you not in PE,” I corrected automatically.
“Si, yes; why you not in PE?” he asked, nodding, annoyed. “You leave me with Coach.”
“Sorry, Diego,” I shrugged. It was a diminutive of his full name. “My mother found out the way the coach talks to us and got pissed off.”
“He talks that way when he no pissed off!”
“Not pissed off–no, I mean,” I rolled my eyes. “My mom got pissed off and went to the principal today and demanded I be pulled from the class for the rest of the year–I did not send her, Diego.”
True enough; I thought her Administration trip was about matters in the future, not PE today.
“So I am stuck with Coach for the rest of the year?”
“It’s only three weeks–less, now that today’s gone, and I don’t there’s any PE the last couple of days.”
He gave me a reproachful look. “Thought you were mi amigo.”
“Todavia soy tu amigo, Santiago,” I said. I still am your friend, Santiago.
He did one of those Hispanic looks and noises that was the equivalent of a disgusted ‘yeah, yeah’.
Then he began walking with me. “Tienes que sonreár como un idota ahora,” he sighed. Got to smile like an idiot now.
“Eso no es diferente que antes,” I teased. That’s no different than before.
“Eh!” he laughed and swiped his fingertips across my arm. “Antes, yo era sálo el cincuenta por ciento del idiota!” Before, I was only fifty percent of the idiot!
We laughed together; he told me the coach had got him alone and snarled, “Where’s your little girl friend today?”
I debated telling Mom about that; there were good reasons to tell her and good reasons not to. In the end, I figured I’d pass it on as hearsay and not to be acted on; I was already out of the class so it really didn’t matter. But I felt bad for Santiago.
When I got home, I took the shower to ‘de-boy’ myself, and powdered and fresh, my hair fluffed out, I put on a blue bra and panty set, the inserts, and felt instantly better. I pulled on a berry camisole and denim skirt and flats and what little jewelry I had. I found a thin white ribbon and on a whim I tied it behind my neck and over my head like Alice in Wonderland and liked the look. Then I sat took the new makeup kit to the bathroom and began experimenting. Less is more, I knew, and after three applications and removals, I was getting the hang of modest makeup but had a lot to learn.
Since I had no homework and Mom had told me she would bring dinner home, I had time to surf the internet for teen makeup tips. I began bookmarking a lot of sites; makeup sites, clothing sites, sites to help with girls’ personal problems–all the things in the girls’ magazines but more specific and in depth. I found a makeup page and plugged in my variables–hair, eye, skin color, and so on–and then printed out the color chart it recommended, with the names of three brands and color names for foundation, eyeshadow, liner, mascara, blush, lipstick, and concealer.
Wow.
Mom came home with Chinese and told me about her meeting with the school; no yelling but she did threaten a lawsuit. She ‘kind of hinted’–her words–that I had recorded the coach, and mentioned another boy was a witness, but did not name Santiago. After swearing her to take no action, I told her what the coach said to Santiago about me today. She was boiling mad.
I wasn’t. “Mom, I’m sitting here in makeup and a pretty skirt, and you’re upset that he called me a girl?”
“No, sweetheart,” she calmed and then chuckled. “I’m upset that he’s so open about his bigotry, and also that he’s inflicting it on that poor friend of yours.”
I was about to say that Santiago wasn’t really a friend–we’d never done anything outside of PE, I meant–but I realized he was my only friend in the sense of anybody I actually spoke with on a regular basis. And I had said I was his friend, today–and I’d said it in Spanish! So, yeah.
“Not so poor, maybe,” I said. “His folks own a restaurant.”
“Really? Which one? Do we know it?”
“I don’t think so. It’s called La Rioja, over by the new mall.” Across town, in other words.
“Spanish restaurant?”
“Um, yes, I think so; they’re from Argentina but I don’t know how much of the food is from there.”
“We should try it sometime. This weekend, maybe.”
“Um, Mom? This weekend …I can be Angela, right?” She smiled and nodded. I frowned. “Well, I guess we could go. I’d just wear what I wear to school.”
“Nonsense; that pretty blue sundress, maybe,” she grinned. “You’d look so cute in that in a Mexican–sorry!–Argentinean restaurant.”
“No; Santiago might be there; I can’t risk him seeing me. As Angela, I mean.”
“Why not?”
She just looked at me.
“I don’t …I’m not ready …”
“Sweetheart, we need to discuss this. You will not hide under a rock this summer. You’ve already gone out to the movies, met that new friend of yours, and had a nice time! We’ll be doing more of that once school’s out. And I know that this boy is not a close friend, just a classmate, really. And even if he is working at his family’s restaurant, the difference between the unhappy boy he knows and the pretty girl you are is …well, it’s remarkable. And he doesn’t know me, either, so it should be no problem.” She smirked. “But if we’re eating, and he does show up, just promise me that you won’t suddenly stand up and scream, ‘Omigod! I’m your classmate Andrew and I’m wearing a dress!’” She laughed. “Unless you tell me beforehand so I can bring a video camera!”
She was having way too much fun with that scenario, so I grumbled and went on eating.
I thought about it that night, though; she was right that nobody would know me. And it would be wonderful to be out as mother and daughter. And I do like Mexican–scratch that; I’ve got to find out what kind of food they serve.
Tuesday was a little weird, then really weird. And, truth be told, it was a little weird making the mental change from dreaming happily in my pretty nightie to putting on the drab Andrew clothes and adopt the shuffling walk. Since yesterday had been so successful, Mom said we could try the nightie–she knew how happy I was to wear one–and see if it affected my ability to ‘be’ Andrew. And I got through the morning okay.
And then the first weird thing was my Geometry teacher.
“Mis ..ter Preston,” he began with a hesitation that was …weird. “Your work yesterday showed a marked improvement.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Um …maybe it’s too early, but will it affect my grade in time?”
“It’s a start,” he nodded. “Your work improved dramatically from Friday, but which is the true standard of your ability?”
I frowned. “What can I do to …I guess I should just keep it up?”
“Exactly, Mis …ter Preston.”
Again with the hesitation, I thought as I walked out of class. Almost like he was the bad guy in The Matrix, with the pause when he said ‘Mis-ter Anderson’, but it wasn’t exactly that; more like–Omigod! I realized he was on the edge of saying ‘Miss Preston’! But I’d been in his class all semester; he knows I’m …
I stopped dead in my tracks. I realized that there was one of those ‘disconnect’ things going on. He knows I’m ‘Mister’ but somehow his senses were signaling that he should say ‘Miss’. That was exciting and really cool and incredibly scary, too. I thought I’d been in total Andrew mode, totally the same boring guy, but something triggered that disconnect in Geometry. Maybe it was just seeing me up close?
There wasn’t a lot of homework for me to do in Study Hall, which was a good thing because I was brooding about Geometry. It had been a little weird. And I guess it was a little more weird when I looked down and had been doodling. I’d been writing ‘Angela Marie Preston’ in cursive, trying things with the ‘G’ and dots on the ‘I’ and things and that would be fine–at home! –but not on a notebook page in school! I quickly turned the page and decided to try focusing on studying for finals.
And then the really weird thing happened. Well, first, I caught my hair in my backpack when I was putting it on when I left Study Hall. I kind of tugged and kind of went ‘ow’ and the rubber thing snapped and my hair came loose, but I got the backpack on. I decided to pee before walking home and had my hand on the Boys’ restroom door and heard this loud ‘a-hem!’ from behind.
A deep voice called, “Wrong room, missy!”
I knew that voice.
The weird thing was, it was polite.
I turned and it was my PE coach. And for the strangest reason, I knew instantly that he didn’t recognize me. I’d only been out of his class for two days! Well, plus two days of a weekend. So four days ago he had been in my face calling me a faggot, and now he was standing there, one hand on a hip, the other extended and pointing in a circle to the Girls’ restroom next door.
“There you go, honey,” he said, still wiggling his finger.
I was already in the process of pushing the door open and he did an ‘Uh-uh-uh!’ like he was an uncle or something. He was still doing the wiggling finger thing and raised his eyebrows.
Still didn’t recognize me …
Nothing to do but follow the moron’s directions. I released the Boys’ restroom door and, what the heck, did a girlish giggle and wiggled my head like ‘Silly me!’
And went into the Girls’ restroom.
Thank goodness, there was nobody in there; enough time had passed since school let out that everybody had peed and gone home. Quickly I did my business and then washed and–yet again, what the heck!–decided to fluff my hair at the mirror and wash my hands, sighing with pleasure. God, if I could do this for real–really be just another girl in the Girls’ restroom …
The coach was gone when I came out, his Good Deed of directing the silly girl to her proper restroom successfully concluded.
Condescending, sexist jerk!
When I told Mom about it that night, I thought she was going to pee herself, she was laughing so hard.
Wednesday was another tough morning, making the mental shift from Angela to Andrew. I got an A on the last Spanish test of the year, seemed to do pretty well in every other class, and got a smile and nod in Geometry. Study Hall was quiet and I went straight home.
And I had to–had to–had to have a bubble bath.
When Mom came home I was wearing a sundress that we’d bought over the weekend, and I was putting together a chicken-and-rice dish that we liked. Mom watched me for a few minutes.
“You’re so …lovely,” she grinned. “That dress just floats around you and you move so gracefully …”
“Thanks, um,” I said and started rinsing the salt water from the chicken.
“Honey, do you want to stick it in the fridge and let me take you out to dinner?”
“It’s no bother, Mom; I can make–”
“Come on, sweetie,” she playfully whined like a young girl. “I haven’t been able to go out with my best girl for, like, ever!”
“Four days ago, Mom,” I said, but was already laughing.
We drove to an Applebee’s across town, with the cheerful, ‘Good evening, ladies!’ that made me warm inside. We had salads and ice tea–much like home–and it was kind of odd. Every TV in the place–and there were many–were all showing baseball games.
“What if you don’t like baseball?” I asked.
“Men think you should,” Mom said, with an odd undercurrent. Her voice turned sad. “Part of being a woman, Angela.”
“Mom, all but two of the waiters are women, and looking around the place, easily half the people are women. But there isn’t one station that isn’t ESPN something-or-other.”
She gave me a look and I added, “And over half the world is female!”
“Over half the world …plus one,” she grinned.
Then she switched subjects and began telling me what to expect tomorrow after school at the doctor’s appointment. I had a pretty good idea after reading things on the internet, and we coordinated times and things. It was a peaceful and happy drive home and after getting in my nightie and washed and moisturized, Mom actually tucked me in bed. She kissed my forehead and smiled, then took a deep sigh.
“Tomorrow may mean everything or it may mean nothing. We either will start moving forward with your new life, or we will explore other avenues to make it happen. Either way, my darling, be brave, be smart, and know that I love you and support you and we will find a way that Angela can live free.”
Nothing of note happened at school the next day, and then we went to the doctor’s office.
I had to write a comprehensive, detailed account of my meeting with the doctors; they wanted my impressions as part of their program. So I won’t go into a blow-by-blow account; I don’t want to have to write the darned thing twice.
But, briefly:
We met with Dr. Watkins in his office across the street from the University Hospital. First there were some forms, then I peed in a cup, had blood drawn, a few strands of hair were cut and the inside of my cheek swabbed, and then we talked. As a group, then Mom left and I talked with him, and then Mom came back in and I was given a questionnaire to fill out in the waiting area. Great, I thought; Finals haven’t even started and already I’m taking a test. I finished it and was reading old magazines–actually a great back issue of Glamour; I forgot to mention that in my detailed account!–and then I was back in with the doctor.
Then a second doctor was called in, a woman named Dr. Chang, and she had the lab results. Well, I was male, but we all knew that, but I was, as Dr. Watkins put it, ‘barely male’. Dr. Chang did that thing with the thumb and forefinger really close.
They wanted to discuss everything further and asked that I come in the next day just for the labs again–Mom and I looked at each other–and we’d meet on Monday.
And that was it; we were back in the car and Mom cut me off.
“Honey, I have absolutely no idea what any of that meant. I gather it’s probably a good thing they want another set of labs, though.”
She drove home as we compared notes, each telling the other what happened when we’d been alone with the doctor.
The next day at school was a half day, which was the last sort-of official day of classes, because Monday started Finals Week, where the schedule was all over the place, and Seniors were getting ready to graduate. I’d been telling Mom how great it would be, for three reasons. First, only a portion of the school’s kids were there; Seniors were already gone so that was 25% missing right there, and only a percentage of kids left because some families took off for early vacations. It cut down the population considerably. Second, in and out. You walk right to class, head down, open your test booklets and go to work and dump them in the box and go home. Third, I was ready for all of my classes. The only class I’d feared was PE, not for any final, but for the inevitable low grade.
I closed my locker for the last official class day and turned and there was Santiago.
“Hokay, now you are my friend again,” he grinned.
“What do you–oh, PE’s over?”
“Si. You could not stick it out just four more days?”
“Sorry, Diego,” I shook my head. “It wasn’t my idea, remember? I think Mom thought it was three more weeks. She was angry at me for not telling her sooner.” Okay, I was embellishing a little.
He nodded. “Is okay. Coach didn’t yell at me so much. I think he …” He shrugged.
Things kind of clicked into place. “You think he was mostly yelling at me, and you sort of were in the way?”
He smiled and bobbed his head. “Si. Yes, maybe.” He shrugged again. “But it was quiet this week.”
“Well, I’m glad for you. Now maybe you’ll be like my mom and be pissed at me for not getting out of class sooner!”
Santiago laughed. “But he always say ‘faggots’! Meaning more than one!”
That bugged me. “Diego, listen, I’m sorry about that. He didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just the way he talks, like calling all the guys ‘girls’ if they run slow.”
He did that Hispanic thing again, sort of like the French ‘enh’ with the shrug. “Es estúpido.”
What I could tell Santiago about yesterday, the coach, and the restrooms! But I shrugged, too, and said, “Una cosa mala muerte que decir.” Yeah, but it’s a crummy thing to say.
“Su español es cada vez mejor,” he grinned. Your Spanish is better and better.
“Gracias,” I grinned.
He turned and looked across the school. “You know, in Argentina …the gay thing is not so much a problem. Latin culture, sometimes a problem, but Argentina …”
Santiago often talked about his home country when we shuffled along instead of jogging in PE, but he went on to explain that the country had given gays equality in 1992, and after a tremendous financial crash around 2001, things relaxed even more. And just recently, Argentina passed sweeping gender rights reforms, allowing ‘sex-change surgery’ and hormone prescriptions as part of their regular health care–and even to specify which gender they wanted listed with their name!
He did the shrug thing and said, “The crash was big change. When the people are eating from the garbage cans, a kiss between two men is …no es una gran cosa.” Not such a big deal.
“Yeah, but here in the Land of the Free, we freak out if two men kiss.”
“Si.”
There was silence and things felt weird.
“I’m not gay, Santiago,” I said, looking at him.
“I am not gay either, Andrew,” he said. “I thought …” He shrugged.
“Oh, you thought I was but it didn’t bother you–just like the jerks in the locker room saying ‘Argenteenan’ doesn’t bother you?”
“Si. Like no bother if dogs bark–it’s what they do.”
I laughed at the simple way he dismissed the jerks as dogs. “But, really …I’m not gay.” I paused. “You think because the coach stopped yelling ‘faggot’ when I was gone that …”
He was waving a hand. “Just the biggest, loudest dog. No. Andrew, it does not matter to me.”
I didn’t stop to think; it just came out. “Santiago, I’m not gay. I’m a girl.”
God, did I really just say that?
I jumped in. “I’m seeing doctors, I’m …Santiago, do you know what ‘transgender’ means?”
“Significa sur transsexual, si.” It means being transsexual. He frowned and then nodded. “Yo lo veo.” I see it.
“Okay, I need to know; do you mean ‘you see it’ as meaning you understand it, or ‘you see it’ as meaning you can see it with your eyes?”
“Spanish lesson?” he chuckled. “Both!” He openly laughed now.
Then he saw the shock on my face and waved a hand as he shook his head. “Andrew, mi amigo, please, I do not want to …” He frowned. “I do not want to say this wrong. I can see the girl in you, and I understand transsexuals and it’s okay, okay?”
“Really?”
“You say you see doctors …do you …dress like a girl?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding solemnly. I swallowed. “Every day after school and all weekends.”
“And summer and beyond, like a girl?”
“Si,” I nodded, my mouth dry. “For the rest of my life.”
He paused. “This is not what I came to talk about. I came to joke with you about not being in PE, and then to ask why you do not come to our restaurant.”
“Oh. Oh! Um …Mom and I don’t eat out that often–” I caught myself because of the recent Applebee’s trip. “Well, we did like a quick thing at Applebee’s, but …isn’t your place expensive?”
I had no idea if it was a palace or a corner sandwich shop.
“En realidad, es, má¡s o menos.” Actually, it is, kind of. He nodded. “I thought that was it. I want to invite you and your family.”
“Thank you, Diego!” I said enthusiastically. “And ‘my family’ is just my mother and I.”
“Your mother and …” He left it hanging.
“Me,” I frowned.
“Your mother and …”
“Uh …I don’t know what you mean?”
He rolled his eyes. “It will not be your mother and Andrew. It will be your mother and …”
The lightbulb went on. “Oh! Um …” I looked around; coast clear. “Angela. Mi nombre es Angela.” My name is Angela.
He nodded and pulled out a business card, somewhat bent from the back pocket of his jeans. “Then Mrs. Preston and mi amiga Angela are invited.” He grinned. “Hasta luego,” he nodded and walked away.
End of Part 3
“Just like that?” Mom asked, fingering the card.
“Just like that. From boy to girl. De chico a chica.”
“You’re sure there was no misunderstanding?” She looked worried.
“Mom, he said, ‘Mrs. Preston and mi amiga Angela’. Very different from ‘and mi amigo Andrew’.”
“And he’s not …playing a trick on you, or setting you up as a practical joke?”
“No, he’s …Okay, first of all, he’s not like that. But if it was for a joke, wouldn’t he have said, ‘Be there on Saturday at 7:15’ or something?”
“Maybe …” She seemed unconvinced. Then her face did a firming up thing that I recognized as a decision. “Honey, I want you to put on that burgundy top and the black skirt.”
“Are we …you’re not …”
“Yes, we are, and yes, I am. I can certainly afford dinner for two at La Rioja. We won’t call for reservations so there’s no chance of warning. You and I will simply be a mother and daughter dining out. At the end we can see if Santiago’s invitation is good, but this way we should get a very nice dinner and avoid any chance of a trick.”
“No, Mom, I can’t, I’m …”
She raised an eyebrow.“¿Niño o niña?” Boy or girl?
“I forgot you spoke Spanish. Niña.”
“¡Mi linda!” My pretty one!
And so we went to La Rioja, which got top ratings according to the newspaper and magazine articles framed on the wall. It was odd because it was like a Mexican restaurant but different. No sombreros, no serapes; the paintings on the wall were of a Hispanic culture very different from Mexico. And the prices were way up there, but Mom explained that Argentine beef is some of the very best in the world and that Argentines had the highest rate of beef consumption in the world. I stared at her, and she grinned and told me she’d hit Google while I got ready.
