Chapter One: School Days

Randy's closing words were etched into my mind. As I ran away from him on Christmas Eve, trying to end an affair that should never have started, he urged me to keep his gift “as a memento of this evening.”

I wanted to forget him. Not because I didn't love him, but because I did love him. He was so good-looking, tall and muscular with unruly blond hair and a cowlick that just didn't seem to want to behave. He had an innocence about him that was so beguiling and, in truth, matched my own innocence and lack of experience with love.

Our romance was doomed, I knew it. Nothing good could come from continuing to be together, I was convinced. I was nearing my twenty-fourth birthday – it would come in just two short months on St. Patrick's Day – and Randy had just turned sixteen. He was a junior in high school, and I was an adult. Didn't that fact alone make me a sexual predator under the law? Besides how could he know his own mind at age sixteen? Would he not soon ditch me when he found a cute classmate that would become his prom date?

Then there was the secret that I withheld from him: anatomically, I was a man. How could I tell him that when all he saw – as he said over-and-over – was a pretty young woman?

Yes, it was a doomed romance. But I couldn't forget him.

In the dreary weeks of January – after the bright lights of Christmas had dimmed only to be followed by chilly air, cloudy skies and occasional snows that quickly turned to slush – all I could think about was Randy. It seemed almost every night as I sat in my apartment – alone – that I was tempted to email his friend Carmen to ask her to pass on a message to him. It was the only way we could ever meet again, since I had refused to give Randy (or his two friends, Ryan and Carmen) my phone number or email address. I had reluctantly agreed to take Carmen's email address, just in the remote instance that I'd want to re-establish contacts with them.

How often I debated with myself! Why not just email Carmen and thus provide her with a way to have Randy contact me? What harm would it do? We could be online friends, after all. But, after several weeks, my better judgment took over: I could never again resume the romance. It was ended!

But was it really ended? For months, I kept the gift Randy had insisted I take from him on Christmas Eve in a drawer hidden under my lingerie, still in its gift box. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought. I wondered how I could return the gift, since it was such a symbol of our forbidden love for each other, but never approached Carmen to work out the return. One bleak March day, I moved my lingerie about so that I could see the box. For a few moments, I debated whether I should open it up again and look at it.

It was a necklace with a gold peace symbol dangling at the end of a thin, dainty gold chain. It was too lovely to hide in a drawer. I took it out and hung it on my vanity mirror, right at eye level where I’d see it every day. How could I forget such a gorgeous, loving boy like Randy?

*****
In Mid-January, I got an email message from the Superintendent of the Sunrise Harbor School District, offering me an interview for a temporary position as an English teacher for freshmen and sophomores at the Admiral Farragut High School. They needed someone to take over the duties of a teacher who was going on maternity leave.

The message was most encouraging: “Please reply immediately, since we need to fill this position by Feb. 1 and the start of the next semester. We'd like you to interview on Friday morning, Jan. 17, here at Adm. Farragut High with Principal Theresa Hammond. Are you available then? Urgent!”

I had only just gotten up and was still in my nightie when I found the email message. It seemed like I needed to make an instant decision on this since Friday was only two days away, and I'd have to arrange to get off work. This was the answer to my desires after two years of fruitless searching for a job in which to use my English degree; I also had a minor in education and had qualified for a teaching certificate. If I did well enough as a substitute, maybe they'd offer me a position for the future.

Yet, I suddenly had a wave of fear come over me; I had been accepted well at the nursing home, where I had worked now for almost a year. My co-workers, the bosses and the patients had accepted me just as I was: a growingly effeminate young man who was mistaken for a woman more often than he was considered a man. I thought fondly of old Mrs. Rockwell who insisted upon calling me “miss,” even though I told her I was a “mister.”

“Oh don't kid me, darling,” she responded every time I told her. “You're such a pretty young lady.”

Finally several weeks ago, I began letting her call me “Julie,” which was the name I had chosen for myself when I was dressed as a woman, which I usually was when I got home from work each night.

I could be as girlish as I wanted at the nursing home, and usually wore girl's slacks and blouses while on the job, even though my name tag said “Jason.” My hair was long and I wore clear polish on my fingernails, which were always neatly tapered and manicured. Several of the women at work had commented how pretty my hands were; they were slender, smooth and pale.

As a teacher, I'd have to try to enhance a masculine appearance; how else could I control a classroom of high school students who likely had little interest in verbs and nouns or “Silas Marner” or other similar classic books I'd have to assign? Could I pull it off? The prospect terrified me! The fact, however, was that I was poorly paid – as all nursing home workers are – and even a substitute teacher's salary was bound to be better. Besides, I had a college degree in English and I was doing work in a nursing home which would never utilize my apparent skills.

“I'll accept the interview. Is 10 a.m. OK?” I emailed back.

I showered and readied myself for work, returning to check emails just before I left for work. The superintendent had already replied: “See you at 10 a.m. Check into office at Farragut. Call me at 555-223-0802 if your plans change. Adams, Supt. of Schools Sunrise Harbor District.”

It seemed they were seriously interested in me. That made me feel good, but it didn't remove the fear that I felt at adventuring into a new, more challenging way of life. Was I strong enough to handle it?

*****
I couldn't stop shivering as I dressed on Friday for my interview; to be sure it was an unseasonably cold morning in January, but I knew my shivers came more from nerves than from the five below wind chill temperatures blanketing the area. I still wondered whether I'd look manly enough, even though I had removed all signs of makeup and fingernail polish and tied my long hair back into a ponytail, not untypical of the type worn by athletes.

Nonetheless, I knew my wispy body frame hardly connoted strength and confidence. Only recently, one of the husky aides at the nursing home had opined: “Why darling you could be blown over with a feather!” She was not being offensive, since she had only seconds before been joking about her own massive body. Yet, she was accurate, I felt.

It wasn't until I was on the train that I realized that I'd be getting off at Wantoch, the same train stop that Randy did during my trips to and from Point Pleasant, the beach resort area where we met. It dawned on me then that Randy – the boy I most wanted to avoid seeing – might be a student at Admiral Farragut. What if he was a student in one of my classes, or in my homeroom? I began to feel faint and I considered using my cell phone to call Superintendent Adams that I had to cancel.

As I considered this idea, the train's loudspeaker system announced: “Next stop in one minute is Wantoch. Please exit safely and quickly.”

Admiral Farragut High School was one of two secondary schools in the Sunrise Harbor District along the Atlantic Coast that covered a sprawling area that was largely economically depressed. I hoped against all hopes that Randy attended the other high school. The school was a block-wide three-story red brick affair, typical of those built during the 1930s under Franklin D. Roosevelt's Public Works Administration (PWA) program. It was but a short walk from the train station, but I was shivering mightily by the time I walked up to the main entrance. Embedded into the brick framing the ornate entrance was a square marble stone stating simply “1935,” obviously the year the building was constructed.

It looked like a fortress, and the once fancy oak doors with their lovely windows had been covered with sheets of steel along the bottom and heavy duty screening over the stained glass, leaded panes. A sign on the middle door read: “Doors Lock at 7:25 a.m. Use call box to the right for permission to enter.” I knew that students had to be in their classrooms at that time, but still it seemed the notice set a rather forbidding tone. Was the school so dangerous that it needed to lock its doors once the school day began?

I had been afraid to apply to teach in the schools in my own large city since its schools were known for much violence; I thought – apparently in error – that an invitation to teach in this more exurban setting might be safer. The voice on the call box interrogated me closely before buzzing me into a building, where I was immediately met by two tall, husky male guards in uniforms who ordered me through a metal detector and further examined me with a wand before directing me to the office.

The whole experience made me want to flee the scene.

*****
My interview with Principal Theresa Hammond went quickly. Upon presenting myself in the main office – a surprisingly cheerful place with the secretaries smiling instead of scowling – I waited hardly a minute before she came out of her office to greet me. She, too, was smiling and had a warm, pleasant face. She was a statuesque African-American woman wearing a well-tailored brown suit; she was still strikingly attractive and I judged her age to be in the forties.

“Jason Pearson, welcome to Farragut,” she announced, recognizing me at once.

“Yes,” I said, rising from my seat to greet her. She seemed to tower over me and I felt immediately intimidated.

It turned out Mrs. Hammond had contacted my nursing home supervisor, Emily Green, who had known I was going for a job interview, as well as my college advisor; both apparently had given her glowing references. My college grades had been pretty good.

“I have no qualms about your qualifications, Mr. Pearson, but I wonder how you're going to be able to handle the students,” she said after we had discussed my background and my own hopes for my future. “This is not the easiest school in which to teach, I must warn you.”

I nodded and mentioned seeing all the security present in the building; I had become used to that from my own time at an urban high school.

“Believe it or not, Mr. Pearson we have a high rate of poverty in this area, plus many of our students are from immigrant families. Some are perfectly admirable students and eager to learn, but we have more than our share of trouble makers.”

“I'm used to that, Mrs. Hammond, having attended such a school in the city,” I said, as if that were reassuring to my confidence. I didn't tell her that most of the time I went to school scared stiff about being bullied and feeling too weak to fight back. I had endured the four years by allying myself with two friends – both girls – and we made a threesome that helped give us all courage, me more so than the others.

“To be honest, Mr. Pearson, I must say you're not the most robust of men,” she said. “I had hoped to get a man for this semester, since men can often handle the roughnecks better, and I do have concerns about you. You really seem quite fragile, but sometimes people will fool you with their strength. I just hope you're up to it.”

“I understand, ma'am,” I said. “But I'd like to try. I do have some ideas that might help them all to enjoy the classes and maybe even learn something.”

She dismissed me and said she'd contact me on Monday to let me know her final decision. She assigned one of the school aides to give me a tour of the school. I was surprised to see how clean and well-polished the school had been maintained, even though it was now more than eighty years old. Since classes were in session, I saw few students in the halls. I was able to peek through the windows in several classroom doors, the classes seemed peaceful enough. I held out hope that Mrs. Hammond's warnings were exaggerated, though I can't say I was convinced they were.

My biggest fear, of course, was to see Randy in one of the classrooms or the school's hallways; would he recognize me? Then I remembered he had told me he was a student at Hamilton, the other high school in the District.

In spite of that concern – and my general fear about being able to handle groups of rowdy high school students – I still felt I had to accept the position if it were offered. My weekend was filled with tension as I wondered if I was doing the right thing in leaving my comfortable, easy job for this more challenging one – a job in which I had to be a man.

*****
“How did I get to be so girlish?” I asked myself the next morning; it was the Saturday after my job interview.

I looked at myself in the mirror after my morning shower; the room was permeated with sweet scents from the moisturized perfumed soaps and shampoos I used. Several bras and satiny panties hung on towel bars where I had placed them the previous night after washing them. I took seriously the rule that a girl should hand wash most of her delicates.

It was certainly a girl in the mirror, a girl using a hair dryer to blow upon her wet light brown tresses that tickled the top of her back. The girl's skin was almost an alabaster, and she had slender shoulders and thin arms that accentuated her delicate frame. She had wrapped a towel up to cover what appeared to be tiny breasts. I looked at the girl in the mirror and I was so happy with what I saw; I loved my image.

How indeed could this lovely creature be transformed into a young man in two short weeks? I was worried, and becoming terrified that I could muster up the commanding nature that I'd have to show to be able to teach in a classroom of some thirty teenagers, most of whom likely didn't want to be there. Was I not but an innocent, shy young lady?

As I did on all weekend mornings, I put on a set of my freshly washed panties and bra; I had stuffed A-cup sized breast forms into the bra. The day was dawning with temperatures well below zero, prompting me to put on navy blue tights made of a heavy cotton material. I stepped into blue women's slacks and slipped on a pink blouse with ruffles and a little girl collar. I found a light blue cardigan sweater to further keep me warm in my chilly house.

As much as I hated the idea, I realized I should go out that day even in the extreme cold; the fact was I needed to get some clothes suited for a young male teacher. In the time I had worked at the nursing home, my clothes had become almost totally feminine, though I kidded myself into thinking they were unisex clothes.

My sleep the previous night had been most fitful. My heart seemed to race as I lie in bed on my side, my right hand caressing the soft bicep of my left arm, admiring its mushy, dainty features. I thought of the kisses from Randy, his fresh young lips upon mine as we sat on Christmas Eve on a bench, nestled together to stay warm, aware only of ourselves while ignoring the sparkling reflection of a nearly full moon dancing upon the light waves of the water.

Nonetheless, even with all of the tossing and turning I did when trying to get to sleep that night, the shower revived me and I felt ready to attack the cold and go shopping. How dearly I would have liked to shop for dresses or skirts, but I knew that day I'd have to rebuild my male wardrobe in anticipation of a job offer coming through.

I knew my walk and mannerisms had grown more effeminate in the recent years, particularly since my mother died, leaving me alone. I had never been able to connect up with any boys or men as I grew. I always felt alienated from them. I'd played with several girls growing up, and even gained close friendships with a few of them. In high school, I chummed around a lot with two girls, going to movies, coffee shops or shopping until they discovered boys – real boys – in their junior year. Now, my best friends were some of my co-workers at the nursing home, but of course I only saw them on the job; most were older women and married.

Even the boots I put on to head out for shopping were meant for women; I had begun wearing my mother's leather boots that were warm, fit me perfectly and were great protection in the cold and snow. They had a short heel and I had no trouble with them since I had been wearing heels often when dressed en femme. My padded winter coat – with a hood – was dark red in color and supposed to be unisex, but it had a definite womanly look. Repeatedly I was addressed as “miss” or “ma'am” when wearing it. I guess it defined me as well as anything. Not quite a woman, but certainly not a man.

*****
I was dressed appropriately masculine, I thought, for my first day at Admiral Farragut High School, having donned dark pants, a blue shirt with a plain dark blue tie and a gray herringbone jacket. I knew it was a bit more formal than what I suspected most teachers wore, but I felt such an outfit might enhance a sense of authority. Nonetheless, I didn't think it would since I was approaching my first morning at the school with fear gnawing at my gut. I was walking into a deep unknown.

To make matters worse, the morning had dawned as a clear, numbingly cold day. The prospect proved to be realized and I was chilled to the bone as the cold penetrated though my parka, thanks to a head-on brisk wind, during the walk from the train station to the school. My hiking boots – which I had purchased over the weekend to show my masculinity – crunched in patches of snow as I walked.

Fortunately, I was spared the chore of entering through the main door in a mix of students waiting to go through metal detectors. Mrs. Hammond instructed me to enter through a door off the teachers' parking lot.

“Not in here, young man,” an older man told me as I entered. “Students go around the front.”

He was seated at a small desk just inside the door, obviously placed there as a security check. I realized that with my soft looking face and longish hair he must have mistaken me for a student. I had hardly any facial hair, and needed to shave but twice a week, and as short and slight as I was I guess it was easy to believe I was a student. At least he called me “young man” instead of “miss.”

I stuttered in reply, phlegm rising in my mouth as the fright of the moment engulfed me, “But . . . ah . . . ah . . . I'm a teacher.”

“I don't know you. Where is your badge?” he said gruffly.

“I'm a new substitute, for the English teacher,” I said.

“Oh, they told me someone new was coming in. Let me check my papers here,” he said, putting down the morning newspaper he was reading and fumbling about the desk. I waited patiently.

“You must be Jason Pearson?” he asked.

I smiled and nodded in the affirmative.

“Welcome to Farragut, Mr. Pearson, and good luck here,” he said. He directed me to the office; I had the feeling the guard felt sorry for me as if I would be in for a hard time. His greeting of “good luck” seemed ironic.

Chapter Two: Meeting the Students

Sally McGuire seemed to tower over me as I entered Room 323 where I was to replace her in teaching freshman and sophomore English classes; I was also to take over her extra duties as assistant coach for the school’s forensics team. Not only was she a tall blond woman, but she was also a woman with a large, husky frame. There was no doubt she was pregnant, but she was also a woman on whom it appeared to make even more attractive. I later learned she was expecting her third child and she had the easy-going appearance of one that nothing would seem to bother.

“Welcome Mr. Pearson,” she said jovially as I walked, instantly recognizing me as her substitute.

I took her hand as she offered it, feeling quite inadequate since my hand seemed tiny in her firm grasp.

“I hope I have another week before I go into labor,” she offered. “If I do, I think I can help you get adjusted in that time. Mrs. Hammond says you come highly recommended, even though this is your first teaching assignment.”

“Yes, Mrs. McGuire, it is my first,” I said. I feared my voice came out as a squeak.

“Call me Sally, and I guess you're Jason, right?”

“Yes.”

Students began filing in and taking their seats for the freshman class; some were talking and pushing each other around, while others moved in sleepily and slumped in their seats. It was the first class of the day, and I knew there might be a few sleepyheads in the classroom. The school buzzer rang and there was a last-minute rush of students into the room. I stood erect at the side of the room, as Mrs. McGuire opened the class for the day, quieting down the bunch with a booming, commanding voice in which she yelled an inelegant “Shut up.”

The teens laughed, but quickly obeyed.

“When you going to pop, Mrs. McGuire?” a curly-hair boy in the front yelled.