Mom had helped me get ready; I looked more grown-up in the outfit she suggested, and she brushed my hair to the side and clipped with a silver barrette and had found some rare-earth magnet earrings with silver dangles. She carefully did my makeup to match the maturity of my clothes, and I wore black pumps of hers that we’d discovered fit me. She said I looked eighteen and that would further confuse anybody that might think that Andrew was lurking about. I loved her thoughtfulness even as I worried about her plan.
We ordered a small ‘Espalda Asado’, a flat iron steak, for me, and Mom ordered ‘Mero de la Costa’, a sea bass. The menu was recognizably Spanish with a host of new words and I wished Santiago was there to describe them to me. Mom had asked if I wanted to inquire about him from the host, but I thought it best to wait. The host didn’t look like a host, actually; not only did he seem a bit under-dressed to be a host, something about his face made me think he might be related to Santiago, his father, perhaps. It was enough to make me cautious for the time being.
Everything was absolutely fantastic. The place felt classy; there seemed to be a happy bustle in the kitchen and at the waiter stations. The piped-in music ended and a single guitarist played a sort of flamenco, to applause–and the food was the best I’d ever tasted. Mom had told me that many considered this the best steak house in the city, and my little steak was incredible.
We split a Dulce de Leche cheesecake; Mom had I both had coffee, a rare thing for me, but oh what a heavenly match for the cheesecake! Before the bill came, Mom raised a meaningful eyebrow. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, opened them and nodded.
Mom called the waiter over and dazzled me with, “Perdón, ¿por casualidad está Santiago Mendoza aquí esta noche?” Pardon me, by chance is Santiago Mendoza here tonight?
She grinned at me. “Pretty good for an old lady, huh?”
“Very good, Mom, but you don’t need to roll the R so much,” I teased.
She pretended to be offended. “Oh? You’re an expert on Spanish R rolling?”
I chuckled. “No, but I’ve been listening to the waiters and the host and their sound is different from Latin American or even Castilian. More like this …”
I demonstrated and she nodded.
“I stand corrected,” she nodded, then grinned. “Or, I stand cor-r-r-ected!” she added, rolling her R like mad.
“Buenos noches,” a familiar voice said from slightly behind me. “I am Santiago Mendoza …?” There was a question in his tone.
Mom looked over my shoulder and smiled. “Ah, Buenos noches. Mi nombre es Senora Preston. I believe you go to school with my son Andrew?” She raised an eyebrow. “I would like to present my daughter Angela.”
She did, in fact, ‘present’ me, gesturing towards me with her hand flat, fingers extended.
Santiago took two steps past me and looked down.
And stared.
And stared.
I cleared my throat daintily and said in my true voice, “Buenos noches, Diego. Su restaurante es fantástico. Fue la mejor comida de mi vida. Gracias por invitarnos.” Good evening, Diego. Your restaurant is fantastic. It was the best food of my life. Thank you for inviting us.
I tried to speak as I do as Angela; only Angela had never spoken Spanish. I hoped I didn’t sound foolish.
“Dios en el cielo …” he murmured. God in heaven.
“Truly a superb meal,” Mom said, maybe to pull focus away from me.
“Uh …gracias, gracias,” Santiago said, frowning. “You are …”
Then, to my amazement, he laughed. Laughed! I mean, like a gut-busting ‘Ha-ha!’ sort of thing. I felt myself collapsing, certain that he was making fun of me, until he spoke.
“¡Ese idiota! ¡No puede distinguir entre un niño y una niña bonita!” That idiot! He can’t tell the difference between a boy and a pretty girl!
“Really? You think …I’m pretty?” I asked, my hand automatically going to my hair.
“Asá que muy bonito,” Mom smiled. So very pretty.
Santiago suddenly transformed. He seemed to take a deep breath and looked more …manly somehow. Slimmer, too, somehow. He bowed slightly.
“Angela, mi amiga, you are truly beautiful. I told you I knew of …what we spoke of today, but I did not dream that you could be so …muy, muy hermosa.” …very, very beautiful.
“Gracias, Diego, mi amigo,” I smiled at him.
He looked at me a moment longer and then turned. “Papa!” he called and excused himself, returning with the host. They fired Spanish back and forth; I got most of it and blushed at some of the compliments. At least I could understand that not a word was said about a boy in class named Andrew.
His father bowed to us and said, “My son tells me you are Senora Preston and Angela. You are most welcome to La Rioja, and I can only hope that you will grace us with your presence again.”
Mom bowed her head slightly and said, “Usted tiene un restaurant encantador. No puedo recorder una comida mejor, o un entorno más amable.” You have a lovely restaurant. I cannot remember a better meal, or more gracious surroundings.
“Gracias, gracias,” he smiled and nodded.
I said, “La mejor cena de mi vida y me encanta todo sobre él aqui.” The best dinner of my life and I love everything about it here.
“Ah!” he clapped his hands once with delight. “Two lovely ladies who speak so beautifully. I must thank my son for inviting you, and inform you that for speaking so well about my humble restaurant, I cannot accept any payment; your words were payment enough.”
“Dinner is on the house, in other words,” Santiago grinned.
“Diego!” he snapped, but still smiling, and burst out something that was like ‘don’t be a chump!’
Mr. Mendoza was called away to the host station and Santiago took a chair from an empty table–one of only a few, because the restaurant was busy–and said, “My sister was hostess but haves a difficult pregnancy. The girl to replace her …” He did a thing with his fingers. Oh, she vanished. “Papa is hostess!” he grinned.
“It’s a very fine restaurant; you must be very proud of him,” Mom said.
“Si. He’s …” He looked towards the host station and his father gathering menus. “He tries too hard. I mean, he tries to be everywhere.”
I found it interesting that Santiago’s English was much better, more colloquial, than at school. I realized in a flash that he was acting a character at school, too, just as Angela was acting as Andrew.
“You mentioned your sister, does your mother work with the restaurant, too?” Mom asked.
“Si. Not here, but she is …contador. Accountant.”
“Like a bookkeeper?” Mom asked.
“No, she is …accountant …”
“Like a CPA, I guess,” I said.
Santiago laughed. “No, no! I know what you mean, the CPA …”
“Certified Public Accountant,” I supplied.
“Si, si. That is what she is, but she is not ‘CPA’.” He grinned. “In Argentina, CPA is the Cá³digo Postal Argentino, the, um …zip code.”
We all laughed at that and he studied me. He leaned into our table and said, “You even laugh like a beautiful girl.”
I stared, but Mom said, “Yes, she does.” She cleared her throat. “Santiago, you understand the situation my daughter is in? With school, I mean?”
He nodded. “Although I have never seen her at school. I used to see my friend Andrew Preston–you know him, maybe?” he teased, and then adopted a sad-sack face. “But my friend Andrew deserted me.”
“I did–he did not,” I hissed, keeping my voice low. “Now you know, right?”
He held up a hand. “Please, I am only joking.” He turned to Mom. “Mrs. Preston, the coach …Andrew told you about?” She nodded and he did, too. “There is something wrong with that coach. But no matter; we are done with him and no more running.” His hand did a brushing-away dismissive movement and he smiled happily.
Mom glanced at me and then back to him. “Santiago, if I may ask you a personal question–well, two, really. First, do you truly accept my daughter Angela?”
“Si,” he nodded. “I already told …Andrew. And now I tell it to Angela.” He turned to me. “I will protect your secret until …” He looked at Mom now. “Until Andrew is no more.”
I felt a buzz at hearing that and wondered how he could have accepted this monumental change so easily?
“Thank you, Diego,” I said warmly.
Mom said, “Yes, thank you, and my second personal question …well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t wish to, but …How could you handle the terrible things that coach said to you?”
Santiago’s eyes flicked to me and he looked serious. In a soft voice, he said, “If my friend Andrew was gay, it did not matter to me. I know that I am not gay. So they were meaningless words–”
“Like a dog barking, he said,” I threw in, smiling at him.
He did the shrug thing and nodded. “As if he were screaming at us because we were not purple, or because there were more letters in our names than his. Nonsense.”
“You are very mature, and I thank you for your friendship with my daughter.” Mom sat back. “But I’m still sorry that you had to listen to that …that dog barking …” Then her mouth quirked, thinking about it.
I reached over and put my hand over Santiago’s. “Diego? Thank you, truly. From the bottom of my heart.”
“You are most welcome. And …” He frowned. “It will be difficult to see Andrew in school.”
“Finals,” I reminded him. We had no other classes besides PE.
“Finals, si,” he nodded. “Still …when school is over, Andrew is …”
“Gone,” I said.
He nodded. “A nice person.” He left it at that and stood. “I must help my father; late guests.”
Sure enough, the voices in the front of the restaurant seemed to multiply. I guess it was a restaurant family’s genetic trait or something, being able to sense the crowd.
He bowed to Mom. “Senora, Angela,” he said, keeping his eyes on me longer. Then he left.
“Interesting,” Mom said.
“What is? There’s so many interesting things …”
She took a sip of coffee. “Interesting how mature and manly he is; not at all the …I believe you once called him a ‘fat-boy’ and said something about a bobble-head?”
I closed my eyes. “Oh, God! Don’t remind me! I had just met him and heard what guys said about him and I was young and foolish and–no! Andrew was young and foolish!” I thought again of my resolution that Angela be a better person than Andrew had been.
She chuckled at my admission. “And how easily he accepted you …remarkable.” She took another sip. “Great coffee. And it was interesting watching you. How you moved, how you spoke to him–there wasn’t any Andrew present. And when you put your hand over his …”
“Mom, I didn’t plan that or anything, it just …seemed the thing to do …”
“Your instinct was correct, sweetheart. And it was a feminine instinct.” She sighed deeply. “A wonderful, wonderful night.”
Yes, it was, I thought, but I felt a little twinge of worry–why did everything with being Angela seem so easy and so right–and so quickly?
Two other things happened on Friday but they were just ‘wait and see’ kinds of things and not as odd or amazing as the coach and the restaurant. Mom was waiting for me at home–she’d taken a later lunch–and brought me to the hospital for a quick blood-and-urine test; we were back on the sidewalk ten minutes after they’d called my name.
Then we’d had that incredible, fantastic dinner at La Rioja, and I felt so wonderful afterwards, full of good food and the warmth and acceptance by Santiago and his father, that impulsively, I emailed Carrie, the girl that I’d met at the movies. I’d been thinking of a girlish account name like hers but I’d read enough about the dangers of that; so I created a jumbled random one on Gmail and it felt right to do it that way. And so I emailed my hope-to-soon-be girlfriend! I apologized for taking so long; crazy last week at school before Finals, some doctors’ appointments, blah-blah-blah. I said it was neat meeting her, and changed it to ‘cool’, and left it open-ended. She might answer or might not. My finger hovered over the Enter key but I sent it and felt better.
Saturday morning, it was laundry time, only we didn’t have to do the bedding. I gathered our hampers and decided to do pillow cases anyway; Mom smiled at that but said, in general, be careful about washing bedding items at different rates because the colors could vary. So much to learn! I said something along those lines, but Mom chuckled.
“It’s not really that difficult, sweetie, because some of the things you learn don’t change. It’s not like …Oh, God, having to learn a new cell phone all over again when you get a different model!” Her face went funny, and then she said, “Anyway, that laundry tip applies elsewhere, too. Men’s suits should only be dry-cleaned once in a while, supposedly, but they stress that jacket and pants get the same treatment at the same time. You’ll do it with your suits, too, and–what?”
She’d seen me flinch. My throat was tight and I felt like tears were just around the corner. “You think I’m going to be in suits?”
She stared and then tossed her head with a laugh. “Oh, God, sweetheart, no! And yes! Oh, my,” she chuckled and took a deep breath. “You know that dark blue skirt and jacket I wear when I have union meetings?”
“Yes. It’s so pretty, the blouses, I mean, and looks powerful–oh!” My eyes widened.
Mom nodded. “That’s a suit, too, honey–just like you will have a ‘power suit’, something in navy or gray, with a sensible skirt. And a pretty blouse!” she teased.
My relief was huge, and she hugged me. “Oh, Angela, did you think that I had any doubts about you?”
“Not …really,” I said, sniffing back the threatening tears. “But you said ‘men’s suits’ and then ‘your suits’ and I guess I freaked.”
She sighed. “I think you will freak, from time to time, but know this: I completely and fully recognize and accept that you are my daughter. I look at it …” She trailed off and I could feel her frown. “This probably isn’t psychologically correct to say to you right now, but I’m already this far …”
Mom turned and held me with both arms straight, her hands on my shoulders.
“Angela, my view is that you were born my daughter, you are my daughter, and always will be my daughter. However, there was a …birth defect, of sorts, the way I look at it. It caused you to not have the girlhood that was your birthright!” she said with some vehemence, and calmed. “And only now we’re in the process of medically correcting it. Like if you’d been blind since birth, and just got a bump on the head or something and gradually, sight is becoming possible. Make sense to you?” I nodded, and she smiled sadly. “That’s the way it is in my mind, anyway. And I think …I know for me it’s the healthiest way. That way I don’t get hung up by thinking ‘that’s my son in his pretty bra’, or …’that boy thinks my son is pretty and wants to ask him out’. I could only get tied up in knots that way. So I know that it’s healthiest for me to consider you as always my daughter.”
I nodded. “That’s why you kind of jumped in so fast; I mean, with going to Target and things.”
“Yes. I wasn’t buying for my son to be my daughter; I was buying for my daughter who, through no fault of her own, had no girls’ clothing. So that works for me. Now, I think it’ll be healthier to you, too, to think that way. Although I’m not telling you ‘this is how you should think’. I leave that to the psychologists to tell you. But you might want to consider it the same way I do–that you were always a girl but a birth defect caused a misdiagnosis and is only now being corrected.”
Her face did that thing again, which I knew meant she had a thought that troubled her and she filed away for later.
“Mom, that’s twice now you’ve done that …thing with your face. You thought of something else but don’t want to say it.”
“You know my secret face thing?” she cried theatrically. “Now I must keel you!” We chuckled and she sighed. “Not something I don’t want to say, but something I want to say later, just to not lose my train of thought. Well, the darned train’s derailed, anyway, so I’ll tell you. The thing just now …”
“You said ‘corrected’ and did the thing.”
“Thank you, missy-too-sharp-for-her-own-good!” she laughed, and then grew immediately serious, frowning. “Correction. As opposed to …reassignment.”
Her eyes bored into mine and I stifled an involuntary gasp. “Oh,” I said in a small voice.
Her voice was gentle. “Sweetheart, we haven’t discussed this, and we have to at some point. If you care to now, fine; if you want to wait, fine. But …well, the doctors are going to bring it up, maybe even by Monday, and we need–you need–to be clear on your feelings.”
I nodded. “Because you’re clear on your feelings?” Her face was neutral, and I said, “Correction?”
“Ah. Yes. And I’m not going to say anything else about it until you want to talk about it.”
“Wait; the first thing you did the face thing, you were …” I frowned, thinking. “Oh, yeah; you were talking about having to learn a different kind of phone.”
“I’ll say ‘ah, yes’ again. That was just that I was saying something about learning a new system all over again, as opposed to learning about laundry or cooking that pretty much don’t change. Once you’ve learned the rules, you’ve learned ‘em and you don’t have to re-learn them or update them, really. But it made me realize two–no, three things. First, you don’t have a cell phone. You …Andrew had no friends, no activities, and was always at home. Second, you should have a cell phone, because already Angela has made a friend–assuming something works out with that girl you met at the movies–and watching Santiago last night, I believe you’re going to be much more social than Andrew ever was.”
“Mother! Santiago’s a friend. It’s not like …that.” It freaked me out.
“Sweetie, he is your friend, but I saw his eyes re-assigning you from …short gay boy to pretty girl. I’m not saying that he’s going to have romantic feelings for you–I suspect you’ll be friends still, but different–but that gleam in the eye …I recognized it and know that lots of boys will look at you that way. And you’re so much happier as Angela and people respond to that, too. And that leads me to the third thing about a cell phone–safety. You’re a pretty girl relatively naíve about the way of the world, in terms of boys and girls and …just life. So, that thing I did with my face was thinking all of this and deciding that you and I will go to the mall and get you a cell phone today.”
“Cool!” I said happily.
I changed from the doing-the-laundry shorts/tank/flip-flops to a yellow sundress and white flats. I felt light and pretty and happy …and all the time my brain was whirling with the other thing.
The gleam thing …
Once again, Mom took us to a faraway mall–since the stores were all the same and I wouldn’t run into anybody I knew–and she surprised me. She stopped walking in front of Claire’s.
“In for a penny …” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“What? All the girls shop there, yeah …” I shrugged. Then I realized what she was thinking. “Mom, you …pierced ears?”
She just blinked at me, expressionless.
“Mom, I’m still in school, still …Andrew during the day …”
“Well, that’s true, but it’s Finals Week. Didn’t you tell me something about how great it was, only half the school would be there, it’s in and out, head down, go home?”
“Well, yes, but …”
“Do you want to wear pretty earrings? Hoops, dangles?”
“Oh, yes!” I answered without thinking, and then slumped theatrically. “Ya got me.” She chuckled and I had to, too. “I’m just trying to play it safe, you know.”
“I know, sweetie, and keeping you safe is my primary responsibility. So if you want to wait another couple of weeks …” She let it hang, and then added, “Of course, it might score you some points with the shrinks …”
“Didn’t you tell me not to call ‘em shrinks?” I teased.
“Ya got me,” she grinned. “Sorry; I’m pressuring you. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel thing, and you’re right, there’s a lot of–”
“Yes.”
“Huh?”
I nodded firmly. “Yes, let’s do it.” I turned to face her. “Mom, I really want pierced ears, but I’ve been afraid. I’m already mistaken for a girl at school, even fully dressed as Andrew. And, yeah, it’s in and out, half the school there, and …and I want them. Yes!”
And in less time than it took for us to have our discussion, I had two pierced ears! Gold studs, of course, and Mom and I had fun picking up earring cards and holding them up to me to see what to get with our two pairs as part of the starter package. The girl had been a little surprised that I was as old as I was without them being pierced, but Mom just dove in with a stunning lie about finally being ‘out from under’ a tyrant of a husband. I think she used the actor’s thing of ‘sense memory’ to be convincing that she was glad the guy was out of her life. The girl made the connection and smiled and even recommended a special flesh-toned flat stud that could be put in place of the gold balls; from a distance it looked like there was no earrings. She said it was ‘in case I still had to see the creep.’
Mom and I were still giggling about the improvisation as she marched us into the phone store. She’d brought her latest phone bill and I was directed to look around and ‘see if anything spoke’ to me, much as she said I should choose a purse, while Mom and the phone girl had their heads together, going over the bill. Then the girl came out and showed me several phones on the wall that fit in with the plan Mom chose, and told me the pros and cons of each one. She couldn’t seem to believe that a high school junior girl wasn’t already texting her little head off. Finally, we settled on a new entry-level model of Blackberry, and I figured I’d spend the evening learning about and loading the thing up with addresses–which made me realize, sadly, that it would probably take all of two minutes.
The girl helped set it up to check my email account and then she grinned and handed it to me.
My eyes and smile widened. “Mom! I got an email from Carrie!”