“Wouldn't we all like to know, Elliott?” she smiled.

“Yeah, since I got Thursday and ten o'clock in the morning in our pool,” he laughed.

“I picked today at noon,” a dread-locked girl in the back said. “You better hurry up, Mrs. McGuire.”

“Now that's enough kids,” she said. “You know you shouldn't be gambling. The baby will come when it comes.”

I stood in the front of the room, taking all of this in and admiring how gently and skillfully Mrs. McGuire handled the students playing with them while keeping them in line. I realized that it would take years of experience before I could master such a talent. Then, too, I think the teacher's commanding physical presence may have helped; it was something I certainly lacked.

“I want to introduce Mr. Pearson who you see standing over near the window,” Mrs. McGuire said. “Beginning next week he will be handling this class, unless something happens sooner. Meanwhile, he'll be here with us this week, getting to know all of you and occasionally taking over the class. I'm sure you'll find him to be a good teacher and I hope you give him the same effort that you all have given to me this year.”

I gave a tentative wave to the students and several shouted out, “Welcome Mr. Pearson.”

“Did you wish to say anything to the students, Mr. Pearson?” Sally Pearson asked.

She caught me off guard and for a moment I stood tongue-tied, uncertain what to say. Finally, I began in a tentative, almost squeaky voice that I was afraid showed off my nervousness.

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. McGuire. I look forward to teaching this class and I know I'll have to work hard with you all to win the strong support that I can see you've given Mrs. McGuire.”

“We will, Mr. Pearson,” said the girl with the dread-locks, a strikingly thin girl with an unfortunate overbite.

“But he better learn to speak louder,” quipped a boy in the back row. He had a mischievous smile on his face and I could see immediately that he might be tough to handle.

“That's enough, Thomas,” Mrs. McGuire spoke up. She turned to me and told me to take a seat in the back of the room and observe the class. As luck would have it, the only vacant seat was next to Thomas, the boy who had criticized me.

“Now, kids, we'll begin the fun part of this class,” she said to the class. “Let's talk about adverbs and adjectives.”

Groans went up from the class and Mrs. McGuire laughed: “See Mr. Pearson, adverbs and adjectives are fun, aren't they? These kids don't know how much fun they can be.”

“Yes, they can just be a barrel of laughs,” I said in a joking tone from the back.

Most of the class giggled at that, looking at me with some appreciation that I might be a fun teacher for them.

Mrs. McGuire challenged me then, saying, “And how is that, Mr. Pearson?”

I knew I had to think fast in order to keep the respect of the students. I knew Mrs. McGuire was playing with me, hoping that I could show off some talent that might raise me – such a wimpy person – in the eyes of these students. She was taking a gamble, and I knew I had to rise to the occasion.

“May I come up to the board, Mrs. McGuire?”

She nodded and I walked to the front, the whole class in anticipation, and I grabbed a red marker to use on the whiteboard, quickly drawing a girly happy face and commenting: “This is a student at Farragut High as she is studying adverbs and adjectives.” Then I used the balloonish graffiti-like words that said: “Happy Student.”

The class laughed. I always had drawing skills and loved to draw cartoon-type figures and had mastered the graffiti style, not that I had ever used it on a billboard or building.

“May I continue, Mrs. McGuire?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” she said, smiling and taking a seat at her desk, watching intently.

I quickly drew a picture of the girl running and then turned to the class and asked what verb described her action.

“Run,” they yelled out in unison. I wrote “run” in my balloon lettering.

Then I drew a road under the girl's feet and as the class what noun that would be. “Road,” they shouted. I wrote “road.”

From there I proceeded to get the class to engage in selecting adverbs for “run” and adjectives for “road,” always using a drawing and my balloon lettering to make the point. I could tell I had gained the attention of the class, and they might even have found some reason to respect me.

“Now wasn't that fun, class?” asked Mrs. McGuire.

They yelled out “yes” and began to clap. I returned to me seat and Thomas leaned over to me: “Did you draw like that on boxcars and garage doors?”

“No and I wouldn't do that, Thomas, and don't you ever do it either,” I whispered back at him. I could tell he was disappointed, but nonetheless I think I may have dampened his eagerness to taunt me in class. At least I hoped I did.

The class let out and in the five minutes between classes and I asked Mrs. McGuire if it was wrong for me to do my little artwork form of teaching.

“Not at all. I know you're young and need something to impress the kids, and it seemed to work. Do you mind if we do the same routine in the rest of the classes?”

We did that in the four remaining classes; two of her classes were for sophomores and they were studying 20th Century American literature, and were reading “The Great Gatsby” at the moment. I was able to draw Gatsby and his 1920s cars on the board in discussing the book to the great delight of the sophomores.

I took the train back to the city that afternoon feeling pleased with myself. Maybe I could really pull off becoming a teacher after all and in spite of my wimpy appearance. Still I wished I could have been in front of the classroom in a dress and as a woman.

*****
Perhaps it was my drawing skills, especially the graffiti-like words that enthralled the students enough so that they forgave my puny appearance and somewhat effeminate mannerisms.

“You're a hoot, Mr. Pearson,” a sophomore girl named Barbara said to me on the Friday as I completed my first week on the job.

She was a short girl who fashioned her straight neck-length dark hair in bangs. She had a tiny turned up nose and sparkling green eyes with a few freckles that seemed to add a bit of charm to her face.

“Thank you, Barbara, but I hope you're learning something,” I said, smiling at her.

“Oh yes, sir, I am. I finally seem to understand Gatsby.”

“Well that's good, because the principal wants a teacher in the classroom not a comic.”

“You're both, Mr. Pearson,” she said, tossing her head in a flirtatious manner.

Sensing the girl was making tentative advances, I was momentarily excited at the prospect; yet I knew that was something I had to resist as a teacher. I took on a stern demeanor, “You’d better run on to your next class Barbara or you'll be late.”

“OK, Mr. Pearson,” the girl said and reluctantly, it seemed to me, turned her back and moved out of the room.

I had been pleased with how I had progressed in the first week of teaching; since Friday was Mrs. McGuire's last day before her maternity leave she had let me handle virtually all of the classes. I was totally alone for the two sophomore classes in literature, and they went relatively smoothly.

“You've got a knack for teaching, I believe,” Mrs. McGuire told me on Thursday. “Frankly, you surprised me; I didn't think you had it in you. You seemed so … oh how should I say it … shy and retiring.”

“I surprised myself, since I was scared stiff the kids would take advantage of me,” I said.

“So far, you've seemed to win them over, but be warned, this could just be a honeymoon period for you. You’ve got four months of teaching coming.”

It wasn't an entirely easy week, however. I had overhead a couple of my students who speculated as they left class one day whether I was gay. “He prances about like a fag sometimes,” one of them said as they moved out of earshot; it appeared the other girl nodded in approval.

I knew there must be rumors that I was gay, even though I doubted that I was. Even with my lingering infatuation with Randy I didn't feel it was a male-to-male attraction, but rather it was my female persona responding to a handsome young boy. After all, when I met Randy, I felt I was a young woman, not a man in any sense.

Then there was Mr. Edwards, a chemistry teacher. He approached me in the teachers’ lounge early one morning before classes opened. I was alone in the room getting coffee as he entered the room and approached, placing a hand gently on my upper arm. “Welcome to our den of peace, away from the madding crowd,” he said, his voice soft and syrupy.

I smiled at him and began to move away, but his hand tightened on my arm; it was still a gentle hold but it discouraged me from moving away from him.

“I'm Jason Pearson, subbing for Sally McGuire now,” I said.

“I've seen you here before and wanted to meet you. I'm Jon Edwards, chemistry and science club,” he said, giggling as he introduced himself.

He removed his hand from my arm and offered me his hand. We shook and I felt his smooth hand in mine. Jon Edwards was several inches taller than me and, in contrast to most of the other teachers, was impeccably dressed. He wore light brown, neatly pressed slacks, a light blue shirt and a dark brown blazer. What really stood out, however, was the dark red bow tie he wore, which I had heard was sort of a personal trademark. His nails were manicured and his full head of brown hair was neatly combed and trimmed. In older literature he'd have been described as a dandy.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, openly pleased to have such a warm welcome from another faculty member. I had few friends and it would be nice, I thought, to have a colleague I could talk to.

“Maybe you'd like to join me for a drink some day after school,” he offered.

“Well usually I take the train back to the city right after school, but I suppose I could wait and go later,” I agreed.

I sat down on the lone sofa in the lounge and was surprised when Jon sat down right next to me, rather than one of the easy chairs adjacent to the sofa. His thigh touched mine.