I read it quickly and happily; she asked if I was able to hit the Burlington Mall tomorrow, maybe around one; she had to get something for her little sister and ‘we could hang’. Yes, yes, yes! Mom smiled and said she’d drive me over and I had the phone girl show me how to text on the phone, and since she’d heard me read Carrie’s email to Mom, her advice was to suggest Claire’s at one. That way if anybody was late there were things to do–meaning shopping!–and a single girl waiting wouldn’t be bothered by boys in the all-girl environment of Claire’s. I also added my new phone number and that if Carrie’s phone used the same carrier, texting and talking would be free.
I left the store feeling fantastically happy; Mom was smug because her points of getting me a cell phone–new friends and activities–had come true so quickly.
And there it was …
In a blinding flash of clarity, of recognition, I knew what Mom had been talking about–’a correction’–and my feelings.
“Mom, I want to talk. Um …smoothies and go someplace?”
We hit Jamba Juice and Mom’s face was unreadable, standing there as teens swirled around us. She still wasn’t talking as we got back to the car and she drove to a nearby park.
“I remembered this from years ago; nice to see they’ve maintained it,” she smiled with the sad smile of memory. “I think there’s a pond …”
She led me on the trail and sure enough, there it was, and then she pointed out a bench a little off the path. We walked there, carrying our smoothies, and it was perfect; tucked away in thick brambles so nobody could be behind it, and with a sweeping view of the pond and the path in both directions. We could talk and nobody could hear us; if they walked past us, we’d see them coming and be able to change the subject.
“This is nice,” she sighed, looking across the pond. “Nice …”
It was odd how she’d trailed off and I thought she was trying to not say too much because she knew that I wanted to speak.
And, of course, I locked up for a moment. I looked at the pond, some joggers went by, ducks came in and took off. I sighed.
“I want the correction, Mother,” I said. “I want it. I know you’re talking about SRS–the Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Or GRS, gender reassignment. I’ve been reading up on the internet. I haven’t talked with you about this before, and I know that it seems all sudden and like we’re only going into the second week of Angela, in a way.”
“I promise not to interrupt too much, but I think you need to explain your phrase, ‘in a way’.”
“Well, obviously, dressing as Angela but …” I nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been Angela for years–practically forever–and even though I didn’t know her name, I was still her. You know?”
She nodded. “Yes, I do, sweetheart.” She paused. “Wanted to make sure you knew it.”
I nodded, watched a duck on the pond and waited for a mother to pass us, pushing her stroller. We three smiled at each other and Mom and I watched her go.
“I want that,” I said without thinking. “And I can’t have it.”
“Please, Angela, help me with this. Be more specific. You want what?”
“That young mother, with her baby …” Strangely, I felt my throat tighten and eyes sting. “Mom, I’ve never thought about motherhood before, but …” I sniffed back the tears. “And I can’t have it …”
“Yes, you can,” she said gently. “You can adopt. Sweetheart, you don’t know if she bore that child.”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “I never thought of that …and …” I waved a hand. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”
I checked both sides of the path; there was nobody near. I turned to face Mom.
“Mother, I want to live the rest of my life as a female. I’m absolutely certain. I know it seems rushed, but it’s so incredibly right. I have no doubts whatsoever. None. I will undergo whatever tests or procedures the doctors throw at me, take any pain they dish out, if I can be Angela. I want hormones because I want to develop my own breasts, and I want that surgery–I know I have to wait until I’m eighteen–but I want that surgery because I want my vagina and I want there to be no doubt in anybody’s mind that I’m a girl.” I paused and frowned. “And I want to fall in love with a wonderful man and marry him and we’ll adopt and I’ll maybe be able to breastfeed my baby …to …b-b-breastfeed …”
I broke down in tears, something I told myself I would not do. Mom comforted me and had produced a tissue and hugged me and gave me comfort and made small shushing sounds. She gently patted my back.
“You see why I used the word ‘correction’? It’s not changing a boy into a girl. It’s allowing a girl to discover her true nature, to live the life that was meant for her.”
I nodded, still blubbering.
But she was right, and I knew I would consider the surgery as a correction. And she knew that I wanted it.
I did three things at home that night. First, I made the chicken-and-rice thing for dinner–risotto, really–and while it paled in comparison to the fantastic dinner of the previous night, it received raves from Mom.
The second thing was that I got my phone set up the way I thought I might like it. Midway through I got a text from Carrie confirming Claire’s at one. I thought, ‘I’m meeting burlgrrl at Burl Mall’, but that’s because I was almost giddy with happiness. A new friend, who only knew me as Angela!
The third thing was that we curled up on the couch and watched a ‘chick flick’. Well, first, I was curled up with my legs under me, working on my phone.
Then Mom cried out, “Oh, I love this one!”
It was While You Were Sleeping, with Sandra Bullock. Mom and I watched a lot of movies together, but often Andrew had sat there in misery, afraid to show how much he liked them if they were romantic, because that’s not something for boys to do, right? But now I could gush right along with Mom. And gush we did; it was such a delightful movie, and at the conclusion there was this great up-swelling of happiness and, yes, tears.
And somehow it led to a discussion of, well …’What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up’. It came from us talking about how sweetly Sandra clutched the ring that Bill Pullman dropped in her toll booth coin slot. It was so poignant that I got choked up thinking about it. Mom went to make tea and came back with the mugs and a question.
“What was Lucy hoping for? In life, I mean?” Mom asked as she sat.
“To go to Florence …no, to fall in love,” I sighed with happiness, thinking of the movie. But that wasn’t quite right. “No, she was hoping for …change.”
Mom nodded.
I said, “She’d had a wonderful relationship with her father, and then he died, and we don’t really know how she wound up in the toll booth, but it was a dead end and she …” I stopped, open-mouthed.
Mom calmly blew on her tea. “So, I’m not sure I remember. What were Andrew’s plans in life?”
“Andrew? There wasn’t anybody named Andrew. It was Jack, Jack and Peter and–omigod!” I blurted, my hands to my mouth. “I …forgot …”
Mom nodded, grinning. “You forgot all about Andrew, didn’t you? Gonna make it even harder to finish out school, but at least you don’t have any more classes. Ready for Finals?”
“Yes, I am, and stop trying to distract me. You messed me up, so this is your fault,” I teased, pouting.
I shook my head. I had completely not considered ‘Andrew’ as me. Of course, in the context of talking about the movie, it made sense, but still …
Mom said, “I suspect that the doctors are going to be putting you through some heavy psychological evaluation.”
“Already did.”
“Even more so, coming up. And they’ll do things like that to you, changing subjects abruptly to get your reactions, so be on your toes. But, sweetie, I really didn’t plan to do that to you; it wasn’t a trick. I was really just changing subjects. So, my question was, what were Andrew’s plans in life?”
“I noticed you used past tense,” I nodded. “And that’s right, too. At the risk of sounding too flippant, none. He had zero plans in life. See, every single day was just …get through this day without being hassled too much.”
“By the coach, you mean.”
“By the coach and most of the guys,” I shrugged. “Some of the girls, too. I just wanted to–”
She held up a hand. “Wait a moment, please. Do you mean to say that you were hassled by more than the coach?”
I nodded and shrugged. “Just a fact of life.”
“Please, sweetheart; put on your Andrew hat for a moment and tell me …” She sighed and shook her head. “You never said anything about being hassled until you mentioned the coach. And it seemed so over the top that I acted immediately …but you’re saying there were other times?”
I looked my mother in the eyes. “It’s an exaggeration to say ‘every single day’ but it’s absolute truth to say ‘every single week’. I just tried to get through every single day without–”
“What did they say? What did they do?” She was so angry she was nearly shaking; she had to put down her mug of tea.
“Mom, it’s not important, and it’s–”
“Please, please; it is important to me. Tell me and don’t worry about offending me; this is …too important to soft-pedal.”
Her eyes were boring into mine. I sighed. “Usually it was just name-calling.” On her look, I shrugged. “Faggot, fairy, queer, princess, fruit, um …fudge-packer …uh, cocksucker …” I flinched at that, worried I’d offend her.
Her eyes were now brimming with tears and her hand was at her mouth. “Oh, sweetheart! I had no idea! I can’t believe they …and you took this?”
I shrugged again. “Had to. What could I do, say the same things back? Fight them? I’d either be as stupid as they are or I’d be seriously injured. Hah! I’d be just as stupid and seriously injured! So …I just didn’t respond and kept my head down.”
“And …how long did they say these things to you?”
I frowned. “Mom, they never didn’t say them. I mean, when it started it was like ‘fairy’ and then they learned the, um …harder words as they got older.”
“Started when?”
“First, maybe second grade. Just a fact of life, like I said.”
She stared and her tears spilled down her cheek. “I had no idea …” she said again.
“Mom, there was nothing I could do about it. Oh, I suppose I could have grown a foot taller and gained a hundred pounds and it would’ve stopped, but that wasn’t going to happen. But I learned to tune out the names.”
“I can’t believe the school allowed …” She frowned. “They never knew, did they?”
“No, just like the coach calling Santiago and me ‘faggots’ up close so nobody else could hear.” It was weird thinking of Santiago as the bobble-head fat boy anymore; there hadn’t been any of that in his family restaurant.
“Terrible,” she muttered to herself. “But at least they didn’t harm you–”
Unfortunately, my face had betrayed me.
“What?” Mom asked, sitting taller. “They …did they do anything physical?”
That made me chuckle; it burst out of me without thinking. “Mom, think back to all the stories you know of kids being hassled in school. From your own school years to movies.”
She frowned.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me what kind of hassles you mean?”
“Well, pushing and shoving, for instance?”
“I’ll count that as one thing,” I said, raising my index finger.
She frowned again and said, “Well …pushing …and tripping …”
I ticked off the next finger.
“Hitting food trays in the cafeteria so the food goes everywhere …”
I did the next finger, causing her eyes to widen.
“Oh, honey!”she gasped. “Restroom things …”
I said, “Tossing things in the toilets, from books to clothes,” another finger, “and spraying my crotch with water from the sink,” another finger, “peeing on me,” she gasped loudly and I moved to the other hand, “and ‘swirlies’, shoving my head in the toilet–although that only happened twice–”
“Twice?” she shouted. “Oh, my God! I had no idea …This is …You’re not just playing–no, you’re not …oh, my God!” Her hands were at her mouth, her eyes spilling tears.
I dropped my hands and shrugged. Quietly I said, “So you can understand that the coach getting up close and calling me a faggot was …kinda mild.”
She enclosed me in a hug, almost frantically, as if she could protect me from the things I’d already suffered.
“How could you …” She squeezed tighter. “How could you endure?”
“I had to,” I said simply, earning me a tighter squeeze.
It took several minutes to calm her down. She was still seething, but managed to get her tea back in her hand, I said simply, “So …Andrew was just getting through day-by-day. No thoughts about college, growing up, jobs, careers, anything.” I frowned. “Mom, you’ve got to believe me on this. I never thought of killing myself. But I did think of Andrew just …ending. Maybe moving to a new city and …being somebody else. Andrew was like …you know those disaster movies where somebody’s going over a bridge and they realize it’s been torn off? They get out of the car and just stand at the ragged edge, looking down at the ocean or the nothing where there had been a road?”
“Yes,” she said after a moment.
“That was Andrew. And the Road of Life, I guess. Any future was unimaginable for Andrew. But I didn’t think of actively ending my life, killing myself. Just the Road going nowhere, like that bridge; just a drop-off into …nothing.” Involuntarily, I shivered and sipped my tea. Cold.
I stood with my mug and reached for hers. “Gonna nuke ‘em,” I explained and went to the kitchen. A terrible pun came to me regarding tea and tonight’s movie: While You Were Steeping. It made me laugh and suddenly I thought …did Andrew make jokes like that? I was still thinking about it when I came back with the hot tea.
“Mom, I had a thought in the kitchen,” I said as I sat and handed her mug back. “Maybe it’s not the road ending, torn off. Wait, I mean, for Andrew it is. But who’s to say there isn’t the other side of the bridge, just with that ragged edge behind, so it’s leading forward? And that’s the Angela side of my Road of Life, or is that too easy a cliché?”
She gave a little smile. “Dangerously close, but remarkably accurate. I had thought along much the same lines while you were in the kitchen.”
I told her my bad pun and she almost got tea up her nose from laughing.
When she was under control, she said, “So, keeping the bridge and road metaphor, are we agreed that Andrew had no future plans because, somehow, some way, in the back of your mind, Andrew had no future.”
I nodded.
“And Angela? What are her plans?”
I smiled. “Angela is so new in the world–wait, not that she’s so new herself, like we talked about, but so new out in the world?” She nodded and I did a confirming nod. “So it’s going to take time for Angela to discover what she wants …ah, the heck with the third-person! Mom, I’m open to anything as long as it includes being allowed to live as Angela.”
She nodded. “Angela’s moving forward. On the other side of that bridge …”
End of Part 4
There was a lot to think about that night, but one thing I remembered dreaming about the next morning: I had been walking around the pond pushing a stroller with my child and feeling such bliss. Wow. And I knew, from my talk with Mom last night if not before, how much non-stop worry and agony was involved in raising a child.
And yet, somewhere deep inside me, I wanted a child …
We did the lazy Sunday-papers thing; I told her how odd it was at first to try sleeping with studs in my ears, and of course I’d added cleaning them to my nightly regimen. Now that they were pierced, I wasn’t worried about school for some reason–I just wanted to be able to put in some of the pretty hoops we’d bought!
And, of course, reality check–Mom just chuckled and told to me to wait until the first night I slept in rollers!
Since I wasn’t planning on any heavy-duty shopping for myself, I could wear anything, but stuck with the standard uniform of flats, denim skirt, and layered camisole, in melon and lime. Mom and I joked about the ‘food’ colors for women’s clothing, and I told her that I had to learn the names of everything. She recommended I read the signs in the stores, just in passing, and study the Penney’s catalog description of items; I could get a lot of terms those ways. And, of course, close study of my teen girl magazines. They really were my key, my Rosetta Stone, to the new land of teen girls, as Mom and I had talked about the night I’d admitted that I was a girl.
We drove to the Burlington Mall and Mom said she would stay in the area, puttering around, and pick me up at five. If by chance I saw her at the mall–she had some things to return to chain stores–it was up to me to ignore her or to introduce her to Carrie.
“But overall,” she smiled. “No pressure. This is your test flight, sweetheart. First time, one-on-one, with a girl who only knows you as Angela. If things get weird in any way, call me or text me. Let’s call that part of Sears the extraction point,” she teased as she nodded to a side entrance.
I tried to make light of it. “You make it sound like I’m going behind enemy lines!”
“No; that’s what you do when you dress as Andrew,” she answered seriously.
I had no response to that. I hugged her and told her I loved her and went in, found the directory, and was standing in front of Claire’s, grinning to myself that I was now a Claire’s veteran, with my pierced ears! Five minutes later, Carrie showed up.
With a twelve-year-old girl.
Carrie was dressed almost exactly like me; flip-flops, denim skirt, teal cami. The girl was obviously her little sister, and wore white shorts and a leotard top.
We greeted and I was introduced to Alana, her sister. I kind of stuttered and Carrie laughed.
“I know, right? I said we have to find a swimsuit and she’s got the leotard on!” She rolled her eyes.
I had actually thought that she was going to be alone, shopping for a suit for a little sister–like six or seven, not twelve–so I covered by chuckling. “I was just thinking how to make a hard thing to buy even harder!”
“What?” Alana said, concerned that we were making fun of her.
I said, “It’s just that it’ll be more work for you trying things on, to take off the leotard, try the suit, pull on the leotard …”
I had been guessing, putting it together quickly, and I’d guessed right, judging by Carrie’s knowing nod.
Alana nodded, unconcerned now. “It’s okay. Yeah, I know what you mean, but it’s okay.”
Alana was actually not much trouble; she’d skip ahead to a store window and call out, “Hey, you guys–come see this cute skirt!”
Carrie murmured, “Like walking a puppy!” but it was said lovingly with a smile and eventually got Alana her suit, although she tried on about a thousand and took forever in the fitting room each time.
Meanwhile, Carrie and I just walked along and chatted. It was pretty cool that we went to different schools because we could talk about the kids in class and not worry about word getting back to them. We weren’t dissing them or anything, just funny stories. And even though the names were different, the situations were pretty universal and it was just pretty cool.
We seemed to get along easily; there was no competition between us. She told me of her family–an older brother and Alana–and in contrast, I was an only child of a single mother. We talked about the pros and cons for awhile, but with Alana’s final choice paid for and bagged, we just had to buy her a smoothie–we all had one–and sat in the Food Court and kept talking. Alana got a little restless, almost violently swinging her feet, but then she saw two girls she knew with their moms–waving so furiously I thought she’d fall from her chair!–and we let her go sit with them, keeping an eye on things.
Carrie blew out some air. “Great! She’s gone! Now we can drink, smoke, and talk dirty about boys!”
I stared at her for a moment and then laughed; she did, too.
“Gotcha! God, your face!”
I finished laughing and decided on nearly the truth.
“Carrie, I don’t …I don’t really have many friends. I’m kind of a bookworm, always studying.”
She slapped the table. “God, I knew it! You’re the girl that blows the grading curve!”
“Guilty!” I laughed and then quieted. “Things were …kind of rough when my father left. See, he, um …you know how they say, ‘He walked out on us?’”
“You mean in movies? Yeah.”
“Well, that’s literally what he did. Walked right out the door and closed it behind him and we never saw him again. And by the end of the week Mom found out he’d …taken everything. Their money, I mean; cleaned out the bank accounts and split.”
Her eyes were widened. “I thought that was only in the movies!”
I shook my head. “It’s where the movies got it from. And then things got really, really tight, and Mom had to take another job, and I became one of those latchkey kids.”
“Flying solo?”
“Completely. Get up alone with an alarm clock, make my breakfast and go to school. Come home and do homework, fix dinner for Mom when she gets home. Still pretty much do that, although things aren’t as bad as they were.”
“Oh, Angela, I …”
“Carrie, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or ‘oh, poor little me’ or anything. It’s just why I’m …the way I am. It was Mom and me against the world. I love her to pieces and I’m lucky; I’m not like a lot of girls that always fight with their mother. I like being with her. We do things together, like when I met you, Mom and I were at the movies.”
She nodded. “I can understand that relationship. God, I feel like a Norman Rockwell painting now, with my Perfect Little Family!”
“I don’t want you to worry about that; I envy you, but I wouldn’t trade my closeness with Mom.”
Carrie looked at me for a long moment and then nodded. “You’re a good person, Angela. I’m glad Gina and I ran into you that night.”
“Hey, how’s she doing?”
Another eye roll. “You gave her darned good advice, and she was seeing the jerk with new eyes, but she’s kind of backsliding. Summer coming on, she’s afraid she won’t …” She frowned. “He was kind of her ticket to a lot of parties, things at the beach, whatever. Got some bucks.”
“The kind that seems like a catch until you caught him?”
She slapped the table again. “God! You’re right on the money! I love that about you; you see through stuff right to the heart of the matter, the truth of it.”
I suddenly flashed on my tea-making pun, wondering if Andrew had ever made a single joke. But I knew that Andrew had never seen right to the heart of the matter of anything …and it just reinforced how right it was to be Angela!
“Just a lucky guess,” I grinned happily.
“Naw; you’re …I guess it’s because of the life you lead–I don’t want to insult you or anything and I don’t mean it in a bad way–but you’re kind of an observer of life, from what you told me.”
“Now you’re right on the money,” I nodded. “And I …I’m finding I want to get more involved with it. That’s why I …” I blushed. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been talking to you and Gina. I’d just have nodded and kept my head down and not said anything. And I sure wouldn’t be here with you! I’d be safe at home, reading a book.”
“Time to fly, huh?”
“A bit of wing-spreading, yeah,” I chuckled.
Carrie nodded. “And that’s why a cool girl like you doesn’t really have friends. I bet most of the kids in your class, you’ve been in school together from like kindergarten or something?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, like seventy percent of ‘em. Maybe eighty.”
She nodded. “They’ve got you pegged as the loner girl from years ago, when your father left. Oh, did your mom’s lawyers ever track him down? Get anything back? Sorry if I’m nosy.”
“No, no; you’re entitled. I did start the story. No lawyers; couldn’t afford one. But track him down …yeah, sort of.” I sighed. “We found that he’d been killed in a drunk driving accident.”
Her eyes were wide. “Omigod! And did …”
I shook my head. “Couldn’t get a dime of it, if there was anything left.”
“Omigod!” she said again. “Angela!”
She leaned over for a spontaneous hug and I thought this closeness, this comforting, was just part of the reason why I was so proud and happy to be a girl.
Since it was Sunday the mall was closing at five; I’d told Carrie about my mom picking me up and they were getting picked up earlier, so at 4:30 I met her mom, a nice but frazzled lady in a minivan. Carrie and I had already exchanged cell phone numbers and now we hugged and promised to get back in touch after Finals–she had them the same week I did. I returned Alana’s furious wave and then walked back to Claire’s and browsed. I found some bracelets that I liked and another pair of earrings. Just the simple act of checking them in the mirror and buying them, so familiar to all girls my age, was strangely comforting to me now. Mom had been right and wrong–it wasn’t the shrinks that the earrings helped convince; it was me.
I went to ‘the extraction point’ and Mom pulled up and I told her all about my day with Carrie. We stopped at a soup place for two custom-made salads, then to home. I was ready for tomorrow’s Government and English Finals but cracked the books anyway. I came to Mom to say good-night, all shiny with moisturizer and pretty in my nightie, and she said she was proud that I hadn’t bought any more than the few things at Claire’s, and was happy that I had made a new friend–further proof that Angela was the real person, not Andrew. Then we talked a bit about the next day’s doctor’s appointment, which was probably ‘the big one’, the decisive yea-or-nay for my future.
Mom smiled warmly at me as she gently stroked my cheek. “You have my absolute promise, Angela, that if, for any reason, things don’t start moving tomorrow–either they’re full-up with patients or don’t want to treat you or you just don’t like them–we will continue. We will find other doctors, other avenues, whatever it takes, for your life as Angela. And if things do start moving tomorrow, well then–look out, world!”
The Government final had one trick question in it that I realized I’d answered wrong; I was usually able to finish tests and double-check and l suddenly realized I’d written the mini-essay about the wrong guy! Frantically I began writing and quite literally dotted the last period as the teacher’s voice rang out calling ‘Time!’
That set me up wonderfully for English, because I was more cautious in reading each set of instructions. Plus, I had already been writing in Government, so it was easier to keep the ‘essay muscles’ going. I don’t know what it would have been like if the first final had been like a math class, using a different part of the brain. But I felt full of words and language and I think I aced it.
Finals are always weird because everybody’s different. The teachers are more formal, more aware of their status as monitors or proctors or whatever they call themselves that day. They’re also much more on guard against any form of cheating, so they either sit at their desk and sweep the room with radar eyes, or they actually patrol the aisles. Government was a patroller and I knew Geometry would be, too; English had been a sweeper.
The kids are different, too, because first of all the Seniors are gone; they went through this the previous week and were busy graduating this weekend. As I’d told Mom, that was a quarter of the population gone, and then we only had one or two periods a day–no finals for PE–and the choir, band and orchestra kids had extra rehearsals for a concert. The greatly-reduced student body didn’t lead to power-shifts or pranks, because everybody was worried about finals. That worked well for me, because the guys that usually hung out and terrorized people like me were worried, too, for the most part, and their ranks were thinned. Bullies become very quiet when there aren’t as many of them to back each other up, and when their own grades were on the line.
I had made Mom promise to not tell the school about the bullies until Finals were concluded and I was completely out of school. I felt cowardly doing it, but Mom’s complaint would draw the biggest of bulls-eyes on me, at a time when bullies were quiet and a time when I needed my wits about me. She looked at me long and hard and began talking about the whole nature of bullying. I realized she was speaking to me as an adult, not as a parent, when she talked about abuse cycles and the price of keeping quiet. My point, selfish or not, was to let me survive the last few days and put it behind me. In exchange for her temporary silence, I would provide her with the names of students who were abusive–and teachers who condoned their activities. The concept of ‘naming names’ didn’t sit right with me until Mom said that the point was to actually help the bullies–if they were being abused at home. I’d never thought of that before and felt better about my confession.
Mom told me there were groups that dealt with this sort of thing, and she was already in contact with them, after I’d told her of my experiences. She planned to meet with the school district with a representative from one of the groups immediately after my departure from Westmont; I just had to survive until then. Despite Mom’s temporary silence, I knew there were a couple of really bad bullies who might still cause a problem. They were the ones whose day wasn’t complete unless they hurt somebody, and after talking with Mom, I still feared them–but I also found that I pitied them.
Still wanted to avoid them, though! I was fully dressed as Andrew, trying to keep my mind in Andrew-mode for school–although not the Andrew who had daydreamed about pantyhose–and the only difference was that my ears were pierced but I was wearing the flesh-toned studs and my boys’ low ponytail was tied a bit looser to sort of cover my ears. Nobody seemed to be worried about how they were dressed; I was surprised to see Jenny Bowen in shorts that probably weren’t up to Dress Code but like I’d told Mom, it was in and out. Show up, take test, go home. Or in Jenny’s case, to the beach, maybe?
The big point in my favor was that I was Angela. I was able to shelve my worries about the doctor’s appointment and focus on my finals, and knowing that I was Angela, I wasn’t going into the old Andrew daydream about ‘what if’ when I looked at girls like Jenny. Instead, I wished her well and thought it was a cute top and wondered if she’d gotten it at Wet Seal.
And there was a sense of farewell for me, too, that I didn’t realize until I was walking out of English. My first thought was I aced it! But my second thought was, in each of these classes, to each of these people around me, I consciously thought, ‘This is the last time you will see Andrew Preston’. Sure, some of them were in my other classes, but basically I realized it was goodbye to Andrew with the end of each final. I knew that with Mom’s declaration of support last night, no matter what happened this afternoon, I was going to be in school next year–somewhere else–as a girl named Angela Preston. So the word ‘final’ itself took on a new meaning.
Now it was time to get focused on the doctors. I stopped by my locker to get the next day’s books and was thinking so hard about the appointment that I almost missed the yellow paper that had been shoved through the vents. I unfolded it and it was a note from Santiago asking me to call him when I could, with two numbers, home and I guess the restaurant. I stuck it in my Biology book and walked home.
I had time to fix a lunch and then shower, shaved my legs and underarms, and carefully did my makeup and hair. I switched out the studs and was happy to see the gold balls again! Mom and I had talked about how to dress and we had decided on a very light blue bra and panty set, a light yellow camisole with a lovely short-sleeved open-front white lacy top we found, and a black denim skirt. My legs were shiny from moisturizer and I wore the Mary Janes we’d found the very first shopping trip–we’d been incredibly lucky on my shoe sizes and everything had fit–and my purse, of course. Once I was ready, I decided to get my mind off the doctors by cracking my Biology book for tomorrow’s final–and Biology seemed appropriate for my Doctor Day!
Mom came home, had a piece of melon and some yogurt while we double-checked everything, and then off to the hospital. It was a short wait–is that good or bad, I wondered?–and we were ushered in to see Dr. Watkins at his desk, Dr. Chang at the window, smiling at us, and a man in a suit reading a file, sitting to the side. He was introduced as Brad Alexander, an attorney for the hospital. We sat and there was this awkward pause, which reminded me of just before somebody pushes you into a swimming pool. You haven’t hit the water but you’re out of control, in the air …
Dr. Watkins cleared his throat and started to go through my test results, all of them, in a very dry and clinical way. At some point there was a snort from Dr. Chang, who had taken to looking through the window as Dr. Watkins read.
“Within normal parameters?” she chuckled. “Doctor, the Prestons don’t need to hear that; it doesn’t really mean anything to them.”
“I think we need to be clear on the test results,” Dr. Watkins said, glancing at the lawyer.
I suddenly understood that Watkins droning on was not for us but to satisfy whatever legal demands the hospital had. I tentatively raised my hand.
Dr. Watkins smiled, “You don’t have to raise your hand, Angela. Just speak up.”
There was a small sound from the attorney.
“Thank you, sir. Um …it’s nice to hear you use my name, too. Dr. Chang, I think I know what you mean, and in a funny way, Mom and I are obviously not ‘within normal parameters’ or we wouldn’t be here.”
There was a general polite chuckle.
I went on, “But it’s okay for Dr. Watkins to state all these facts and figures because, well, I need to know, and they might bring up questions. So if you all have the time, I’d like to hear him out.”
Dr. Chang smiled at me. “Good girl,” she nodded once. “Go on, doctor.”
The attorney did a ‘harrumph’ thing, clearing his throat. “I think we may be a bit premature here. Dr. Watkins has referred to the patient as ‘Angela’ and Dr. Chang has referred to the patient as a ‘girl’.”
Both doctors did the polite-doctor version of rolling their eyes. I could feel Mom getting angry.
Again, I suddenly understood something and quickly said, “If I may?”
Dr. Watkins had opened his mouth to respond to the attorney but closed it and nodded.
I turned and said, “Mr. Alexander, I think I understand your point about referring to me as a girl named Angela. I agree with you; it is premature in a legal sense. I’m waiting to hear …we’re all waiting to hear, I think …if it’s premature in a medical sense. But please understand, to my mother and me, there is no doubt whatsoever that I am a girl named Angela. I think the doctors were being polite, to ease our worries on a very important day.”
A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. He said, “You have a valid point, and I might suggest a career in diplomacy. Or perhaps law …Miss Preston.”
Wow! That eased the tension!
Dr. Watkins seized the moment to start droning again about percentages and parameters; Dr. Chang grinned at me, and Mom squeezed my hand.
Then Dr. Watkins closed the file and sat back. He glanced at the window. “Dr. Chang? You want to take it or shall I?”
She smiled. “You’ve got your voice warmed up. Go ahead. I’ll play backup.”
Dr. Watkins looked at the lawyer, an ‘eye-to-eye’ thing happened with them, and then turned back to us, leaning forward and lacing his fingers over my file.
“Mrs. Preston …Angela …” He tucked his chin down for a moment and then looked back up at us. “Mrs. Preston, the file reports that your child is genetically male, but chemically and by measurable medical standards, a significantly underdeveloped male. There is enough neurochemical evidence to indicate that the brain chemistry, the brain functions, are female.”
“Indisputably,” Dr. Chang tossed in.
Mom frowned. “Indisputably?”
Dr. Chang said, “The brain chemistry is one factor; psychological testing is the other. Your child–and you do understand why we’re using that phrase?”
We both nodded–the lawyer nodded–and she went on
“Your child’s brain tests ‘within normal parameters’ for a female. It would be exceedingly odd–to the point of making medical history books–if your child was psychologically male. However, the psych testing we did, as I said, the results were indisputably female as well, as would be expected with–”
“Ah!” the lawyer started to say.
Dr. Chang quickly raised a hand. “I think you’re objecting to my phrase ‘as would be expected’. You were going to suggest that there was a bias toward a diagnosis of female based on the neurochemical results. And that could be a valid objection, if both parties were aware of the other’s findings, but not only were they independently performed …the neurochem screening was done after the psych evaluation.”
The importance of this was shown by how the lawyer immediately nodded and backed down.
Dr. Watkins nodded to the lawyer. “Every precaution was taken to isolate the testing procedures, in full compliance.” With what, he didn’t say, but the lawyer nodded yet again, satisfied, and made a note.
Then Dr. Watkins turned back to us. “Mrs. Preston, other than the genetic test, if your child had tested–in any of the procedures–as male, the normal prognosis would be massive doses of testosterone and androgens as well as years of psychological counseling to cope with being a small, rather delicate adult male. Some of the results strongly indicate nonfunctioning sexual ability.”
I have no idea why, but I turned to the lawyer, looked him in the eye and calmly said, “I have never had an erection in my life.”
I think it was his objections that made me do it; I understood, logically, that he had to be the Devil’s Advocate and protect the hospital, just doing his job and all that, but while I wasn’t a male, I knew how they think–and I wanted him to fully, personally, understand a little of what my life was truly like.
It had the desired effect–his eyes widened and he involuntarily gasped. He cleared his throat and tucked his chin to his chest–I thought it was his way of regrouping–and nodded.
Dr. Chang was almost snickering. She exchanged a glance with Dr. Watkins, who was fighting a smile. He got himself together and said, “Yes, as …the patient has reported, erections have been nonexistent, and even with massive testosterone therapy would most likely remain non-existent for the duration of the patient’s life.” He frowned. “I know we have to state all the ins and outs and whys and wherefores, but I think everybody in this room knows that, as the patient stated earlier, in the medical sense, the patient should be living as a girl named Angela. Treatment to conform the patient in line with birth sex would be pointless, as it is highly doubtful there would be any measureable results of any positive nature. There is ample evidence that there would be significant health risks, and would be seriously detrimental to the well-being of the patient. As well as highly questionable, medically.”
“And psychologically devastating,” Dr. Chang said, gloomily. There was a pause and she continued but with a smile. “So, treatment to conform the patient to birth sex is destructive. However, treatment to conform the patient to actual gender is relatively benign and anticipates a very healthy prognosis. In other words, it makes every bit of medical and psychological sense to enter male patient Andrew Preston into our Gender Identity Program and begin medical and legal transition to female patient Angela Preston.” She paused. “Immediately.” She paused. “Assuming it is the desire of Mrs. Preston and Andrew.”
I was already nodding as Mom spoke up for the first time. “There is no Andrew in this room, except on paper. I am absolutely certain that my child has never been Andrew, except on paper. I gave birth to a daughter with a birth defect–that’s the easiest way of thinking about it–that forced her to try to be a boy. Quite frankly, she’s never been good at it because she isn’t a boy. She’s a happy and, if I may say, quite a pretty girl who is already making friends as Angela, while Andrew had never had any friends. Ever.”
Mom faced the lawyer directly and spoke forcefully. “I believe …I guess I have to say this for legal reasons. I truly believe that my child’s mental and emotional well-being–her life–is at stake here. Yes, it is my desire that she be entered in the program and begin treatments so she can live as the girl she is. My daughter.”
“I love you, Mom,” I said, my eyes stinging with tears.
The lawyer said, “You, uh …do understand the full implications, ramifications, of this program?”
I cleared my throat and took my eyes from my lovely, wonderful mother. “Yes, Mr. Alexander, we both do. The program will–I hope!–begin with hormone therapy. I know there’s a testing period and I’m willing to undergo all the ups and downs of that until they get it right. I’m willing to legally change all my documentation to Angela, female. I’m willing to undergo the difficult social pressures of small-minded people, if I can be who I am. And, finally, at eighteen or sooner if at all possible, I am more than willing to undergo any and all operations, painful and lengthy, to remove my penis and give me the vagina that I should have been born with. Mr. Alexander, I know this is hard for a man to understand. I don’t hate my penis but it doesn’t belong there, any more than you would expect a pair of large breasts to belong under your business suit.”
Boy, did that shock him and the room! Dr. Chang did snicker at that one, and I earned a reproving ‘Angela!’ from Mom. But I plowed on.
“Mr. Alexander, I’m not saying that to be disgusting or make light of the situation. What I meant was that a visible indicator of the opposite sex, on your own body? It just doesn’t belong there.”
I held his eyes, and he nodded. “Point taken. And you might want to seriously consider a career in law. You would make a formidable litigator.” But he was smiling!
That little exchange had a remarkable effect; it completely cleared the air and we moved into the next phase, which was a flurry of document signing. Mr. Alexander was no longer the Devil’s Advocate; he was Mr. Efficiency, a machine handing pages to us and saying ‘sign here, please, and initial here’ every few seconds. That was done finally and he stood after collecting the pages.
He shook Mom’s hand and mine, smiling at me, and said, “I wish you all the best in your life, Miss Preston.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alexander,” I smiled back. “And you may call me Angela.”
“Angela,” he nodded. Then he chuckled. “Legal and medical assessments aside, it only takes five seconds with you to know that you are obviously a girl.” He turned to go and turned back with a bigger smile. “And a formidable litigator!”
After he left, there was a whoosh of breath from everybody. Dr. Chang said, “Water all around?” and went to another room, coming back with small bottles.
Mom said, “What was all that about being a litigator?”
Dr. Chang handed her a bottle and said, “Angela did a classic trial lawyer move twice. She came to each individual point, answered them succinctly and then finished with a punch that caught him off-balance.”
“Oh, you mean like the …um …breasts thing?”
Dr. Watkins said, “It wasn’t just the idea of having breasts; it was adding the words ‘under your business suit’. That hammered it home to him, made it really personal. Smart girl.”
I was blushing.
Dr. Chang said, “And at the end, forcing him to say her name. Pretty sharp.”
Mom frowned. “Forcing?”
Dr. Chang said, “By social mores, when she gave him permission to call her Angela, he almost had to respond in kind or be rude. But it forced him to publically declare that she was Angela. She beat him.”
“Oh, I don’t think it was like that,” Mom said. “Not like a battle or anything.”
“It was,” Dr. Watkins said. “He’s protecting the best interest of the hospital, and it’s his job to root out any subterfuge or fraud or anything that could reflect badly on the hospital. He’s darned good at it and darned sharp. He’s rejected or blocked several patients in the past.”
“Oh, those poor people!” I said sadly. I was thinking of girls like me, rejected by Alexander.
“A few, yes, my heart bled for,” Dr. Watkins said. “But not all were gender patients. One was seeking a kidney operation and it turned out they had been paid to donate the kidney so they faked the illness.”
“My God! People would actually do that?” Mom gasped.
Both doctors nodded. “And a lot more,” Dr. Chang said. “But Brad caught it. You see, we can only look at the medical end of things, testing results and so on. In a legal sense, I mean. We were pretty sure the kidney patient was faking but he’d done his homework; his bio workups all showed renal failure. Legally, we can’t go before a judge and say, ‘Your Honor, I kinda had a hunch he was lying’. We can only testify and certify that the patient tested properly for renal failure. Brad sniffed him out and satisfied the legal requirements for rejection.”
Dr. Watkins said, “But in your case, it was kind of pro forma for him today. He’d read our results; I think the moment you walked through the door he was convinced but he had hoops to jump through.”
“As did we, but our hoop-jumping is over for the day!” Dr. Chang grinned. “So, Angela …ready to get shot?”
I felt a buzz of excitement at her words, and in quick order I was in the room next door, removing my skirt and then lowering my panties. Two–two–massive shots that brought tears to my eyes, and I had androgen blockers and estrogen in me! The doctors said they often blocked for months, evaluated, and then cautiously introduced estrogen, but my medical results and the circumstances of being a sixteen-year-old soon-to-be Senior girl allowed them to proceed. They warned me to be on the lookout for mood swings and to document everything, and with some prescriptions handed to Mom, we were done!