“Well, good. How about tonight?”

His invitation threw a chill into me; he was getting awfully chummy, I thought.

“Oh no, I can't,” I stammered in a hurried reply. “I forgot I have an appointment with the cable man at home.”

It was a lie, since I don't subscribe to cable, but it was all I could think of. Edwards' forward behavior bothered me.

Just then, the door opened and I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Duke, the physical education teacher, was entering. He was a big, bald man who looked like he belonged in a professional wrestling ring.

I felt Jon Edwards move away from me and get up. “Well, maybe some other time,” he said, moving to the door. I wondered whether he felt rejected after I failed to take up his invitation.

Mr. Duke went to the refrigerator and pulled a health drink out, looking at me, a degree of disgust on his face. “I see you found a soulmate, Pearson,” he said.

“Soulmate? What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. “I hardly know him.”

The husky teacher merely shook his head in apparent disgust and turned his back to me. He sat down at the round table in the center of the room and began to read the sports section of the morning newspaper.

Suddenly I was horrified; I finally understood the “soulmate” remark. I had remembered an earlier discussion in the teachers’ lounge when Mr. Duke expressed strong dislike for the growing trend toward acceptance of same-sex marriages during a spirited argument with Miss Aquino, a math teacher, who favored them. I remembered, too, the remark he made at one point in which he said, “Well, maybe that's the only way we're ever get Mr. Edwards married off.”

It was clear that Mr. Duke considered Mr. Edwards to be gay, and now I suspected that was probably an accurate assessment; since I knew my own mannerisms to be somewhat girlish I realized the P.E. teacher thought I was as well.

“Mr. Duke, you hardly know me, so don't jump to conclusions,” I said, causing him to look up from his newspaper. “Besides, whether we are who you seem to think we are, it's none of your business. But don't judge me.”

I surprised myself with my firm response. It totally silenced the monster of a man, something I'm sure he's not used to getting when he assumes his bullying role. Finally, he turned to me: “Just forget I said anything, Jason. I was out of line.”

His tone was conciliatory, and I suspected that the reason he backed down so easily was because I knew the school district had recently approved a strict non-discrimination policy, particularly aimed at sexual orientation issues. The union, too, had echoed the support of the policy, indicating that Mr. Duke put his own job in jeopardy.

“All right, Hank,” I said using his first name. “I'll forget it this time, but only this time.”

“I really am sorry, Jason,” he said. The man seemed truly contrite and I suspected he might even become a friendly colleague in the school. I surprised him by asking his opinion as to the decline of the New York Mets baseball team during the season, and he responded by blaming their dysfunction on the Mets front office. I had always followed the Mets, perhaps because I identified more with losers. I argued back that there were a lot of rookies on this year’s team, which bode well for future years. We found ourselves in a full-fledged discussion. I could tell he was making a real effort to befriend me; maybe it was in the hope that I wouldn't lodge a complaint against him, but I sensed a certain sincerity in the man.

The incident indicated to me something I should have realized before: the other faculty members likely thought I was gay. My mannerisms might indicate that, if you believed in the stereotypes about gay men. I didn't think I was gay, since I had no desire to kiss or cuddle with Mr. Edwards or any other man. Yet, I did dream of being a lovely young lady named Julie locked in an embrace with Randy. What did it all mean?

*****
Once during the first week of school I thought I got a glimpse of Carmen, who was the girlfriend of Ryan, Randy's friend. I was in the hallway outside of the classroom between classes, watching the students hustle and jostle each other as they moved to their next class when I thought I saw her cute, round face coming toward me down the hall. I ducked quickly into the classroom, my heart pounding.

I had hoped all three would be in the district's other high school, but perhaps that was not the case.

I spent the weekend as usual dressed like Julie, but my time was spent preparing myself for the first full week of teaching. I pored over Mrs. McGuire's materials, adapting some of it to my own style, hoping to continue to interest the kids in the class and avoid some of their pranks. For the most part I dressed in sweats, tying my hair up into a bun and wearing my pink tennis shoes. If anyone looked into my home they'd see a young lady studying. For relaxation, I built myself a warm bubble bath each night before donning my nightie and climbing into my bed. My thoughts drifted to Randy. Try as I might to forget him, he was always on my mind. Yet, I knew I must never see him again. It was enough to make a girl cry.

*****
Monday came and I found myself to be in a strangely upbeat mood as I awoke, eager to return to the classroom and my students. I would be on my own, but for some reason I was confident I could handle whatever came up without totally unraveling. I was concerned that I was well-enough prepared to teach the curriculum ahead of me, but I felt I was going to handle the issue that scared me the most: my ability to relate to the students and to show authority. I had begun the teaching stint frightened that my slender, weak body frame would cause the students to assault me both verbally and physically. In the first week I had seen that if I had something to offer them that they might listen and even respect me.

The only sad note was that I would have to put aside my panties, bra, skirts and dresses – not to mention earrings, bracelets and necklaces – in favor of my male outfits.

On Tuesday morning, as I headed along the hallway about 15 minutes before classes began toward my room I noticed Carmen walking toward me. She was the only person in the otherwise empty corridor, and it was impossible to avoid her. Naturally our eyes met and I stifled an urge to greet her with “Hi, Carmen,” and was only able to utter a hurried “good morning” after the girl had said “good morning Mr. Pearson.” As we passed, I felt the girl gave me an extra close look.

Had she seen something familiar in me, I wondered? And, how did she know my name? She wasn't in any of my classes. I even wondered if she sensed my charade as Julie and our meetings at Point Pleasant.

That afternoon, after classes ended, and the students had left, I spent time filling out a special report required of all new teachers by the state's Education Department. As I labored over it, I heard someone enter the room, and I looked up to see it was Carmen.

I was so startled when I looked up that I must have looked as if I had seen a ghost. The girl must have sensed that.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Pearson. I didn't mean to bother you.”

Quickly, I gathered my composure, trying to keep my voice even to disguise my nervousness, I said, “No problem, I guess you startled me, but what can I do for you?”

“Sir, I'm Carmen Mendoza, and I just had to ask you something,” she began.

“Yes?”

“Well, you look just like a lady my friends and I met recently,” she said tentatively. “Oh, I didn't mean you looked like a lady, but that you had kind of the same face and all. Her name was Julie. Do you have a cousin or sister or some other relative by that name, I wondered?”

“No, I don't think so?” I lied, quickly looking down to the papers in front of me.

“You look so much like her, but I'm sorry to have bothered you,” Carmen said, turning on her heel to leave the room.

“Wait,” I yelled after her.

She stopped and turned to look at me.

“How did you know my name? I mean when we met in the hall this morning?”

She smiled: “Well I saw you several times last week and saw such a resemblance to Julie, and I followed you to your room and asked one of students what your name was.”

“Why do you have such an interest in this Julie woman?” I asked, beckoning her to stay.

“I don't have that much interest but my boyfriend's best friend liked her so much when they met that he can't forget her,” Carmen said.

“Oh?”

“It's like he's obsessed with her, and they parted and she wouldn't tell him her full name or anything.”

I smiled. It was so flattering to be so adored by someone, even a sixteen-year-old boy.

“She must be really something special”,” I said.

“Oh she was so very pretty, and so nice, too,” Carmen said.

“Sorry I couldn't help you, Carmen,” I said, turning back to the papers on my desk.

“That's OK, Mr. Pearson. Thank you for your time.”

I was shaken by the visit and had trouble concentrating on the paperwork, and finally decided to leave it for the next day. I had dodged being recognized by Carmen, but something told me this was not to be the end of it.

Chapter Three: Recognition

Whether by coincidence or design, Jon Edwards, the chemistry teacher who seemed to be so desirous of my friendship, greeted me as I was on my way out of school that day. I was still shaken by my confrontation with Carmen and bumped into Edwards as I rounded the hallway corridor.

“Well isn't this sweet,” he said, more as a statement than a question.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Edwards, I must have been day-dreaming,” I stumbled to answer.

“Oh my dear, it's Jon, you know,” he said putting a guiding hand on my shoulder.

I nodded and let myself be moved to the exit door, his arm hanging lightly on my shoulder.

“How about that drink, now?” he offered.

I excused myself and said I had to catch my train, but then he surprised me by volunteering to drive me back into the city, saying he had a dinner date with a friend and would like me to join him for a drink since he had time to kill before his date. He promised to drop me off at my home afterward. How could I refuse?

I remembered Mr. Duke's warning about Edwards, but thought it mattered little; I was not interested in a homosexual encounter and felt I could easily fend off the man. Edwards did not appear to me to be particularly physical and likely was of a more gentle nature. Besides, I really could use a friend, regardless of his sexual orientation.