It wasn’t the shots, I swear, but as soon as we were in the car, buckled in our seatbelts, I suddenly burst into sobs. I cried and cried; Mom released our belts and leaned over to hug me and stroke my head and hand me tissues. I was shaking because I was crying so hard, or I was crying so hard because I was shaking, with relief, with released tension, with happiness.
Driving, Mom said, “You know this calls for a celebration! Where would you like to eat?”
“I’d like to eat at La Rioja. Every night of the week! But it’s closed.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t worry; I know we can’t afford it anyway, but the food was so good. Anyway, I saw that Monday is the only night they close–hey! Santiago left me a note!”
I told her about it but would have to wait until we got home. We decided on a new vegetarian restaurant and had ice tea and salads, but it could have been champagne and caviar; we were so happy and so relieved. Then Mom went in a whole other direction.
“So now what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Stay? Move? What?”
“Move? What?”
At this point she laughed so hard she held her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, I just heard what we’d said! What? What? What?” She laughed again and then sighed. “Okay. We know now–we know–that Angela is forever, and that will soon be a legal reality. And I don’t care about documentation, assurances from the school district–anything!–I am determined that my daughter Angela will not do her Senior year at Westmont.”
After our discussion about bullies, I knew she was adamant. Plus, after she and the anti-bully group met with the school district, it would be obvious that Andrew Preston was the source of the bullies’ names. Angela wouldn’t have a chance to live–Andrew would very quickly be a dead little boy.
I nodded. “Westmont’s out. Done. History.”
“His-tory!” she chuckled. “An old joke, but never more accurate than in your case!”
“Yer killin’ me, Ma,” I said in a cornpone voice.
“So, definitely a different school,” Mom nodded, back on track. “Because after we meet, it should be easy to get a variance for you to go to another school. So the question is …where?”
“You said, ‘move’. Um …can we afford that? Because some of the guys …know where Andrew lives.” I meant the bullies, of course; I’d sure been chased home enough over the years. Even though they hadn’t done it in high school–much–they still knew my address.
Mom was unaware of the chases; I’d told her about the school bullying but not about my years of running home.
She nodded, though. “A move is warranted, tough as it may be. If they know you live here they might know somebody that goes to your new school, wherever that will be. It only takes one to whisper ‘Hey, that girl Angela? She’s a guy!’ for disaster.”
I shivered at the thought of my hoped-for new life crashing down around me. It was hard to swallow but I did and just nodded.
Mom said, “Honey, we’ll make the move happen. And I’ll start looking into other schools, parts of town, and so on. Okay, we move and Westmont’s history.”
It felt very strange, in the middle of Finals, to think about it. But I nodded. “Westmont’s history.”
Mom frowned and then looked a little sheepish. “Maybe I should have waited to bring this up. I know you’ve still got, what, four more classes to go, and I don’t want to throw you off your Finals mindset.”
“Three more; no final in PE. Um, no, I understand but I don’t think there’s any problem. Biology is Biology; it’s not Westmont Biology. Okay. Yes, this week is …” I trailed off and began laughing.
“Honey? What’s up?”
“It’s just …it’s just that my last final, fifth period Geometry. It will be my final final Final at Westmont!”
She laughed, too, and we were so giddy that we couldn’t even speak when they came to refill our glasses. When we calmed down, Mom said, “The reason I bring it up now is that schools’ offices are still open. That’s why we’re meeting with the school district so soon. Pretty much you will walk out of Westmont and we’ll be walking in the front door. As far as transfers to another school, once summer hits, it’s almost impossible to get anybody on the phone until Labor Day. So any transferring of files, setting things up, all has to be done as soon as possible. But we’ve got two problems.”
I nodded. “Name and school.”
She nodded with me. “I’ll call the hospital tomorrow–that nice Mr. Alexander …”
We both knew she was being somewhat sarcastic and chuckled and she went on.
“Anyway, now that we’re still fresh in his memory, I’ll see how fast he can move for his favorite little litigator.”
“Mom …”
She grinned. “It’s true, honey; you did impress him. I think you should truly believe what the doctors said about that. I know I sure was impressed! Anyway, between now and the answer back from him, we can talk about where Angela’s records will be sent.”
“You’ve got your job–”
She waved a hand. “I’m willing to commute–all of this is only for the final year of high school–and I might not have to. We have to go online and look at the maps of the school districts; I have no idea where we are in Westmont’s district, only that we are, but we can forestall any decisions until we look at the maps and get a timetable from Alexander.” She paused. “Except for McKinley.”
I nodded; McKinley High had the worst reputation for fighting and racial troubles.
As soon as we got home, I fished Santiago’s note from my Biology book and called him.
And got a shock …
After the initially cautious hellos and ‘how’d you do in your finals today?’ questions, he veered off.
“Eres una niña para siempre, ¿verdad?” You are a girl forever, right?
“Si,” I answered, my mouth dry. “Es lo que soy.” Yes. It’s who I am.
“Entiendo,” he said, and I could–maybe?–hear a smile and imagined a nod. “When? Now?”
“Cuando no estoy en la escuela. En todos los demás sitios sí.” When I’m not in school. Everywhere else, yes.
Part of me worried about whether this was a creepy ‘What are you wearing?’ sort of thing, but I didn’t get that vibe.
In the same tone as his other questions, Santiago asked, “Do you have a summer job?”
What? It took me by surprise and I was silent too long, regrouping, so he repeated it.
“Uh, no …” I frowned.
“My father like you very much. You are my friend but he like you anyway!” he teased.
I laughed with him. I said, “Diego, it should be ‘likes’, with an ‘S’. My father likes you, okay? And your father is a very nice man and should be proud of La Rioja.”
“Muchas gracias,” he said and this time I really heard the smile in his voice. “Saturday night was un desastre.” A disaster. “He tried to be everywhere–the kitchen, the front, seating, everywhere. His heart …it is not good.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Diego,” I said with worry. “Is he going to be alright?”
“Si, si; we got him to sit. And he barks the orders and jumps up and down, ay-yi-yi,” he laughed. “Tonight he rests. But we talked and …” He cleared his throat. “Angela, we would like to ask you to be hostess–la dueña de casa–at La Rioja. Good pay, good food.”
“Santiago, I’m flattered. Me siento honrado.” I’m honored. I was so stunned that it took me a moment to regroup. “But I don’t know how to hostess. I’ve never done anything like it.”
“You smile, you say hola, bienvenido, you take one menu for each and take them to a table. Smile and repeat!” He chuckled.
“Come on, I saw how hard your father worked!”
“He tries to do too much, to say too much. He is taking them to the table and telling them about the paint not matching in the restrooms! And it has always been a girl.”
“Um–what?”
“La dueña de casa–it was my sister and the loser who left us,” he said with a little disgust. “My sister will not be back for some time and you speak Spanish and if you need a job, nos gustaria que usted lo considere.” We would like you to consider it.
“Diego, totally truthful–en total honestidad–is my Spanish good enough to do the job?”
“Si. No, truthfully, si, si! Ángela, ¿cuándo fue la última vez que preguntaste a qué me refería?” When was the last time you asked what I meant?
I knew what he meant, but I teased, “Huh? What did you just say?”
“Angela!” he laughed.
“Okay, not recently. Because you’ve been great at helping me with Spanish!”
“And why would I no help a pretty girl with her Spanish?”
That rocked me. “Um …it’s not help …um, Diego, I wasn’t a pretty girl when we were running around in PE.”
“Two things. First, yes you were. Second, we never ran!” He laughed.
I had to laugh, too, but frowned. “Santiago Mendoza, I am serious! I never–”
“So am I,” he said in a tone that I knew was serious. “After I meet Angela at La Rioja, I believe that even though you were in Boys’ PE and called Andrew, under was Angela.”
“Underneath,” I said automatically. “And …oh, God, thank you, Diego! It’s been …sumamente raro.” Supremely weird. “Yes, I guess you’re right although I thought I …hid things.”
“I thought you were my gay friend Andrew. Until I meet Angela. Now I know it was never a gay boy, it was a girl hiding–una chica escondida” A girl hidden away.
“Thank you for that, muchas gracias, un mil gracias, Santiago.” A thousand thank yous. “My mother and I have not talked about jobs but I will talk to her tonight. How late can I call tonight?”
“Until eleven. Bueno; I hope you can help us this weekend.”
“This weekend? I thought you meant like, sometime in the summer.”
“ ¿No es verano ya?” Isn’t it summer already?
“I hadn’t thought of …” I shook my head. Be a businesswoman, Angela! I told myself–and then got a buzz that I’d called myself that! “Santiago, I need to talk with my mother. What nights, what hours, and what rate of pay? Salario?” Wages.
“We are open Tuesday to Sunday. We would love all six nights but Friday and Saturday especialmente. Hostess six to ten, four hours. No tips, but ten dollars an hour. Two ten-minute breaks. And dinner break. ¡Y mucho caminar!” And a lot of walking!
I laughed with him and thanked him and went to discuss it with Mom.
And was absolutely floored; she thought it was a wonderful idea and what did I think? She pointed out that it was a very good rate of pay–and a La Rioja meal!–and as I had no social life at the moment, it wasn’t cutting into nights with ‘my friends’. She did point out that she had little doubt that I would quickly gather friends, mentioning Santiago and Carrie as a good start, but it was a wonderful job for a soon-to-be-Senior.
Of course, she did bring up the potential negative of transportation, but said we’d work something out. In the meantime, she suggested that I go in Thursday night–there was no more school after Thursday’s finals–to see if it was right for me and for training, and then jump in for the weekend. And to find out what they would like me to wear, if it was a provided uniform or my own clothes. She thought it might be conservative black skirt and white blouse, since it was an expensive restaurant.
“Oh, and sweetheart–this just validates that you are a woman in the world!”
She was so happy and I was absolutely blown away by the whole thing. I went to my room and sat, thinking, with my arms hugging a pillow to my chest. When I was honest with myself, the only negative was my own fear of being out in the world–and yet I so desperately wanted to be a girl out in the world!
I called Santiago at 9:30 and told him yes. He agreed with the Thursday idea and told me the standard would be white blouse and black skirt and to wear flats because of all the walking. He’d heard every complaint from his sister over the years and said that he could arrange a meeting with her; she could tell me the ‘tricks of the trade’. That made me laugh; he’d said it was simply saying hello and welcome and showing them to a table. So there were tricks? We ended the conversation and I was bubbly with excitement–and I still had Biology staring at me.
End of Part 5
Fortunately, I was ready for Biology and really amped up for my Spanish final! I felt great when I got home and found Mom’s recipe for meatloaf. We had a quiet night while I browsed through Geometry, checking and double-checking myself. All set for my last day!
I arrived at school, my head full of theorems and figures, made it forty feet and got slammed sideways into a wall of lockers with an ‘outta my way, fruit!’. Okay; the bullies weren’t all on their best behavior. I leaned against the lockers, my head throbbing, and tried to regroup the math in my head but something burst up through the scattered equations–Mom was right. I had to name names. I had to ease things here if I could. And the truth was, it wasn’t just me that was slammed into lockers, or tripped, or ‘swirlied’. Other kids got it too; small kids, odd kids, ethnic kids, smart kids. We all just took it and …
Another thought burst up, stunning me as I leaned; one word–Sarajevo. I remembered something I’d seen on TV about the Balkan Wars, and they showed children taking circuitous routes to their school to avoid snipers. Even the documentary cameramen were dodging and weaving, taking cover, as they showed these kids clustered behind cars, running from car to car as shields, slipping out and around and down back alleys, when their school was only a few blocks away. It was a testament to their courage and to their desire to learn.
But I also remembered the most horrific moment of the documentary: One moment a child was scampering between cars, and the next he was sprawled on the concrete, victim of a sniper’s bullet. His thin legs twisted under his shorts, his books spilled in the street …it was the single most graphic image imaginable to me, and seared my mind.
I’d always thought of that tragic child–but now I was struck by remembering what happened afterward. I’d never thought about it before, but other kids continued their way to school! They didn’t run out to help the child. I’d first thought it was because they could tell he was dead, but surely common decency would move one of them to go to him …But I was younger and simpler then, and later I learned that the reason they didn’t go to the child’s aid was because they would be shot, too. It was standard procedure for the snipers to shoot one person–child, woman, old man, anybody–and then pick off those who rushed to help. The schoolchildren had already learned the terrible lesson that to go to the sprawled child would mean their death. And they still had to get to school …
Being slammed into a locker wasn’t even in the same universe as the one those Sarajevo kids lived in; even the worst abuse I’d experienced paled in comparison. But I’d taken the abuse, day after day, year after year, as did the small kids, smart kids, ethnic kids; just like the Sarajevo kids, we kept our heads down, suffered our losses and went on. And we’d gotten used to it, just as a normal school day in Sarajevo meant dodging snipers. It was a fact of life; heck–it was our life. And that was no way for a kid to live.
Mom was right. God, was she right! Anything I could do to stop bullying was justified. And thinking of those Balkan kids, and the kids in Westmont–and at Mountain View, my middle school, and all the middle and elementary schools that had kids bullied daily–I resolved something else. I wanted to ask, or have Mom ask, the anti-bullying rep about helping the bullied. The kids like me who tolerated the intolerable. Mom had been talking about the abusers being abused at home, but what about a different ‘cycle of abuse’–the kids like me who expected it daily? It was like we were a generation of victims!
I knew that it was only because I was fully Angela, in my mind and heart, and I felt stronger. These thoughts would never have come to Andrew, who was still surviving day-by-day. Keeping his head down, metaphorically running behind cars, dodging snipers. And not helping the other kids who were bullied. Mom’s plan to move was exciting because it was new, but there was a little taste of running away, to me. Part of me thought I should dress up as Angela and march up to the Administration Office and proudly tell them that I was transgender and that they had bullies …and the reality was that I would eventually be shot down metaphorically, just as a kid rushing to the fallen boy would be shot literally in Sarajevo. And the bullying would go on; the Powers-That-Be that allowed bullying to exist–or participated in it, like Coach–would just say that it was a single instance, it was my fault, it was just me. And I couldn’t expect the other bullied kids to stick their necks out, one-by-one. I’d be proud if they did, and it made for great, stirring movies, but the reality was survival.
Benjamin Franklin popped into my head–his line was something like, “We must all hang together or we will all hang separately.” But I couldn’t be the rallying point for the bullied; the sad, bitter reality was that being transgender would make me an outsider among the outsiders. It wouldn’t just blur the issue of bullies; it would become the issue. The fairly conservative suburban families around us …they could maybe justify that their child was a target because he was small, or she was smart, or she was Mexican, or he was into Theatre. But I knew that some would be certain that, somehow, I deserved whatever I got because I was so different. I could even imagine ladies in the supermarket discussing me, saying, “Well, it is sick; so I suppose being slammed into a locker was a perfectly reasonable reaction to something so …perverse.”
As I straightened up from the lockers and headed to class, I realized that Andrew being Angela was completely separate from Andrew being bullied. I wasn’t Angela all of the past years that I’d been bullied. Well, I wasn’t named then, and hadn’t declared myself and knew that I had a future. I’d known that I was a girl, or at least wanted to be one–but the bullies didn’t, and that was the key, because they bullied other kids who weren’t transgender. So the factor of being trans was separate from being bullied, but it would cloud the issue if I tried to be the ringleader, the One Who Stood Up, whatever.
Walking the halls, my eyes scanning for any possible confrontation, I worked on the problem. My radical new thought was that in addition to naming names of the bullies, I would name names of the bullied–not to the school district, but to the anti-bully group if they had a system or structure of helping bullying victims. I would discuss this with Mom, of course, but it felt sure and right and in a perverse way, I was almost thankful to my locker-slammer because not only was he probably the last–the final–bully of Andrew’s life, he made me think outside of Andrew’s little world of survival.
With this decision, the theorems and equations and geometrical figures all came flooding back in my head; I managed to make it to class just in time, sliding into my seat as the bell sounded and we got right to work. I got a smile and head nod from my Geometry teacher when I turned in my final, and since I didn’t have a sixth-period class–it had been PE, and there was no final for Study Hall–and since there was no other bullying, I was done, done, and done. I double-checked that my locker was empty, and that was the end of my attendance at Westmont High School.
The end of my existence at Westmont High School.
Wow …
Because it also meant that it was the end of any necessity for Andrew Preston to exist. I walked home, feeling oddly bittersweet about The End of Things, and drew a bubblebath. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the afternoon; I was feeling a weird mental exhaustion and I guessed it was from always keeping Angela under wraps when I was Andrew, and also just the being of Andrew–having to walk and talk a certain way–was exhausting. Well, no more; I lay back and deeply breathed the eucalyptus scent of the bubbles and thought, yet again, that this moment marked the start of the rest of my life.
Mom got home a little earlier than usual; I was just in the bathrobe fresh from my bath. She instantly knew what I’d been thinking and feeling–not about bullies, but about the End of Andrew–because she crossed the room to me and enfolded me in a big hug.
“My Angela, my sweet daughter,” she murmured.
It was a fantastic, loved feeling that brought tears.
Mom said, “We’ll go do something fun. Come on!”
“What about the meatloaf?” I asked; we’d planned to finish it off tonight.
She waved a hand. “Enh …let it loaf!”
Bad joke aside, and with her working as a cheerleader, I quickly did my makeup and hair and added jewelry and put on a denim skirt and was going to put on a tank but she suggested a camp shirt in aqua; she said it was really cute on me and she liked to see it. I wore a white cami underneath, grabbed flats and purse and we were out the door.
It was a mystery to me what she was up to; she was driving to a part of town I rarely visited and then pulled between buildings and there was a small lot. She seemed in a bit of a hurry and I had to almost run to catch up when she got out of the car.
Turning onto the main street, she turned into the first door which turned out to be Modessa, a salon. A woman came forward, with upswept black hair and a big smile, and they embraced. Mom turned to me.
“This is my daughter Angela. Angela, one of my oldest friends, Kathy. She owns Modessa.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I smiled.
“Oh, she’s lovely, Carol!” Kathy beamed.
My smile faltered; ‘one of my oldest friends’ could be a nice thing to say, but the ease with which Kathy called Mom by her name meant the phrase wasn’t empty. And if she knew Mom as Carol, then she must know …
Kathy gently said, “I imagine that you’re a little worried right now. Please relax, Angela. There are only the three of us here at the moment, so I can say that I always wanted to meet you, and …” She looked at Mom, who nodded, and Kathy nodded with her and looked back to me. “And I believe Andrew has …left?”
I shook a little but nodded.
Kathy and Mom did the Look thing again, and in a quiet but warm voice, Kathy said, “He was never real, sweetheart. You were always there, hidden deep inside because you had to. It must have been so difficult, and I honor you for your courage. And now you’re finally here, a gift to your mother!”
I’d never thought of it like that, said so, and suddenly was in a three-way hug which Kathy broke.
“Okay, to business. I gave the girls a dinner break and they’ll be back in …ten minutes. Do you know the procedure?”