Encounter – it was a fitting name for a gay bar – was located along an entertainment strip in the city that offered an eclectic mix of bars and restaurants that catered to all sorts of people; the area was once known for sleazy strip joints, dens of prostitution and drug buys, but recently had become surprisingly sterile. The bars, like the Encounter, were spiffy, creatively designed places with over-priced drinks.

Jon led me to an overstuffed leather sofa in a seating pod and directed me to sit down; rather than chose a nearby easy chair, he positioned himself next to me, so that our thighs were nearly touching. I began feeling uneasy, since the place was dark and there were few customers, as it was too early for the after-work crowd. (The one benefit of getting up early for teachers was that they could leave school by mid-afternoon, even though they usually took home papers to grade at night.)

“Jason, I've found you to be very attractive,” he said. He reached over and took my right hand and held it gently.

I didn't know what to do. Should I remove my hand, and get up and leave? I was so inexperienced in these things. I said nothing and looked ahead, paralyzed into inaction. Just then our waiter arrived with our drinks; he was a muscular young man with a crewcut, wearing a satin blouse and shiny plastic pants that fit tightly outlining his muscular thighs and curvy buttocks. He had addressed my friend by name, indicating Jon was a regular customer.

“Here are your drinks, my dears,” the waiter said.

“Thank you, Kitten,” Jon said.

The waiter called Kitten set them down and looked at me. “Why not introduce your pretty friend, Jon?”

“Isn't he a darling? Jason, meet Kitten.”

I blushed and was thankful that in the darkness the two couldn't see the red in my face. I offered my hand to Kitten and he knelt before me, taking my hand and leaning into kiss it in a formal Old World fashion.

“Nice meeting you, Jason. You're lovely and such a soft, pretty hand, too,” he said, getting up and leaving us together.

Jon could see I was bothered by the whole incident and quickly made excuses for the excessively friendly manner with which Kitten addressed me. “Don't mind him, Jason, he loves to gush over people, just like a girl.”

It was my first time in a gay bar; in fact, I rarely had gone into a bar for a drink since I rarely had any friends to join me. I had shied away from entering a bar alone since I was really too scared at what fate might befall me once inside.

Sensing my unease, Jon began talking about school asking me questions about how I liked teaching, about my background and about my likes and dislikes. I found him showing interest in me and I began to probe him as well. I felt I could easily be a friend of this man, even though I had no inclination to become physically involved. I knew I had to set the record straight with him quickly.

“Jon, I need to go soon,” I said to him after we'd been there a while. He nodded, indicating he would have to meet his friend soon.

“Before we go, Jon, I need to tell you that I value you as a new friend and would love to remain friends with you, but I must assure you I am not interested in having sex with you,” I said, trying to sound as firm and business-like as possible.

He looked at me, and grabbed my hand again. He said nothing.

“Jon, I am not gay. I may sometimes look a bit precious and maybe even effeminate, but I assure you I am not gay.”

“Do you hate gays?” he said, acting offended.

“No, certainly not. You can be whoever you want to be, Jon. I would like you as a friend, someone to share a drink with occasionally or even a movie or something, but not to kiss and hug.”

“Fair enough,” he said finally. “I'm glad you set the record straight, Jason. And, yes, I'd like to be your friend, too.”

He leaned over to hug me, and I felt comfortable as the hug seemed only to cement our friendship.

Kitten came by to take our check, which I paid, grateful for the ride into the city. Jon argued, of course, but I batted my eyes at Kitten, playing the coquettish ingénue, and the waiter took my $20 bill. I told him to keep the change, which provided him with a healthy tip. I hoped he wouldn't take that as a hint that I wanted to see him in a more intimate way, but for some reason I was feeling happy and content.

“Thank you darling. I do hope you'll grace us with your presence again,” Kitten said, sashaying off.

“I thought you weren't gay, Jason,” Jon said, laughing.

“I'm not but I couldn't resist playing up to him,” I said.

“You naughty girl,” he said.

*****
Whether it was from the alcoholic drinks or my success in navigating the gay bar scene, I felt totally giddy when Jon dropped me off at my modest home in a neighborhood of narrow lots and tiny front grass spaces. It had been my mother's house and I had never lived anywhere else, sharing it with her until her death nine months earlier. She had been my only real friend in my first twenty-three years of life, and she sheltered me and protected me from the cruelties of the outer world. Now, I was on my own, and I had been terrified over the prospects of my life ahead.

That night, again, I couldn't resist turning myself into a dainty girl named Julie. I had become energized by the sense of power and achievement I had seemed to gain in just a few short days, first in the classroom and among the students and now apparently with my pretty face and girlish appearance. It was a heady wine indeed and I worried that it might be going to my head.

Perhaps it was the two cosmopolitans I had at the gay bar that did it, but I felt like prancing in a ballet outfit I hadn't worn for over a year. Mother bought it for me after we saw “Swan Lake” performed by a talented ballet troupe from Poland; she had recognized my predilection to look feminine and dainty in my early teens and after some resistance had catered to my desires, helping me to learn the ways of a girl.

“Mother, I would love to be a ballerina,” I told her after the show when we stopped for a dessert and tea at a lovely little French restaurant close to the theater.

Tears came to my eyes as I recalled that moment and my mother's reply: “Oh darling, you could be such a lovely girl.”

I remembering that I cried at that time, too, since I knew I was not a girl; at that time, just six months before her death, I was a young man. Those were sad days for us, since my mother had been told by her doctor that she had about a year before the cancer would take her life. Mom was a trouper, though, and seemed to be more worried about me in that last year than her own growing frailty and painfulness.

“My pretty one,” she comforted me that night, holding my hand. “Let's pretty ourselves up tomorrow and have a girls' day out. Would you like that?”

“Yes, mother, very much.”

The following day was a Saturday, and for the first time we went out in public as mother and daughter. “Let's dress with style today, Julie,” she suggested that morning over breakfast, using the name we had both agreed upon as mine when I was en femme.

Despite mother's gaunt looks (the result of chemotherapy), she could still look like the lovely woman of before. We both wore the same size 8 junior size dresses and we were about the same height at five feet six inches. She had to wear a wig, of course, and chose to wear one with light brown hair fashioned into a short bob in the back and bangs combed to one side.

She wore a stylish teal-colored pleated cotton skirt that went to her knees, a hazy blue gauzy blouse, sandals with a three-inch heel and coffee-colored hose.

“Now, I think you should wear this today, Julie,” mom said reaching into my closet. By then I had collected a number of skirts, blouses and dresses.

She pulled out a separates outfit that I really adored. It boasted a peach-colored sleeveless blouse with a shirred round neckline and a flouncy skirt that hardly went to mid-thigh. It had been one of my favorite outfits, but I had worn it only in the house.

“Mom, don't you think that shows too much?” I asked her.

“Oh, darling, don't be so modest. When you have such lovely features you must show them,” she said.

“Really mom, but for the first time out. I don't want anyone to think I'm a boy,” I said.

“Don't worry about that, my sweet one. You have lovely slender arms and the prettiest of legs. No one will see any boy at all.”

Our mother-and-daughter adventure turned out to be a dream. As we shopped in one store after another, I was gushed over by clerks who seemed excited about outfitting such a lovely girl. Soon I became comfortable entering changing rooms and parading before mother and clerks and whoever else was watching.

More than once I heard the words come from clerks or customers telling mom “what a lovely daughter you have” and “you must be so proud of her.”

Mom purchased two camisoles, a new summer dress, two pairs of shorts and three tank tops, and when I thought we were done shopping, she said: “Now let's get you a swim suit.”

“We don't need to, mom. You know I don't like to swim,” I protested. It was true; not only was I a pathetic swimmer but I hated to bare my puny male body to the public.

“Nonsense, every girl needs a swim suit, if for nothing else than to lie in the sun,” she said smiling.

I was pleased that mom restrained herself and didn't insist that I wear a bikini since I feared my slightly pudgy tummy might ruin the effect. Mom must have understood that flaw in my otherwise lovely girlish body would rule out anything too revealing. She suggested a pink model with the full brief and a tankini top and I jumped at it. It was perfect, I thought.

The piece de resistance for the day, however, was the ballet outfit, a white tutu with a white leotard and a lacy top with capped sleeves. We found several pair of ballet shoes and were shocked at the price of them. When we got home that night, the ballet outfit was the first piece I put on. Oh, how I pranced about the house with music from “Swan Lake” and “Nutcracker” blaring from our sound system. Mom took pictures, and I continue to cherish them dearly.

I shall never forget that day. Mom's health declined quickly after that precious day, and we had only a few mother-and-daughter outings after that.