Quickly I looked at Mom and back to Kathy and said, “No, ma’am; I have no idea what’s going on, besides meeting you …”
Kathy rolled her eyes. “Carol! You didn’t tell her?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Mom chuckled.
I said, “She just said we were going to ‘do something fun’.”
Kathy bobbed her head side to side. “Can’t say she lied to you. Yes! Fun! Okay, less than ten before the girls are back.” She faced me directly. “Angela, my employees know nothing about you. And I can tell you that you have nothing to worry about. They’ve been told that you have been a tomboy and you’re just coming out of that silliness and embracing your femininity. They will completely understand and cut you some slack, because you’re so pretty it would seem odd that you haven’t already had your hair done! By the way, three of the Modessa girls were hard-core tomboys but I’ll defy you to guess which ones! Now, your mom has scheduled the works for you. Hairstyle, facial, nails, the works.”
“A treat, sweetheart,” Mom said, her smile so wide she looked like a kid on Christmas.
Kathy grinned. “So I want to say a few things quickly so you’ll be confident, because I guess you’ve never been in a salon before?”
“Not as a customer. Only once or twice, waiting for Mom.”
“Before I got back in town, I trust?” Kathy said mock-threatening to Mom, who chuckled and nodded.
Kathy grinned. “Okay, then! So, Angela, you’ll go in there and put on a smock. You may strip down to your lingerie if you feel comfortable or not, your choice. Six of one, half dozen of another. Some women like being as comfy as possible because this’ll take awhile.”
Mom smiled gently.“Sweetheart? I want to say some things quickly for your benefit and Kathy’s. First of all, don’t worry about the cost.” She turned to Kathy. “She’s so good about money!” Back to me, she went on. “And second, I’ve told Kathy what I have planned for you so don’t think anybody’s going off on their own.”
“Huh?”
Kathy said, “She means if they ask you to lay back for aromatherapy, don’t say, ‘I didn’t ask for aromatherapy’.”
“I’m getting aromatherapy?”
“No,” Mom chuckled.
“In a manner of speaking,” Kathy said. “We try to use nothing but organics and many of them have some degree of aromatherapy built in. But a session with your head over some herbs, not tonight,” she chuckled. “Alright. I’ve got some ideas, seeing you now, but there are a couple of books to look through to see if you fall in love with anything.”
She pointed to a table in the waiting area, with butter-yellow leather couches around. There were rows of magazines and several large, wide books.
Mom and I sat and she turned to me. “Oh, and the third thing is …enjoy it! Just let them pamper you and …” She sighed. “Oh, honey; I’ve waited so long for this!”
I realized how important and special this was for her, too, just as saying goodbye to Andrew in my bubblebath was important to me. We were looking through the books, collections of hairstyles, and discussing them as ‘the girls’ came back from their break. It was funny, because I expected teenagers. Two were in their twenties, but the other three looked like they were in their thirties. They came back giggling and chatting and happy.
Kathy came over and sat. “Find anything?”
I spun the books to show her. “Um, this one, maybe, and I kinda like that one,” I pointed.
She nodded. “Both very reasonable. I’m thinking more along these lines.” She took one of the books and flipped to a section I hadn’t seen–Mom and I had been looking through the ‘Kids & Teens’ section.
Mom grinned. “What do you think, honey?”
“Wow, I …uh …” I stared at the picture.
The girl in the photo was probably early twenties with black hair. But setting that aside, her hair looked like it grew like mine and was about the same length at the farthest point. Her face was similar to mine as well. I nodded and just said another ‘wow’.
Kathy laughed. “Alright! We got a winner! Number forty-two, the daily special!” she called out in a funny voice. Seeing my odd look, she really laughed. “Just teasing! We don’t number ‘em or anything; I was just …”
Quietly, Mom said, “Kath? She’s freaked enough as it is.”
Kathy was immediately contrite. “Sorry! My sense of humor sometimes has no sense. I’m sorry, Angela, okay? I’ll be on my best behavior from now on. So, do you like the style?”
“I love the style, but please, just be yourself. Don’t feel like you have to be on your best behavior–” I laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that! I meant–”
Kathy grinned and patted my knee. “I understand, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.” Her grin turned wicked as she turned to Mom. “Her legs are even better than yours, Carol!”
Mom just beamed. “I know. She’s beautiful,” she said, looking at me with such love.
It was too awkward to give her a hug, the way we were seated, so I just did an ‘Aw!’ thing.
And then it was Showtime.
I decided to keep my skirt and cami on under the smock, hanging up the camp shirt, and was led out. Mom was in a smock, too! I realized it was a mother-and-daughter package, which explained why the salon was open late and Kathy had given the girls a break. Mom winked at me and we were led to separate chairs and then attacked from all sides.
They first asked if I wanted to listen to music or chat. I didn’t feel confident enough for salon chatting, so they produced an earphone thing that lay below my chin and up to my ears. They asked musical preference and I said soft jazz with a question and one girl grinned and nodded and some mellow groove started up and I smiled back at her. She told me to pull the phones out while she washed my hair.
She shampooed and conditioned my hair and massaged my neck and forehead. On her nod, I put the earphones in as she gave me a fingertip-wave goodbye, and then the stylist began brushing and cutting my hair. I watched in the mirror, fascinated. The woman worked quickly and surely, and Kathy’s joke about ‘the special’ made me smile. The girls talked among themselves; the jazz was low enough that I could hear them say something like ‘turn to the right a little’.
My stylist’s hands were a blur with the brush and dryer. In the mirror I could see she was done and smiling and I was not only blown dry, I was blown away. My smile was huge and she spun me towards the chair where Mom sat, hands extended as a nail girl worked.
“Oh, sweetheart, I love it!” she smiled.
“Me, too! Thanks, Mom!” I grinned, and made to get out of the chair.
Apparently, I wasn’t done.
“Need to pee?” the stylist asked.
“Uh …no?” I slowly slid back down.
Then she began painting my hair! I remembered that Mom had authorized everything, so I lay back as she worked. I kind of zoned out with the whole thing; someone put cool things over my eyes so I didn’t really know what was going on. Someone took my hand and began working on nails. A massage and some eucalyptus-based damp towel to breathe–no aromatherapy, huh?–and things proceeded. It seemed like the girl on my nails was taking forever and I knew that I didn’t know, because I’d never had anything done like this. But I was startled when my shoes were removed and she began working on my feet.
It was dark outside and the salon had cheerful candles as well as lights on, when they spun my chair to face the mirror and I gasped.
I stared and stared.
Gasped some more with each revelation.
Mom was behind my chair, her hands on my shoulders, smiling so happily, her eyes sparkling.
My hair had been lightened or highlighted, I guessed–I’d have to find out the right terms for things. The cut was so feminine, with a side part and a sweep of hair, the ends tapered and feathered from my chin to my shoulders. The stylist had said it was just long enough that I could still do a ponytail–but not a low boys’, only a cute girls’ ponytail. That was fine with me; I never wanted to tie it down in back again.
The only negative of the whole time in the chair was the cooling and then ripping at my eyebrows, but seeing them now, it was completely worth it! They were–cliché, cliché–delicate arches, and made my eyes look bigger but totally eliminated any lingering traces of Andrew. There was some soft makeup applied, but not much under the circumstances, and they had given Mom a suggested color chart for me.
But my hands …omigod! My nails had been lengthened and were a soft rose color. They were graceful and feminine ovals and made my fingers look slender and longer. I knew my toes had been done the same way. Well, soft rose, but not slender and long! Most importantly, my hands did not have any relation to Andrew’s hands, and I realized just how powerful this was, psychologically.
“Meatloaf,” Mom said, startling me.
“Oh, yeah; I’m kinda hungry now …” I murmured, staring at my image and starting to worry about my vanity–and Mom’s sanity.
“That’s what made me think of it,” Mom chuckled. “You know how you had to squish the meat and milk and eggs with your hands?”
I’d made her recipe the night before and nodded.
Mom went on as if ‘meatloaf’ made sense–which it now did.
She grinned. “I thought, ‘She’d hate to do that with her nails done,’ which got me to thinking about getting your nails done. Which led me to call Santiago–at the restaurant–and ask about nail polish on the hostess and he said it’s fine as long as it’s not black,” she grinned. “And I double-checked the dress code; we’ll pick up something for you tomorrow. But tonight, it was time for mother-and-daughter makeovers!”
She really hadn’t had a full makeover; her hair was styled and her nails done but I suspected she was done long before me and had been chatting with Kathy while they worked on me. Which reminded me …tomboys …I had no idea. Later, I told Kathy that, and she laughed and told me which ones had been ‘hard-core tomboys’: “Beth, your massage girl; Connie that did your nails–and me!”
On the drive home, Mom told me that she’d grown up with Kathy, who had moved away and come back twice, and yes, she had been a hard-core tomboy. Mom had a funny story about a dance they went to where girls were flirting with Kathy.
“I thought she might be a lesbian, but she was my friend and that was all that mattered,” Mom said. “Then her dad got transferred and moved away. She came back to the area after college and there was no trace of the tomboy–or her father. It was Daddy issues, and when her folks got divorced, the issues moved out, so to speak. Not gay. I was one of her bridesmaids but we all …” She frowned.
She’d obviously hit an unhappy memory, so to divert her away from it, I said, “She’s got a beautiful salon, and everybody seems to get along so well.”
“Yes, they do, and don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” she said, playfully stern. “But I love you for it. I was just thinking about the wedding, and …it was very hard for me. I knew–I absolutely knew in my heart of hearts–that the marriage wouldn’t last. Not because of Kathy, but I knew the guy and …” She shook her head. “But she was head over heels and I was stuck. Do I tell my friend the love of her life is a skunk? Or keep quiet and be supportive and then be there to pick up the pieces when it all crashed and burned?”
“It’s a tough decision, but I’m guessing you kept quiet, because you said were a bridesmaid.”
She nodded and sighed. “But they moved away and so I wasn’t there to pick up the pieces because it did crash and burn. I didn’t see her for years and years, and then she moved back here and started her salon and we reconnected.” She sighed again. “Maybe it’s for the better; I don’t know. Maybe I should have told Kathy that he was no good, stopped the wedding, even if I lost her for a friend. But that always bothered me; to tell or not to tell.”
“For what it’s worth, as an outside observer? She seems happy and successful and you two seem to still be friends. So whatever it took to get there, maybe you made the right decision after all. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“So wise!” she beamed at me, then back to the road.
As she drove, I thought about the Telling-Or-Not-Telling issue, and the similarities and differences with me telling about the school bullies. I remembered my thoughts about ‘blurring the issue’, and did a little ‘what-if?’ exercise. What if Mom had a fling with the groom-to-be? She’d have first-hand knowledge that he was a skunk. If she told Kathy, Kathy could turn right around and accuse her of wanting the skunk for herself. Mom could say ‘No; he’s a skunk and I love you and thought you should know’ all she wanted, but the issue of the fling would always cloud the issue of the, um …skunk-hood. Just as being transgender–until it was more widely accepted–would cloud the issue of school bullies. Being transgender needed to be widely accepted, but it was a separate issue from bullies, like skunks and flings and …
I actually waved a hand, as if brushing away these thoughts. I knew what I was going to do, after talking with Mom about it, so let it rest. I couldn’t help noticing that my hand was now gorgeous, and the girl in the mirror was gorgeous, and for the first time I felt really, truly, that I was on my right track. I was who I was supposed to be ….
After a time, I said, “How long were we in there for, anyway?”
“Just under two …” She glanced at me. “You need a watch, young lady.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Oh! I can use my phone for time!”
While I fished it out of my purse, Mom said, “You can’t be checking your phone just to tell the time. We’ll get you something tomorrow.”
I was reading my phone; there was a text from Carrie: ‘How U holdin up? Finals OK? Txt me.’
I smiled, thinking of her. “Carrie texted me asking how I’m holding up with finals.”
Slowly and fumbling, I texted back: ‘All done!!! Think I did good. How U holdin up?’
Her text came right back. ‘Most good, 1 bad!! Argh! 1 more tmorow. Wanna hang fri-sat?’
I said, “She says her finals are mostly good, she thinks she blew one, though, and finishes with one tomorrow. She wants to hang Friday or Saturday …or Friday and Saturday; I don’t really know much about texting and how to–oh! I can’t hang with her!”
Mom nodded. “I’m sorry it started so soon, the clash between friends and work. It’s a hard decision to make; everybody’s got to deal with it in their own way.” She paused and quietly added, “And live by it.”
I nodded. I’d had no friends and now I suddenly was starting a new life. But I knew that I would need a job, and the way La Rioja had just seemed to appear, just as Carrie had in the movie line …But I had to prioritize. Without saying anything to Mom, I texted back: ‘Starting new job Thu-Fri-Sat nites. Argh! Wanna hang w/U but …’ and sent it, and sighed.
My phone chirped again. ‘Job? Cool! Tell me all–Burl Mall Fri or Sat day? Too far?’
“She’s happy for my job but wants to talk, and she asked about getting together at the Burlington Mall during the day Friday or Saturday, but worries it’s too far.”
Mom pursed her lips, thinking, then said, “It’s doable. I think we can put something together for you for your meeting at La Rioja. Like we talked about, black skirt, white blouse. But we could leave early for the Burlington Mall–I’m guessing she’s out of school then–and you girls could meet and we’d pick out your work outfit. Then your old mother will go quietly knit somewhere in a corner while you girls have fun. Then you can change into your work outfit and I’ll have you at La Rioja by 5:30. Sound good?”
I pretended to consider it. “All except for the ‘quietly knit somewhere in a corner’ part.”
She chuckled.
With a straight face, I said, “I think crocheting suits you better.”
“Oh, you!” Mom laughed while I texted Carrie the plan.
It came back: ‘Food court Taco Bell at 1 Fri?’
I sent back: ‘CU@1!’
Ha, I thought! See if I can’t become a textin’ kind o’ gal!
Mom said, “I think the way you connected with Carrie so quickly is just …well, I was going to say ‘remarkable’ and it’s not remarkable for two girls to hit it off but it is remarkable in terms of Andrew, who had so few friends.”
“Zero friends.”
“What about Santiago?”
“Mom, that was …” I looked out the window. “It’s complicated. We were thrown together by being the slowest in the class. And I guess everybody thought we were both gay, so it got to be like safety in numbers. But I practiced Spanish with him and he practiced his English so we were probably more productive than the guys that could run fast!” I chuckled.
“But you seem to be actual friends now, from the way he spoke with you.”
“I think we were, sort of, although we didn’t really do anything together during the rest of the school day. I’m …humbled by him. That he thought I was gay but it didn’t matter to him. But I think we can be friends–I mean, actual friends–now. I think it was more …like guilt by association or something before, at least at the beginning. But I kind of feel bad because I think he was more of a friend to me than I was to him.”
“And now …” Mom nodded. “I think I know.”
“Oh, God; you don’t think he has any …romantic ideas, do you? I couldn’t work there!”
“I don’t think that; it doesn’t feel like that to me. I think I know the reason, and you just answered it yourself–only use the names and it’ll make more sense.”
“What, you mean …’he was more a friend to me’, that thing?”
“Yes, but use full names.”
I gave her a look but shrugged. “Okay. Santiago was more a friend to me–”
“Names, sweetie!”
“Santiago was more of a friend to …” I was surprised. “Oh.”
“Yes, exactly. Friends with Andrew or with Angela?” She glanced at me and back to the road. “I suspect he was friendly with Angela. When she was hidden behind the mask of Andrew as well as when she walked into his restaurant in a skirt. But Andrew couldn’t be a real friend, because he was a mask, and because he didn’t know how to make friends.” She grinned. “So don’t beat yourself up about it!”
“You mean it, Mom? I can really do it?” I asked for the second time.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Give me …can I have ten minutes alone in your room?”
“Sure, but …Mom, if this is a bad idea or …”
She shook her head. “Honey, I think you’re right that we put Andrew away. I was a little surprised at first that you said you didn’t have anything you wanted to save as a memento.”
“But you do, though? Oh, Mom; I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of you.”
Mom’s chuckle was sad. “It’s just that …” She straightened up. “I think the fact that there isn’t anything you want to save from your life as Andrew is very strong proof that …he wasn’t real. And I understand, sweetheart, I really do. But he was real to me, in a way.”
“I’m sorry …”
“No, no; you misunderstand me. I don’t believe there’s a single …thing of Andrew’s I want to save. Not a piece of clothing or something from a trip or anything. I don’t want or need the object. But as …insubstantial, perhaps? Yes, like a ghost, maybe. As insubstantial as Andrew was–because the real person, Angela, was tucked away–as see-through as he was, we still did things together. Not a lot of things, but …you understand that nearly seventeen years of my life has involved a boy named Andrew. I just wanted a few minutes to …”
Then she laughed!
“What?” I couldn’t read her mood at all.
“There’s this sense that Andrew is dead, even though I think that he was not fully real is closer to the truth. But you want to clean your room of Andrew and donate it all to charity and that’s a wonderful thought, and I think it’s psychologically healthy. But it still kind of feels a bit like a clean-up after a death. That’s why I laughed; it struck me like something out of Ghostbusters or that TV show, Ghosthunters or whatever it’s called.” Her voice became stagey and she waved a hand loosely. “I just wanted a few minutes to catch the last vapors of the deceased Andrew before he dissipated into the ether …”
“God! You make it sound so creepy!” I giggled.
She did, too, and nodded. “Humor me, okay? Ten minutes, and then in with the trash bags and we haul his carcass away.”
“Geez, Mom!” I giggled with embarrassment.
So we did. I decided to do a mourning period of my own, to sit on our couch for the time she was in my–Andrew’s–room. I actually went twenty minutes, thinking about what life had been like for him, but that always led me to think about what Angela didn’t get to do. Andrew didn’t do Scouting or sports or have friends. Angela would have done Brownies and Girl Scouts and probably played soccer and have a tight group of girlfriends …and I had to go away from those thoughts back to Andrew. Because …it wasn’t about me–Angela–it was about Andrew. I’d be a lousy mourner if all I did was think of things I didn’t get to do.
And the thing was …the thing was that Andrew wasn’t me, not anymore and maybe not for a long time. And he did feel ‘insubstantial’ when I thought of it, and then I thought of poor Mom watching her unhappy son growing up and at a loss for an explanation–but she’d said she had some ideas–until my Geometry teacher sent the note home and I broke down and told her the truth.
We hugged in silence in the middle of my room, and then without a word, we began shoving things in heavy trash bags and hauling them to the car. Goodwill was very glad to get the donation; the guy said they’d run low on boys’ clothing. They’d donated their donations to a shelter for battered women and their children and wasn’t that a sad commentary on society?
Despite how emotional the day had started, to my surprise I felt much lighter and free and happy as we pulled away from Goodwill. I think Mom felt it, too. And why not? We’d had our goodbyes and Andrew was now, truly, history. His-story. Over.
In the happier mood we both felt, Mom swung over to the huge industrial park and the Ikea store. I had never been, although I’d seen their commercials, and wow-wow-wow! Huge place, everything under the sun–never saw so much unpainted or white stuff in my life!–and lingonberries?
We found a vanity and mirror-on-a-stand and hat tree and that’s all we would be able to get in our car. I had to laugh at how everything was named after a Swedish town or something. When we got home, I used a handcart thing Mom used for luggage to get them into my room and had to just leave them there, although I so wanted to sit at my vanity already!