Thus, it was with sad reflection that I put on our CD of “Swan Lake” and pranced about in my ballet outfit that night, totally oblivious that the following morning I would have to return to being Jason, a male high school English teacher. As I tried to duplicate the “Four Little Swans” routine in the ballet, I wished I was there with three other girls performing it. Yet, the sad truth was that my legs were hardly strong enough to do ballet properly and that saddened me greatly.

As I pranced about in my pathetic way, I began wondering if Randy liked ballet. I doubted it, but I began of picturing him taking me to a performance of “Swan Lake” when the Kirov Ballet company was due in town next winter. I imagined myself in a black, sleeveless cocktail dress, with a lacy black wrap over my shoulders as we walked proudly down the aisle at Lincoln Center. I felt proud to be holding onto the arm of my handsome young man.

*****
Well into my fourth week of teaching – as our cold winter lingered on into March with piles of snow still lining the streets and chilly, gray days became the norm – it appeared that my honeymoon relationship with my students was over. That troublesome boy Thomas began it with a cheeky question on Tuesday morning after I announced that the students' assignment was to write an essay reflecting on a personal experience.

“Mr. Pearson, I'd like to write about all the girls I planked, but it would take too many pages,” Thomas said. “What should I do?”

For a moment, I was overcome and I guess I blushed.

“Does that bother you to read about sex, Mr. Pearson?” the boy pushed on, bringing laughter from several of the boy students.

At that point, Barbara, the tiny, cute girl stood up from her seat in the front, turning back to Thomas: “Any girls you would write about would be in your dreams, Thomas.”

“Yeah, you're full of bull, Thomas. No girl I know would want you,” echoed Barbara Lopez from her seat.

With that the class started laughing as Thomas tried to defend his outburst, followed by outbursts from all corners of the room. The ruckus continued unabated for a few moments, and I was shocked that I had let this class get out of hand. As I stood there appalled at the behavior of these students who had seemed to be a model class until that morning, I saw Thomas rise and challenge another boy to a fight. I realized I had to do something and surprising myself I charged down the row of desks and pushed myself directly into the pending fight, forcing myself to stand between the two boys, both taller and stronger than I could ever hope to be.

“Now stop it,” I said firmly, my voice emerging a bit squeaky, but I hoped it sounded stern and strong.

Thomas stood before me, his fist still clenched, eying me strangely; I feared he was about to punch me, but he fooled me.

“He disrespected me, Mr. Pearson,” he said, his voice emerging as a sorry whine.

“Just sit down,” I said, loudly and, I hoped, in a more masculine tone. “And you, too, Demetrius.”

Both boys did as told, and I returned to the front of the classroom. One of the students, I don't know who, yelled out. “Yayyyyyyy, Mr. Pearson,” and slowly some clapping began around the room.

“Now, class,” I interrupted the clapping. “Let's learn something from this, OK?”

They grew silent and I continued: “Who was responsible for this recent ruckus?”

“Thomas started it,” Barbara Lopez said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But who let it get almost into a fist fight?”

The class seemed puzzled; Barbara tried to help by saying “All of us students let it get out of hand.”

“No, your teacher was at fault,” I said. “You know why? When Thomas made his first remark, I should have asked him if he thought girls were weaker and needed to be controlled by men. I don't think he really believes that but Thomas did what lots of us do, he tried to show off how 'special' he was. Thomas, do you believe that?”

“Ah, I guess not, Mr. Pearson,” he said, stumbling in his speech. “But boys are stronger than girls.”

“You think so? Really? What do you think class about that statement?”

“I bet Helen Jane could beat you up Thomas,” said a husky girl student who sat near the windows.

Helen Jane was a junior student who had won wide renown for her athletic feats, both as a center for the girls’ basketball team and for shot put competition on the track team. For a few moments I directed the class in a discussion of respecting women and girls.

“That's it for now students,” I said, realizing I again had control of the class. “Thomas and Demetrius stay for a minute after class and for all of us now, let's get back to our task at hand. Turn to page eighty-six of your workbook and our sentence-structure lesson.”

A groan went up from the class, and then it was quiet, except for the turning of pages. I don't know where I got the courage to put my puny self up against these two tall, muscular boys, but I think I found the inspiration from a tiny, older woman chemistry teacher I had in my tough, urban high school. I had seen her several times intervene in front of mean-looking, tough boys to end a fight. I speculated that the boys felt they didn't want to hit a woman; maybe that's what Thomas and Demetrius thought about me as I stepped before them. I smiled at that possibility.

*****
I was surprised to see Carmen waiting for me outside the teachers' door as I left the school that afternoon.

“Were you waiting for me, Carmen?”

“Yes, sir, I need to ask you something,” she said.

“OK, but you'll have to walk along with me, or else I'll miss my train.”

The girl nodded and we turned to leave the parking lot and move up the sidewalk toward the train station. “Mr. Pearson, I want to show you something,” she said pulling her iPhone out of her jacket pocket.

“Here,” she said, pointing to a picture on the screen. I was shocked; it was a picture of me (as Julie) from last Christmas Eve next to Randy, looking like two young people in love. I recognized the setting of the picture; it was at the Coastview Café where the four of us ate that night.

“You notice that little mole on the left side of that girl's neck?” she asked.

I nodded; the mole couldn't be missed even though it wasn't large or particularly noticeable.

“I couldn't help but see that same mole on your neck yesterday when we met,” she said.

“That's a strange coincidence,” I said, afraid to admit the truth.

“It's OK, Mr. Pearson, I won't tell a soul and unless you permit me too I won't even tell Randy or my boyfriend,” the girl said hurriedly.

I was shocked at her discovery. I knew any revelation from her would end my teaching career. Nonetheless I was inclined to trust Carmen who had always seemed to be a considerate and caring person.

“What do you want, Carmen?”

“Nothing, sir, but eventually I'd like to tell Randy so that he can put his mind at ease about his infatuation for Julie.”

“Carmen, do you have some time now? Maybe I'll take a later train and we can talk at the coffee shop right here,” I suggested, my head nodding in the direction of a one-story building that had the architecture of a small town train station and was called “Coffee Stop.” I was comfortable stopping there since it was rarely used by students or teachers from Farragut.

*****
Even before we entered the coffee shop, I began to rethink my offer to explain myself to Carmen, who was a junior in high school. After all, I was an adult and a teacher and I wondered why I would have to explain anything to her. Was I being stupid? Perhaps so, but the fact was I liked Carmen and considered her to be a girl of uncommonly good common sense and hopefully a sense of understanding and fairness.

“Yes, you're right, Carmen. I am Julie, the girl you met last Labor Day and Christmas Eve,” I began, not trying to hide the fact.

“I thought so from the first minute I saw you. I don't know why, but I did. Maybe it was intuition,” she said. She didn't smile; instead her face took on a critical look.

I didn't know how to respond, and toyed with the latte before me.

“Mr. Pearson, or should I call you Julie?” she said, sarcastically.

“Call me Jason or Mr. Pearson, now, please. Whatever you're comfortable with.”

“What are you, then, Mr. Pearson? A man? Or, a woman?”

“Anatomically, I am a man, Carmen,” I said. “But the truth is that I have lots of feminine ways about me as you can probably see.”

She nodded.

“You may not believe this,” I continued. “The two times you saw me as Julie were the only two times I have ventured outside of my house looking like a woman, except for a couple times with my mother before her death. I've missed mother so much and both times you saw me I was escaping from a weekend of loneliness and ventured out as Julie. I loved the times with you and Ryan and Randy.”

“You shouldn't have led Randy on like that, though,” she said, focusing her dark eyes upon me, as if she was throwing aural darts into my soul.

I wanted to argue with her that I didn't lead the boy on, but the truth was I had relished his attention and I know I flirted with him. I knew when I was doing it that I was wrong; after all I was at least six years older and an adult while he was still a minor. I said nothing.

“How could you do that, Mr. Pearson?”

“It just happened,” I said. It was a helpless, sorry reply, I knew.

“You looked so real, so totally feminine then and really very pretty,” she continued.

I smiled and perhaps I might have even blushed.

“Look, Carmen, I am living now as a man and now that I am teaching I will never go out as a woman. I love my teaching job and I'd like to make a career of it and I think I'm a good teacher.”

Carmen smiled: “I know you're a good teacher. I have a good friend in one of your classes and she thinks you're the best. Barbara. She's my friend.”

“Well, Barbara's an excellent student and joy to have in the classroom,” I replied.

“Are you one of those . . . what do you call it . . . transsexuals?” she asked finally.

“I don't know, Carmen,” I said honestly. “Do I want to become a girl or a woman? Sometimes I think I do, but then I wonder about it.”

“I think I understand. I looked some stuff up on internet last night and I guess it's something that you can't help, right?”

“That's what they say, but I'm not sure where I'm going with this. For now, however, I am teaching as 'Mr. Pearson' and I won't do anything to disgrace the school or hurt my students.”

“You better not,” the girl said. It sounded like a threat.

“Thank you for understanding, Carmen,” I said, as she got up from the table, announcing that she had to leave because she had to get to work at her after-school job as a waitress at a family restaurant.

*****
My trip home that night on the train was a troubled one. I tried to reassure myself that Carmen Mendoza would keep my secret; she seemed to be trustworthy, but then again she was only sixteen, I guessed. I knew she was dying to tell Randy, but that I honestly felt she would not. Yet, who knew? And what of her friend in my class, Barbara Lopez? Might she eventually tell her?

Also, I knew had not exactly been truthful with her, and that bothered me. When she asked me about my desire to be a woman, I responded that I wasn't sure. The fact was I was positive I wanted eventually to be a woman and to live – and hopefully teach – as a woman. I was unhappy as a man and I couldn't wait each night to get home and change into my feminine attire, exchanging my boy briefs for one of my many satiny panties and my undershirt for a bra (36-A size with breast forms) and perhaps a ruffled blouse or a lacy cami and colorful top. Sometimes, I'd put on a print dress – particularly in warmer weather – but in late February I'd opt for a pair of slacks or a plaid, pleated skirt.

As I changed, I watched myself in the mirror standing in a bra and panties looking totally like a teen girl, spellbound by my slender feminine softness, my narrow shoulders, my arms with little muscle tone, my slim legs, my smooth thighs and my curvy butt. I was as enthralled by my feminine figure as I was once disgusted with my pathetic male physique.

No doubt about it: I am a young, pretty woman. How could I continue to live as man, to continue this charade of masculinity? I pictured myself in front of my classroom in a dark brown pencil skirt, white satiny blouse and perhaps a pink cardigan sweater. I saw myself with my hair drawn back in a conservative bun, exposing simple pearl earrings and a matching pearl necklace. I always wore hosiery, usually neutral or coffee-colored along with brown pumps with three-inch heels. Outside of putting on a bit of mascara, blush, a dash of eyeliner and neutral lip gloss, I would be without makeup.

I felt I was a total woman, needing few outer accouterments to prove it.

Excited by my dream to look like a schoolmarm. I decided to dress as I had dreamt. I brought out my digital camera and used the timer so that I could take self-portraits of myself as a teacher. My fantasy grew that night, and I felt it was six-years later and I was a thirty-year-old teacher; teaching social studies in a room down the hall was a handsome, new teacher and young man of twenty-four whose name was Randy. He had greeted me warmly when we first met, and I must say I flirted with him, though I doubted he noticed since he probably had his eye on the lovely new drama teacher who was more his age.

Oh what a marvelous reverie! Could that dream ever come true?

*****
The next several weeks of teaching were uneventful, and my anxiety over having told Carmen about my feminine behavior had decreased. I had seen her only once since, exchanging brief nods of recognition as we passed each other in the hallway. She was jabbering with her friends (including Barbara Lopez from my class) and apparently gave our nods only a passing thought. I hoped Barbara hadn’t noticed those nods, since students and teachers normally don’t greet each other in the hallways.

Nothing seemed to come from that encounter, however, as Barbara Lopez showed no signs of change of attitude toward me in class and continued to be an easy, openly cooperative student.

I had given Carmen my cell phone number and told her to call me whenever she felt it necessary, but I didn’t hear from her over those days. Nor did she email me.

My friendship with Jon Edwards deepened as time went on, but I no longer felt he looked upon me as an object of his homosexual affection. I found he was greatly interested in the theater and movies, as I was, and on Saturday afternoon, he picked me up to see a late afternoon showing of “Philomena,” the movie about an orphan girl who seeks and finds her natural mother. We both cried and finished off the day with a light supper and a few drinks at a favorite restaurant of his.

I was comforted by the fact that he made no suggestive touches or other flirtatious advances. It was obvious that, like me, he was lonely and was pleased to find a colleague who seemed to like many of the same things.

Chapter Four: Excitement at a Mets Game
Spring break for Farragut High was the second week of April, beginning the previous Friday (Good Friday), and I left school on Holy Thursday carrying a stack of papers, including essays from the students that I would have to grade during the vacation period. Again, as in past holiday periods, I was going to be alone; I had no family with which to celebrate Easter Sunday or to enjoy outings during the long week. My new friend, Jon Edwards, would be gone most of the week, planning to fly back to his family’s home in Wisconsin as well as to spend romantic time (as he had confessed to me during our time together) with his boyfriend from college days.

Hank Duke, the physical education teacher, had also become friendly with me, which I found weird, since I knew he despised weak, sissyish men, a category into which I felt he had placed me. The Mets had opened the season with three straight losses, and he was in despair as we shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge one day of the week before break.

“Have no fear, Hank, they always start out slow, but when the money’s on the line, they’ll respond,” I said, more to ease his apparent suffering than because I believed it. After all, in the previous season, the team went into a complete funk near the end.

“I suppose you’re right, but they gotta start hitting,” he said.

It began a morning routine for the two of us as we pored over the morning Daily News sports pages and the box scores. I had always liked baseball, even though I was terrible when I tried to play the game, often being criticized for “throwing like a girl,” which I guess I did since I never seemed to be able to throw it too hard or far. Of course, my bats usually produced only foul balls or weak dribblers to the pitcher. I loved the beauty of the sport, the well-manicured green field of Citi Field, the symmetry of the baseball diamond and the usual graceful moves of the fielders.

Often I imagined myself as one of the many pretty girls in the stands at the ball park, wearing blue mini-shorts, a David Wright uniform top with the “5” embroidered on the back and wearing a Mets baseball cap, with my ponytail bobbing through the opening at the back. In my imagination, a young man who looked like Randy sat next to me, sometimes putting his arm around my shoulders and holding my hand.

Hank cornered me as I was about to leave on Thursday for the break.

“How would you like to see the Mets play on Wednesday afternoon?” he asked.

He took me aback and I looked at him without saying anything.

“I have an extra ticket, Jason. My friend who usually goes with me can’t join me ‘cause she has to work and I don’t know anyone around here who seems to like baseball more than you do.”

“Well, that’s nice of you to ask me, Hank, and I’d like that very much.”

“Good.”

“Let me know what the ticket costs,” I said.

“It’ll be my treat.”

We argued the point briefly, but I sensed he would be offended if I refused to give in.

He offered to pick me up about 11 a.m. that morning at my home in Queens. Hank lived in Brooklyn and I argued that he’d have to drive quite a few miles out of his way to pick me up, but he insisted. “You’re my guest,” he said, his persuasiveness finally overwhelming me.

I had a strange feeling about the invitation. He seemed to be treating me as if I was his girlfriend.

*****
There was a bright sun shining through the haze that hovered over Flushing, helping to bring a semblance of warmth to the chilly mid-April day. We joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic along Grand Central Parkway before inching our way into the parking structure.

Hank Duke had seemed surprisingly uneasy in the drive from my home in Astoria, talking nervously about the Mets and the traffic, in an apparent effort to sound normal. I knew something was bothering him, and particularly wondered if he was concerned about being seen with someone as effeminate as I apparently had become. It had dawned on me only recently that my movements and mannerisms must have become more and more feminine without me realizing it. The number of times I was being misidentified as being female also seemed to be increasing.

I had tried that day to look as masculine as possible, having been able to locate my old pin-striped Mets uniform top as well as my blue and orange baseball cap. I was so tempted to tuck my longish hair through the hole in the back, but realized that would make me truly look like one of baseball’s many female groupies. With jeans and my dirty New Balance shoes, I felt I passed muster as a guy.

I shared Hank’s nervousness, which seemed to grow as we waited in the traffic line. When we finally got parked and began heading to the stadium I again began to feel that Hank was treating me as if I were his girlfriend. I felt his arm move around my waist to guide me easily when we had to dodge through the groups of milling fans; at one point, he took my hand to lead me through a particularly tight part of the concession area in the stands.

“Can I get you something to drink, Jason?” Hank asked when we were finally settled in our seats, which were in the Terrace Level, just about at first base.

“No, Hank, I’m fine. We can just wait for a vendor,” I suggested.

The grounds crew was giving the field a final manicuring after the two teams, the Mets and the Milwaukee Brewers, had finished their warmups.

“These are excellent seats, Hank, and I can’t thank you enough. I’ve always had to sit way up in the cheap seats here.”