I showered and did my makeup and hair and put on my ‘starter outfit’, as Mom called it. It was a black skirt of hers that she had me try on first. She measured and disappeared with it to do some sewing magic. I wore a white camisole and she gave me the most delicious white blouse that she grinned and said was ‘silk-like’ and all I could think was, if silk-like feels this good, give me more silk! We’d debated about wearing the Mary Janes or flats and since Santiago had said ‘flats’, there was no sense giving the wrong impression in shoes, so to speak. Mom came back in and the skirt fit beautifully. She’d taken it in slightly and it sat right on my hips, but it was longer than a typical black skirt for a girl my age.
“I think we’ll find your work skirts in the Business Petites section rather than Juniors,” Mom nodded. “But it makes you look a bit older, too, which fits with the restaurant.”
“Mom, do you think this is crazy?”
“Crazy? What’s crazy? My son comes home from school on Wednesday and starts the next night as a beautiful hostess for one of the top restaurants in town? What’s crazy about it?”
But she couldn’t keep a straight face and we were both howling.
We’d not answered the intent of my question, which was …yeah, hostessing–but technically I am a boy, at least until Brad Alexander worked his document magic. But I kind of answered that question on my own, as I was trying hoops in my ears for the first time. Forget the technicality. I’m a girl, everybody seems to agree that I was always a girl, I was obviously a girl, so why shouldn’t I hostess? And it was a darned sight better than flipping hot dogs at the place in the Food Court where you wear two foot of a big hot dog on your head!
There was a little bit of time before Mom was ready, and I had the idea to jump on the internet and plug in our address and La Rioja’s address on our local transit’s website. It plotted the best bus route and listed the transfers–only one–times, duration, and cost. I printed it out and brought it with me. We talked about me riding the bus; Mom was opposed on principles but I pointed out that for her to take me to work would mean she’d have to leave her work early on Thursdays and Fridays. We compromised, as I thought we would. I would take the bus to work those days–we’d play Saturdays by ear–and Mom would pick me up afterward, because the buses were full and much safer at five in the afternoon than they were at midnight. And I knew that I’d feel much more like An Independent Woman.
And I needed that.
Oddly, I didn’t have a tremendous urge to do all the things I’d missed out on, not being Angela. I knew I wanted to spend time hanging with Carrie, letting our new friendship grow, and maybe one or two other girls if I met them. But I wasn’t going to try to make up for lost time. I was going to be a Senior and it was time I grew up. Maybe Andrew was my infancy and Angela my adulthood …and that was weird to think about so I was glad we parked at the restaurant and I could stop thinking that way.
We met Santiago at the door, and he stared and then smiled widely. He introduced us to Mrs. Mendoza, a short but very jolly woman–I hated to think in clichés, but she was jolly!–and his father darned near hugged me. We talked about the details of the job; the Mendozas pretended to be guests and I seated them and they clapped. They were also subtly–and sometimes not so subtly!–testing my Spanish abilities. Santiago frowned at one point and hit them with a rapid-fire burst of Argentine Spanish full of colloquialisms that I couldn’t make out, and they looked embarrassed and were so apologetic that I began apologizing–and then we all laughed and it was forgotten. They said they would teach me the slang and the flavor that made their language sing more than typical Mexican Spanish that we heard around town.
They loved my outfit; Mom and I nodded to each other, and the flats and makeup and nail polish were all acceptable, and then they surprised me.
It was time for Rosa.
I thought at first it was Argentine slang for something, but it was the name of Santiago’s sister who had been the hostess. She was resting at home but would meet with me to give me pointers–and the final approval!
Mom and I followed Mrs. Mendoza’s car to an apartment building and we followed her in. She was being jolly and laughing and bustling but I sensed an iron strength in her that I rather liked.
The apartment was comfy and cozy and there was a four-year-old girl running around; for some reason, I’d thought that Rosa’s pregnancy was her first. The little girl, Aá±a, was spinning in circles when we got there, and stopped with a whoosh and a swirl of dark hair and big eyes. She stared at me.
Then, she declared, “ ¡Eres bonita!” You’re pretty!
I went on one knee and said, “ ¡Está¡s aáºn má¡s guapa!” You’re even prettier!
And that was it; I was in! After chuckles all around, we sat at the kitchen table with Rosa, a round-cheeked beauty who had pain lines at the corners of her eyes. I was concerned for her health. But I had a sudden pang of guilt that I wasn’t really a girl and also a sudden pang of envy and a pang of sorrow that I couldn’t share the pain of childbirth.
I’d passed the inspection with my exchange with Aá±a, I suppose, because Rosa was completely wonderful, launching into the procedure and then things to watch out for. She did a couple of ‘what if’ cases with me, and pronounced me ‘bá¡rbaro’, which apparently was slang for very, very good or awesome or something similar.
Whew–I passed the Rosa test!
So Friday night, I would begin hostessing. I took a menu home to learn it.
I was excited and scared to death at the same time.
After breakfast I pulled on some shorts and a tank and grabbed a screwdriver and pliers from our little ‘tool drawer’ and tackled my new mirror and hat tree. They were absurdly easy to assemble and it was wonderful to see myself in the full length mirror; once I got the hat tree together my first thought was ‘scarves at Claire’s’ and even I thought ‘you’re such a girl!’
I drank some cold water in the kitchen while I read the instructions for the vanity; that would be my chore for Saturday, as tempting as it was to keep going. But new furniture made me think about my new life in my new room. I went back in and sat on my bed and tried to sort of empty my mind of what I knew about my room. I realized I’d been looking at the thing for about sixteen years. It was a dull white room. Andrew had been neat and never had friends over for sleepovers or roughhousing or any boyish thing like that. There weren’t generations of sports posters that might have marred the walls, and certainly not pinups!
When I was little, there had been some Winnie-the-Pooh prints; at some point I couldn’t remember, they had been replaced by some art prints that had caught my fancy. They were pretty much clichés now, but when I first discovered them at ten or twelve, they amazed me. One was Magritte’s The Son of Man, the name of the famous ‘guy with the apple in front of his head’ painting. The other was Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. I liked it because it was like a snapshot of real life over a hundred and twenty years ago. I used to think up ‘backstories’ for each of the people in it, made up relationships–
–and I realized that they had been my friends, my only friends! Andrew’s anyway …
In the Renoir, I’d wondered if ‘the Boating Party’ actually on a boat, like a floating restaurant, or had some of them been boating, explaining the guys in the t-shirts? I wondered if the men in the white sleeveless ‘wife-beater’-type shirts smelled of sweat; had they been rowing or just showing off? One guy wore a top hat in the middle of the day–what was that about? And every guy there had facial hair of some kind! A pretty girl to the left played with a little black dog–at the table in a restaurant? Maybe it was okay back then, or maybe she knew the owners? I wondered if she knew the other girl seated across from her; they were dressed kind of similarly and I wondered if they’d coordinated their clothes before the luncheon? I had assigned names and changed the relationships from time to time; the pretty girl in the yellow hat–I’d named her ‘Clara’–leaning on the railing near the center, seemed to be looking at the man with the brown bowler, his back to ‘the camera’, so to speak. Then I thought she was really checking out the cute young brown-haired guy on the right, leaning over talking to his friends. Or maybe she was looking at one of his friends, a ‘wife-beater’ guy seated and wearing a yellow hat like hers. Maybe she was looking at the hat, or the cute white hat on the girl in the group–she was ‘Isobel’–and it was kind of saucy, with blue stripes, and was Isobel a friend or competition …
With a cold splash of realization, I had the absolutely stunning certainty that I had–that Andrew had–been viewing this painting as a girl. Guys were smelly or cute, and I was thinking about the girls’ relationships. It hit me that if I’d told my thoughts about my Renoir ‘friends’ to Mom years ago, it would have been so obvious that I wasn’t a typical little boy.
So the Renoir stays, I decided firmly. The Magritte can go, though. I was neither a son or a man.
I laid back and tried to empty my mind again, and then looked around my room, trying to not think about where the bed and bureau were. They were Andrew’s, but where would Angela put her bed, bureau, vanity, mirror, and so on, and then I thought about painting the walls but remembered that we’re going to move, meaning this had been really a pointless exercise except for the incredible revelation about my Renoir.
Computer time, next, and between Google maps and three school districts’ websites, I was able to come up with a sort of Venn diagram thing showing the best options for us. I took into account the public schools except for McKinley and Westmont, and where Mom worked; what little I knew about some parts of the city let me throw out a couple of places. All in all it only took a half-hour but I had some maps printing while I showered and shaved my legs. Yeah, it was probably too soon, but I loved the femininity of it. And all too soon it would become a chore.
Mom’s plan was to take the afternoon off, come home for lunch and we’d meet Carrie at one. I would be dressed casually to try things on but have my flats and jewelry and things I’d need for work with me. And it was scary and exciting to think ‘for work’; I really was at a jumping-off stage into adulthood. We were meeting at the Taco Bell; was it just a rendezvous or were we eating? Mom suggested I have a light lunch and could be covered either way, and I had soup and a half-sandwich as we looked over and talked about my mapping project. She suggested we start driving in the evening and on weekends. The housing market was apparently resurging a bit so she was going to start the ball rolling on Monday to sell the house. It was jarring to think that, but I kind of felt like putting the house in a trash bag, too, along with Andrew. Just get that whole past behind me and look forward.
And I was so excited on the drive to the Burlington Mall; between seeing Carrie, shopping for new clothes, and then my first night at work, I had to work to calm myself down. I didn’t want to freak out Carrie by being too crazy.
On the other hand, she kind of squealed and danced when she saw me, so maybe a little freaking out was okay! She wore a pair of low-cut black jeans that had some stretchy stuff in them because they were tight-tight-tight and a loose tiger-print top, sleeveless. I introduced Carrie to Mom, and fortunately they both had the same idea.
“Let’s get this girl some work duds!” Carrie teased.
I felt bad because Carrie and I began walking and Mom was bringing up the rear.
“Don’t mind me,” she smiled when I stopped for her to catch up. “Let’s hit Dillard’s first and that’ll probably do it for us. Then you girls scamper off …or whatever it is you kids call it these days,” she added in a funny granny-type of voice.
Carrie laughed. “You’re cool, Mrs. Preston! She’s right, though. I got here awhile ago and went to check out that store Black & White, ‘cause that’s your dress code?” I nodded and she sniffed. “Old lady clothes.”
I glanced at Mom, hiding a smile. I said, “Well, that’s kind of what we’re going for, actually. Like the skirt I wore last night, to get hired? It was one of Mom’s with a longer hem.”
“Had to take it in,” Mom mock-grumbled. “My little girl is growing up–and she’s still littler than me!”
Carrie laughed and I shared a happy look with Mom; the phrase ‘my little girl’ meant so much to us both.
We found some candidates in an adult Petites section; I tried them on and now I had three skirts. There were two white blouses that would work and I thought we were done, but Mom wanted to drag me to the shoe department.
“There are flats and there are flats. The ones you’re wearing now are fine for a teenaged girl at the mall. However, you wouldn’t wear them in a business situation, although you could wear flats. Check these out,” she said, holding up a more mature version.
They had it in my size and I did, in fact, agree with her that they looked more professional. Mom was making a face, thinking, and veered off into another section and then handed a shoe to the clerk, who nodded and disappeared, coming back with two boxes.
“Pumps, low heel,” Mom said. “I know you already wear heels, but that’s on special occasions and a lot of sitting.”
I actually had never worn heels; she’d said this for Carrie, and it worked because she was nodding.
“Oh, yeah! I thought I was killer in heels, I’d wear them on weekends and all, but I had to do a presentation thing and stood for like three hours and I was dying.”
Mom nodded, saying, “Angela, I’ll get these for you and I want you to wear them around the house, just like learning with heels, even though they’re lower. In part to break them in but these would be a much nicer presentation at La Rioja.”
“What?” Carrie yelled. “You’re working at La Rioja?”
I was confused. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you just said hostessing and I thought like Applebee’s or Denny’s or something. La Rioja?”
I nodded.
She held her hands out. “That’s like the most awesome place ever!”
Mom smirked. “I take it you’ve heard of the place, Carrie?”
Carrie laughed at her own theatrics. “Oh, yeah. My dad’s favorite, favorite place for steaks. And he loves steaks so we eat there …I’ve maybe had twenty dinners there over the years. All fantastic. And the music, if they got the same guitar guy …I was dating this guitar player named Kevin? And Kev’s really good but he said the Argentine guy was the real deal and completely ignored me the whole time the guy was playing. I think he would have gone home with the guy if he could’ve!”
We all laughed and I asked if she was still with Kevin.
She waved a hand. “Ancient history. Moved to …Utah, I think.” She paused and grinned. “Poor guy!”
We got the pumps and then hit the Juniors for any other candidates. The skirts were too short, but we found two more really nice white blouses with some appliqués in white and nice stitching. Mom declared the ‘work duds’ were fully acquired and released us, telling me to meet her at the Dillard’s perfume counter at five. I’d change in their Ladies Lounge and we’d leave for La Rioja. So now it was Carrie and me and the Burlington Mall.
And we had a great time! We chatted about this and that, different stories about kids in our schools. We’d already kind of fluffed over how I really didn’t have any friends but where it really got dicey was how I got the job at La Rioja. I couldn’t very well tell Carrie that the son of the owner and I were in Boys’ PE together, so Santiago became ‘a classmate’ that I helped with English as part of a school program, and he helped my Spanish. Carrie was wiggling her eyebrows and saying things like, ‘So, this Santiago …he’s a cutie, right?’
I rolled my eyes at that one. “Carrie, you want to know the truth, he’s kind of pudgy and guys make fun of him for being gay but he’s not.”
Her mood shifted and she seemed almost angry.“Make fun of him? What the heck kind of school is that?”
I knew it was Bully Central but felt the need to downplay everything just then. “Just …dumb guy stuff, you know? Doesn’t have to make sense …they’re guys!”
She bobbed her head back and forth. “Yeah, you’re right. But making fun of somebody that’s gay–”
“Carrie, you’re missing the point. Santiago’s not gay. If he was gay, the morons wouldn’t be making fun of him, they’d be trying to beat him up or something. I think they know he’s not gay, and that’s where they get their fun, teasing him.”
Carrie nodded at that. “Morons, you said it. Yeah, that’s what they’d do. Think it’s fun to tease a fat kid, then beat up a gay guy. All in a day’s work for them.”
“You sound …kinda pissed off, and I’m not sure …”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, not at you, Angela! God, no! It’s just …” She shrugged. “I got a favorite cousin, Luke. A really cool guy, about six years older than me. When I was little, I just worshipped the guy. He was so smart, and so funny! When I was really little, I was gonna marry him!” She grinned like a kid. “Then when I got older, I was gonna marry a guy just like him.” Her smile faded. “Then he came out of the closet and my family kind of …turned their back, like disinheriting him, and he took off. I haven’t seen or heard from him for two years now.”
“Oh, that’s so sad!” I said, meaning it. “And you miss him a lot. And you’re worried about him.”
“Am I that obvious?” she asked, trying to be silly and roll her eyes.
I realized that she was very wounded over Luke’s disappearance. Without thinking, I reached out to hug her. She resisted for a moment, and then hugged but I felt her tremble.
She sniffed. “I just …I’m so scared for him, you know?”
“I know, Care,” I said and it just seemed to come out that way.
She stared at me. “What did you …Luke called me ‘Care-bear’ when I was little.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to–”
“No, no; it’s cool! You didn’t know, and …and besides, you didn’t say the ‘bear’ part.”
I nodded, smiling. “That’s still Luke’s.”
She looked at me for a moment and said, “You’re good people, Angela.”
“You too, Care. Oh–if that’s okay!”
“Sure,” she grinned. “And I might slip and call you Ange!”
“Better than ‘Ge-la’!” I teased.
We giggled and started walking.
End of Part 6
http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/rene-magritte/son-of-man-1964
http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/pierre-auguste-renoir/the-lu...
Nervously I waited for the restaurant to open. I had read and re-read the menu, worked on my Spanish pronunciation of each dish with Mrs. Mendoza, who patted my cheek and told me I’d be fine. She complimented me on how pretty and how grown-up I was.
Part of it was because of Carrie.
We had been looking at tops in Wet Seal when she had an idea.
“You’re going to change at Dillard’s, right?” I nodded and she grinned. “See if your Mom can meet us there at 4:15 or 4:30.”
Obviously, she meant now, so I called and Mom said it would be ‘around 4:20’. At the right time we headed to meet Mom in the perfume section; Carrie and I tried some samples on little white cards while we waited. Carrie said she liked three for me; Narcisse, a Dolce & Gabbana one called ‘Light Blue’, and one called Viva La Juicy. Decisions, decisions!
Mom liked them all and asked for samples–I didn’t know you could do that!–and then Carrie told us her idea: Makeover!
During our time together, she’d asked what makeup I used. I didn’t want to say, ‘Cheap all-in-one kit from Target’ so I said it was a mix. She nodded and said she wished she could afford all M.A.C. but she liked a new youth line from Estée Lauder.
Carrie explained to Mom that I could pick a good, available, reasonable major brand, like Lauder or Clinique, one that was mostly for women. That way I’d get ‘a more mature palette’, and I thought that was a great way to refer to it. Then I should get a makeover for my first night’s impression, and the makeup ladies usually gave tips and discounts. Mom grinned and praised Carrie and then it was down to which brand and availability. Mom said if we promised not to share, for hygiene reasons, we’d do it.
So I was at La Rioja, wearing Estée Lauder makeup, expertly applied, and praying fervently that I remembered all the advice from the makeup lady!
When the makeup lady was done, and after they tore me away from staring at myself in the mirror, we went to the Ladies Lounge–which was like a palace compared to the mall restrooms! I changed into my new work clothes and new flats. I felt transformed yet again; from boy to girl and from girl to almost-woman.
Then Carrie freaked me out.
She said, “You look great, babe! Hey–what are you doing tomorrow? Wanna come over? We got a pool and it’s supposed to be hot.”
Pool …swimsuit …genitalia …
Mom realized it at the same time–or read the panic on my face–and begged off that I was committed to helping ‘a neighbor’.
I rolled my eyes and improvised, “That’s right; I’d forgotten that it’s this weekend.” To Carrie, I said, “It’s this nice lady, used to babysit me, and getting older …”
Carrie said, “I understand. I already told you you’re a good person, Angela!” She grinned. “Sunday, maybe?” Then it was her turn to wince. “Argh! Aunt’s birthday; we’re going over. Thanks for reminding me; you said, ‘getting older’ and I remembered Judy and …Monday, maybe?”
“Sure, I guess …” I said, looking at Mom.
She frowned and said, “I think there’s a doctor’s appointment but I don’t remember what time. She’ll have to call you.”
We left it at that. After hugging Carrie goodbye, in the car I turned to Mom. “A pool! What am I going to do?”
Mom calmly said, “We’re going to find you a wonderful suit, maybe a bikini, and you–”
“Mom! I’m freaking out that she’ll find out the truth about me!”
“And the truth is that you’re a pretty girl, right?” She glanced at me and said, “Honey, you shouldn’t have this on your mind before starting work, but don’t worry; we’ll work out something. But Carrie seems like a wonderful new friend and …we’ll work something out.”
So that was on my mind, waiting for the restaurant to open. Then the first guests came, a couple in their fifties.
I was at my station, cradling menus, and smiling. “Welcome to La Rioja. Bienvenido a La Rioja.” I’d talked it over with Mrs. Mendoza; she liked my idea of English first because most of their customers spoke English, and then Spanish to give the flavor of the place as well as to reassure Spanish-speaking guests.
After that it was guest after guest; it was a Friday night, after all! Mr. Mendoza was watching me and smiling and nodding when I’d look at him. I seated the guests and thanked them when they left. Then there was a lull and I felt awkward just standing there. I didn’t know what the protocol was–we hadn’t discussed it–so I just slowly walked though the crowded restaurant, flicking my eyes to the front to make sure nobody was entering.
As I passed the tables, I smiled and nodded and said, “I hope you’re enjoying your time with us. Thank you for joining us tonight” and things like that. There had been three groups that I’d seated that I knew were Spanish speakers, so I said my things in Spanish and they lit up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw people coming towards the front doors so I made my way up and greeted them and sat them.
It was just starting to slow down again and Mr. Mendoza came up to me. “ ¿Ángela, por qué pasaste por el restaurante antes?” Why did you walk through the restaurant earlier?
I said, “Porque no quería quedarme parado. Y pensé que a los invitados les gustaría.” Because I didn’t want to just stand around. And I thought the guests might like it.
He smiled widely. “Ah, el toque personal! Me gusta esto; muy profesional y muy amistoso. ” Ah, the personal touch! I like it; very professional and very friendly. He nodded and turned back to me with a wicked grin, “ ¡Por supuesto, ¡solo aumentarás la cantidad de caminata que tendrás que hacer!” Of course, you only added to how much walking you'll have to do!
I laughed with him and felt that I’d had the right idea. I also realized that when guests weren’t waiting, I could seat one table and do my hellos on the way back to my hostess station.
The last seating was just before ten–the last by me, I mean. The restaurant would remain open but late guests would have to wait to be seated. The guitarist had started at eight and he was superb; I don’t know if he was a genuine gaucho but he certainly looked like one and the flamenco was gorgeous.
At ten, Santiago came out and grinned at me and crooked his finger. I was brought back into the kitchen and off to the side was a table.
“You get dinner,” he explained. “You didn’t have before; you want it now?”
So that’s what I’d felt–I’d been so busy seating people and worrying about doing a good job that I’d forgotten that I hadn’t had any dinner!
The look on my face said it all, and he grinned and turned away, coming back with a full plate that I knew was easily thirty bucks on the menu. I started the no-no thing, but he told me to eat. I said I really shouldn’t, and he grinned and said to call it research–I’d know what the guests were having! I couldn’t argue with that so with a big glass of ice tea, I had a feast.
Mrs. Mendoza came and sat across from me, very happy with me, and suggested I come a half-hour early and eat; that way I could leave right at ten if I had something to do. Or I could eat after. I thought I’d try eating before on Saturday, because I didn’t want to get in the habit of having a full meal so close to bedtime. Because I really didn’t have anything to do when I got home except hug Mom, watch TV, and sleep.
Santiago returned with Mom in tow; there was some apologies because we hadn’t worked out a procedure. I told Mom about eating before and being out at ten so they got some flan-type of dessert for the both of us and Mrs. Mendoza proceeded to tell Mom how great I’d been tonight. Mom just beamed at me.
I didn’t have to tell Mom about the night when I got in the car, because we’d talked it out in the kitchen. I was really tired, and Mom suggested soaking my feet. I couldn’t imagine wearing heels all night, but thought it was a goal worth working towards. Walking towards?
Mom actually had a cute little blue foot bath, and we set it up in front of the couch and I got ready for bed and sat there in my nightie with my towel and my feet and almost fell asleep right there.
I told myself today was the day for me to build my vanity. And true to Ikea products, it didn’t take a day; I had the thing set up in less than an hour. I spent another hour arranging things, and then went out and flopped on the couch.
“What am I going to do, Mom?” I asked.
She understood I was talking about Carrie and her pool. “You got a reprieve this weekend. No sense worrying about anything until we talk to the doctors on Monday.”
“I really do have an appointment? I thought that was part of the little improv we did.”
“Really do,” she nodded. “At ten. Hmm …” She frowned. “Gonna do some net surfing before then.” She sighed. “So what do you wanna do before work?”
“Are you going anywhere?”
“I could. Why?”
“Um …regardless of what happens with the pool, and the doctors, I’d kind of like to get a swimsuit …” I was embarrassed.
“Sure, but why are you blushing?”
“I thought that days like today, I could …work on a tan, maybe? I dunno …kinda felt vain to say it.”
She laughed and within half-an-hour we were pulling up at the mall. Our mall. She parked and turned to face me. “Alright, a sort of acid test. Chances are that you will see somebody you know from school. Bear in mind that they don’t know me, so nobody’s going to say, ‘Hey, there’s Andrew Preston’s mom–that must be Andrew!’ or anything like that, right?”
Meekly, I nodded. I’d never thought of it that way.
“So we’re just some mom out with her daughter. Maybe we’re visiting. Maybe we just moved here. Maybe you go to St. Anne’s. Anything is possible; everybody doesn’t know everybody else. But you’re going to have this big fear that everybody’s looking and pointing and talking about you. I’m here to tell you that if they are, it’s only because you’re a very pretty girl. That’s why they’re looking at you. Got it?”
I got it, and she was right.
And that confidence carried me right up until I came out of the fitting booth after trying on some suits–and almost bumped into Jenny Bowen!
She was there with a girl I didn’t know, and the only thing that kept me from totally freaking out was that I didn’t know the other girl–which was in line with Mom’s words of encouragement. If both girls had been from my school, I think I would have shrieked and ran! But I thought, ‘I don’t know her and she doesn’t know me and everything’s cool’. That was my mantra and, actually, everything was cool. And because I was cool, I could relax and just be a girl among girls, and observe.
I remembered being swept away by waves of melancholy when I saw Jenny in the past. But now I looked at her and I recognized the shorts from Abercrombie and the top from Wet Seal. I didn’t know her sandals, but the other girl wore flip-flops from Penney’s and a Hollister tank and short set. I didn’t need the names on the items to know; I recognized them from my own shopping and especially wandering around with Carrie yesterday.
Jenny needed to touch up her lipgloss but was so pretty; the other girl wore a bit too much eyeshadow. Jenny’s ponytail was high and perfect as always; the other girl’s hair hung loose and a barrette or clip would have set it off nicely.
And I did not feel any waves of melancholy …
I felt myself a girl checking out other girls–girl-to-girl–and was proud of how I looked. I wore flared khaki shorts from American Eagle and a lime green tank; the straps of my raspberry bra could be seen in a nice contrast. My hair was brushed to the side and held back with a silver clip and I was wearing silver hoops. I know I’d rushed the pierced-ears-thing, but Mom said every girl did, and the important thing was the purity of the metal, the hygiene of cleaning, and rotating the posts.
Still, in another dimension, Jenny Bowen and I might have been girlfriends. That cheered me, because it made me think of Carrie, and that Mom and I would be moving, and that I’d have chance to make girlfriends that only knew me as Angela.
I wound up with two suits, including a black maillot that Mom was confident that I could use to swim at Carrie’s right now.
“Mom! No way!”
“Yes, way,” she teased right back. “You are safely tucked away and I couldn’t see anything down there and I knew what to look for!”
“But my boobs!”
“It’s padded and you don’t know this, but there is adhesive that came with those forms. I can glue ‘em to your chest, pull on your suit, and nobody could tell–unless you strip.”
“But girls change in front of girls all the time.”
She shrugged. “Say you gotta pee and change in the bathroom. Really common with shy girls. Or girls that just have to pee. It’s doable, is what I’m saying. Not hanging with Carrie in her pool will raise more questions.”
The other suit I bought strictly for tanning in the seclusion of our backyard; it was a pink-and-white gingham string bikini. Mom liked the sexiness of the skimpy string bikini contrasting with the wholesomeness of gingham.
We got home in time for me to goop up with sunblock and lay out for almost an hour–twenty minutes a side–while Mom sipped ice tea. She had her laptop and my printouts and was looking up potential places for us to move. We had some candidates, and she asked, “House or apartment?”
“Whichever you want,” I said.
“Really? Then I vote apartment.”
“What about the …what is it …building up the equity?”
She chuckled. “On a house you own for twenty years, sure. But you only have one more year of high school, and we haven’t even begun to discuss college.” She paused. “Angela and I haven’t.”
I was lying on my back and nodded. “Andrew didn’t really have any interests in going to college. Community college for the basic units, maybe, but …”
“He really didn’t have a future, did he?” Mom asked. I was silent, thinking, and Mom said softly, “It’s as if he knew his days were numbered.”
“That’s kind of creepy, but …accurate, I think.” I told her about seeing Jenny Bowen, and my thoughts about that. “And the thing is, I would have been–scratch that. Andrew would have been even more miserable and withdrawn as any hopes of really living as a girl got dimmer and farther away …” I sighed. “I never felt suicidal–I mean, like actually thinking about suicide, but if I’d gone on for much longer …”
She nodded. “It might have become a possibility. Well, thank God for pantyhose.”
“That’s out of nowhere,” I frowned.
“Pantyhose …Susan somebody-or-other …note from your Geometry teacher …ring any bells?”
She was right; that was the chain of events that led to me confessing and eventually becoming Angela. I grinned. “You’re right; thank God for pantyhose.”
Mom laughed. “Because of pantyhose, God gave me my daughter!”
I am no longer a hostess at La Rioja.
I happily worked there all through the summer, adding Wednesdays, and those four nights gave me $160 a week. I was tempted to look for more work but Mom said I needed the summer to get my life in order.
Part of that took place the next Monday after my first weekend at La Rioja; that doctor’s appointment helped my life tremendously. Mom had been concerned–the doctors, too–about my ‘socialization’ as a girl, meaning having girlfriends. Carrie was my first but her offer of hanging at her pool would have ended things–except for the doctor’s glue gun!
Actually, it was more than that, but glue was involved. They had a procedure that would tuck my penis away, pulling the scrotal sacs to look like labia, and when it was all glued in place, I would look like any other girl, even from a foot away. I was overjoyed–but there was a separate issue, a sort of price, which I willingly paid. Our state allowed minors to receive an orchiectomy–castration, really–if the patient and parent sign along with medical professionals. Oddly enough, it is surgery, so you’d think they’d allow the sexual reassignment surgery under the same terms. But anything with sex freaks out the voters or legislators and maybe castration’s been around for centuries and there are many reasons for it not directly tied to sexual identity. So, orchiectomy okay, penectomy, no way.
Fine with me! We discussed it and I was a good candidate for it; Legal was consulted, documents were signed, and right then and there on Monday, snip-snip and I was a gelding and couldn’t be happier! Well, if they’d removed the penis and given me a vagina, then I’d be happiest. And an orchiectomy is a bit more than snip-snip, of course. But it was the first big step …
And that visit gave me the confidence to ‘swim-but-not-swim’ with Carrie a few days later. Before he set to work, the doctor had shown me what was planned for my male genitalia, pulling and tucking as he described the procedure, and there was a little discomfort because of my testicles. After the orchiectomy I was sore but ecstatic that they were gone and so was any discomfort when I tucked things back the way I’d been shown. So I could wear the tiny bikini at her pool but not go into the water, because of my mini-surgery. I was still freaked and thought that maybe I could get away with the maillot, but Mom pointed out that my excuse was ‘an infection …doctor’s advice …avoid chlorine …’ but that I could certainly lounge poolside with my new girlfriend. And Mom pointed out, if I was lounging, ‘catching rays’, shouldn’t I be wearing the skimpiest bikini?
I was a bundle of nerves until three minutes after I got there. The breast forms were small enough that even in the tiny cups of the bikini top–well, they were tiny to me!–they were invisible. Any tan lines I’d get might look odd if I were naked, but Mom said we’d fix that during the rest of my summer tanning sessions. The main worry would be if I jumped around or bent over and Carrie could see between my top and my chest, so my top was extra tight. I just told myself ‘no jumping around’ and would make sure I faced away from Carrie if I had to bend over.
I wore my bikini under a skirt and loose top, with other clothes, towel and things in a bag. Carrie met me at the door in a hot orange day-glo bikini that was, if possible, tinier than mine! Moments after arranging ourselves on lounge chairs, I forgot my nerves. I didn’t even have to orchestrate things; she laid a towel on a chair and went to get some bottles of cold water, so I could bend over as I spread out my towel. The weight of the breast forms–Mom had glued them to me–was a welcome reminder of Things To Come. And I was all arranged naturally when Carrie returned and plopped down. I relaxed and it was just two girlfriends tanning, giggling, and having a great time! The only difference was that when she overheated, she jumped in the pool, while I went to this shower they had in a corner of the yard. Carrie laughed that she liked to use it after she swam to rinse off the chlorine, so she did one swoosh through the pool to cool off and then joined me under the shower, giggling. Then back to our lounges and life was good!
The following week I returned to my doctor and everything looked great, some sutures were removed, and then the glue gun came out and the penis disappeared. It was heaven to look as I should, and I had absolutely no problems with the penis being gone; the psychologists praised how well I was ‘acclimated and acculturated to female anatomy’, as one of them put it. And there were no medical problems, either; I had regular check-ups–in the stirrup chair, of course–and periodically the doctor would dissolve the glue and clean me up, examine, and re-glue everything. Apparently I was lucky and never ripped or tore or–worst case–flopped down. I was secure in every way, and probably best of all was knowing that testicles were not an issue.
There were several benefits to the orchiectomy; the testicles had been busy producing testosterone and now I wouldn’t have that ‘poison’ in my system, allowing my estrogen to work faster to feminize my body. There was none of the discomfort of having testicles, and the empty scrotal sacs looked great as labia. They often have people like me place their testicles back up in the abdomen, but there can be complications down the line. So–no testicles, no complications. Mom had trouble keeping a straight face as she lectured me about avoiding a ‘camel toe’, but I was so happy that I could even have one! The upshot was that I could wear the tightest bikini bottoms, or even shower with other girls, and my groin looked just like theirs.
My groin did, but my chest was another matter. I was starting to bud in response to the hormones I’d started, but like every girl, my breasts were just too darned slow to develop! It had been embarrassing the first time I stripped in front of Carrie before swimming. I told her that my many doctors’ appointments were because of ‘some problem with my Fallopian tubes’, leaving out the truth which was that I didn’t have any–some problem! And it caused a delay in my puberty that was only now coming on line. Fortunately, I could remove my panties and put on my swimsuit–and she could see my tan lines from sunning myself in my bikini–and Carrie saw that I was a girl, based on my groin rather than my tiny new breasts.
By the end of the summer, though, I was using a gel bra like a lot of girls, and I was ready to go to my senior year at my new school, as a girl, with Girls’ PE, and I couldn’t help but giggle at my old Westmont coach asking me if that’s what I wanted–yes, I did!
Over the summer I’d gotten a legal name change to Angela Marie Walker, my mother’s maiden name. She kept her married name for awhile because it was the name she was known by at work, but around Thanksgiving she transferred to a new branch closer to us and filed her petition so she became ‘Ms. Gail Walker’. As a mother, let people think it was Mrs.; she didn’t care.
Then she met a great guy, Dan, at her new office, and things are heating up between them, which is absolutely wonderful and I couldn’t be happier for her.
So we are the Walker women, as Mom teased, in our new apartment. It was farther away from her job at first, but she got that transfer, and it was closer to La Rioja for me. And it was a two-block walk from Crestview High School, which scored second-best academically and number one when they factored in sports. I became a Crestview Senior; our cover story was ‘Mom got transferred from Pittsburg’ and the truth was, nobody really cared.
I was accepted immediately as a girl and got some new girlfriends, Heather and Stephanie. I was still very friendly with Carrie and my cover story with her was Mom’s transfer across town; it all worked out. Carrie and I did a lot of things together over the summer, and sometimes with another girl from her school, Susan, and later with Gina, the girl I’d met in the restroom line when I’d met Carrie. Gina had finally broken up with the guy–he was an asshole–but she was a needy type. All in all, though, I was learning so much about girls’ lives and my doctors were pleased with my socialization.
Of course, that word included being social with boys. We all cruised and flirted with boys, and I found myself attracted to several. It was such a shock the first time I felt warm and damp and my heart was racing, because then I knew! A very nice boy in my English class asked me to Homecoming, and the fantastically wonderful madness of Homecoming for girls was only topped by the sweetness of his goodnight kiss.
But I wanted to focus on the best grades I could and didn’t want to go steady–or go further on dates–and he drifted away. I spent Christmas single, but it was the happiest Christmas of my entire life–of Mom’s too, I think. And by the end of January I kind of had a boyfriend, a baseball player named Steve. Now his kisses weren’t just sweet–they were mad sexy! But the first time he caressed my breasts, I just about lost my mind. I told him I wasn’t going to go all the way but we did everything except that!
I finished the year with a 3.87 GPA and honors in Advanced Spanish. I took mostly AP courses so they counted for more with colleges. I had decided to go to State because it was affordable for us and had a very good Languages department.
Working at La Rioja had improved my Spanish tremendously. And through the restaurant, I met their meat supplier. This is a pretty prosaic job in most restaurants, but since Argentine beef is so highly regarded, and the Mendozas had a direct supplier, he was held in very high esteem. We began talking and I was interested in more aspects of the restaurant and by spring, I was offered a job with the supplier. The Mendozas gave me their blessing and I had the experience of coming full circle–I was the one that had to approve the new hostess, and gave her advice the way Rosa had with me. Rosa’s difficult pregnancy yielded a perfectly healthy baby boy but it took a lot out of her; by the start of summer she was doing well. She could probably have come back to hostess but her hands were happily full with her kids.
Santiago and I were friends. Lots of people thought we were boyfriend-girlfriend, or soon would be, but it was a genuine friendship and not awkward because of my past. By the end of summer, he had met a wonderful girl named Victoria and I just had to tell him to go slow and not become a father before he graduated!
It was Santiago that nudged me towards the meat supplier, based on my new knowledge of the restaurant and what he knew of me. The fantastic thing about the job with the meat supplier was that I would get to travel to Argentina after I graduated! It was part of the job and suddenly I have a possible future in international meat distribution.
Graduation was wonderful and filled with all the typical stuff; lots of giggles and lots of tears and everything was worth it to hear the principal call out ‘Angela Marie Walker’ and get my diploma with honors.
But my true graduation takes place next week: In the middle of summer vacation, I’m taking a month-long vacation, of sorts. My eighteenth birthday is next Tuesday; on Wednesday I enter the hospital and have what I call my ‘corrective’ surgery. They will remove the penis and create my vagina and then I can get on with things. Six weeks after that, I will fly to Buenos Aires for a week, and then return for a week and then start at State.
A year ago Mom joked about blessing pantyhose for starting the events that led to me becoming who I am today. The funny thing is, like every girl I know, I rarely wear pantyhose because they’ve gone out of fashion for everyday wear. Smooth and sleekly bare legs are in. Of course, I love tights during the winter, too! But Mom was right; if it hadn’t been for Susan Berger’s pantyhose …
I saw Susan not long ago in Dillard’s; she was not wearing them.
The End