“I glad you like the seats and that you like baseball,” he said, smiling at me.

“I do, even though I was never any good playing the game, but I try to follow the Mets every year.”

As the game went on, I tried to buy the drinks and hot dogs, but Hank refused to let me, even though I argued with him. “Look, let me buy. Migosh, you bought these expensive seats.”

But he would have none of it. Suddenly, I felt I was his girlfriend – his date – and the thought disturbed me. Was Hank – who chided Jon Edwards for being gay – in truth a closeted gay man? It was a troubling thought since I had no desire for a gay relationship; if I were to be with a man I would have to be his girl, not his male toy.

The game turned out to be an exciting one; the Mets starting pitcher gave up two runs in the first inning, but settled down after that to pitch shutout ball the rest of the way. The Met batters, however, were being skunked, getting many hits off the Brewer pitchers, but then stranding the runners on base. The score was still 2-0 going into the bottom of the ninth, when the Mets finally erupted. My hero, David Wright, who had been hitless in the game to that point, came to the bat with bases loaded and two outs. He was the last chance!

He doubled in all three runs and the Mets and the game ended in glorious victory, 3-2.

I squealed very girlishly and jumped up waving my arms as the last Met runner scored. I saw Hank look at me and in the excitement he grabbed me and hugged me as we both jumped with joy. The hug lingered on for a while, and neither of us did anything to break the embrace. I looked up at him and he smiled. Suddenly, he let go.

“Wow that was something,” Hank said. I couldn’t tell whether he was referring to the last-minute victory or the prolonged hug.

When the excitement settled down, we began the arduous task of exiting the stadium and getting to his car. He said nothing to me except for perfunctory words like, “follow me” and “let’s duck through here.”

It took us more than twenty minutes to get out of the parking structure; neither of us said anything for a few minutes in the car until Hank finally said:

“I’m sorry, Jason. I don’t know what came over me.”

Obviously, without referencing it, I was certain he meant the hug.

“That’s OK, it was the excitement of the moment,” I replied, hoping to have the matter disposed of.

“No, I shouldn’t have done that, and in the midst of all those people, too. It’s just that I thought . . .”

His voice trailed off, not finishing the sentence.

“Thought what?”

“Oh, never mind, I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject.”

I nodded, happy to leave the question unanswered for the time being. We were silent for a while; Hank turned on his car radio to hear the postgame wrap-up by the commentators as he navigated onto the Grand Central Parkway and back to my home. The post-mortem on the game brought out a bit of wit from Hank that I hadn’t seen in him, causing both of us to laugh as he made fun of the serious nature of the announcers, making out like this one victory, early in the season, would bring in a change of prodigious proportions.

“I wonder how they’ll take the next loss the Mets suffer,” he said cryptically.

“Like the end of the world, I guess.”

It was a light-hearted moment and as we pulled up to my home, he was able to find an empty spot right in front, a rare occurrence. I suggested he take it and then surprised myself with a spur-of-the-moment invitation: “I don’t know how to thank you enough for the game today, Hank. The least I can do is to invite you in for a drink or something.”

As soon as those words left my mouth, I had second thoughts. I sounded like a young woman who might invite her date up for a drink after going to the movies, when all the time it might be an invitation for sex. I didn’t want that, certainly. I just wanted to do something to thank him for his kindness.

He considered the invitation for a minute and said: “You’re sure you want me to come in?”

I didn’t take that opportunity to change my mind and replied: “Of course. I can make coffee or tea, or I have some beer and wine or whatever.”

“That would be nice,” he replied. I was both excited and scared at what might occur in the house.

*****
As we walked to the house, tall, husky Hank Duke followed me and I began to feel very much like a young lady escorting her date into her house. Perhaps I might have sashayed a bit, too, I feared, using a dainty motion to retrieve my keys to the side door.

“This is a lovely home,” he said when we were settled down in the living room, he on our couch and me on an adjoining side chair. A bottle of pinot noir was open on the coffee table in front of us, and he raised his glass, inviting a toast. We touched glasses.

“And here’s to a lovely friendship,” he said.

I know I must have blushed when he said that; I had developed affection for the rough, bluff man who just a few weeks earlier I had hated for his demeaning treatment of my other new friend, Jon Edwards.

“To a lovely friendship,” I echoed.

For over an hour we talked, nearly emptying the bottle of wine. I learned that Hank was raised in foster homes, his mother having died when he was eight and his father having long before deserted the family. For several years, he had a terrible time, being a scrawny, undernourished kid with terrible anger problems; fortunately, when he was twelve an older couple adopted him and he finally found warm, loving affection after years of being treated with cold, strict discipline.

“Mom treated me right from the start with lots of love and understanding, and dad, well he was something else again, he was strict but also was patient and understanding,” Hank began. “Dad was a high school teacher who coached football and he took me under his wing, taught me how to play the game, and with mom’s cooking, well I finally gained weight and got muscles.”

“Are your parents still around?” I asked.

“Oh yes, but they live in Buffalo. That’s where I grew up.”

“Did you play football then?” I asked.

He blushed a bit. “I guess I did. Played running back in high school and was drafted to a big school in the Midwest.”

“You must have been pretty good, then?”

He nodded. “Well I made all-conference tight end in college and was drafted by the Jets.”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I said. “How could I forget? You were supposed to be a top pro, I thought. What happened?”

I was awestruck. The name, Henry Duke, was hot news a few years back, I recalled. And, here he was sitting in my living room and teaching in the same school as me.

“Blew out a knee in the pre-season with the Jets and never did play. The damn thing still hurts,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Thanks, but it is what it is. Blame it on my first twelve years of life when I rarely got the right nourishment. I guess my bones weren’t made to play football. But I really enjoy teaching and working with the kids, particularly those who are growing up in some of the terrible situations that I faced as a kid. I love to help those kids find their future in life, whether it’s in sports or business or music or social work or whatever.”

I found out that Hank went to work in the school district right after he left the Jets; he had apparently been a serious student in college and had gained a degree with two majors, physical education and history. And, while he was already a well-tenured teacher, he was not yet thirty years old. I had heard that he was being considered the top candidate to become the Farragut football team’s coach in the following season; the school’s longtime coach was retiring and Duke, who had been an assistant, was seen by some to be an obvious choice.

“Are you interested in becoming coach next year?” I asked him.

“Don’t ask me that, Jason,” he said. “It’s a demanding job.”

“Yet you want it, don’t you?” I prodded.

“I guess you must be devastated over the loss of your mother, Jason,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

“Yes, but I knew her death ended her suffering,” I said. I felt a sudden sense of sadness come over me and began to tear up.

“I’m sorry, Jason.”

“No, it’s OK. I am getting over it. She really was my best friend, and I left the house pretty much as she had it,” I said, hoping to explain the heavily feminine atmosphere created by the fluffy curtains and light, pink tones that permeated the house. I didn’t tell him, of course, that I loved such a feminine environment.

“You look very comfortable in this house, just like you belong in a place like this,” he said.

I felt I should take exception to the comment, but I knew he was right. I did love it. As we talked, I realized I had tucked my legs under me in a most feminine manner, just as I did when I was reading in that chair, or watching television. I suddenly felt most girlish.

“I’m sorry for what I did at the ballpark, hugging you like that, Jason,” he said.

“Forget it, Hank.”

“You know for a minute, in the excitement at the game, I just seemed to feel you were my girlfriend, and I just instinctively hugged you. I’m sorry for that.”

I was nonplussed. What could I say? That I loved the idea of being a girl and maybe even his girlfriend?

“Really, Jason, you have the prettiest face and . . . ah . . . ah . . . I sometimes look at you as if you were a young woman.”

How much I loved hearing that! What woman wouldn’t? All I did in response was smile and return his words with an exaggerated effeminate flip of my wrist, as if to take the part of a lovely young woman.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, Jason. That was cruel,” he said quickly.

“No, no, that’s OK, Hank. I guess I have had too much of a feminine influence in my life, being raised by mom and all and never really being very strong. You must despise weak men like me,” I said, beginning to cry.

“No, I don’t despise you,” he said. “Just the opposite, since I realize how difficult it must be for you, yet you have come into this tough school and so far done just fine. You should be admired for your courage.”

With that, I began crying in earnest and he got up and pulled me onto the couch with him and held me tightly while I bawled. I stopped after a moment, and he found a clean tissue and wiped my eyes, and then kissed me gently. I melted into his strong arms.

His hands gently caressed my thin arms and moved down to encircle my butt; we kissed vigorously, but Hank rejected any thrust by me to insert my tongue between his lips.

“I don’t want any sex between us,” he announced. “I’m not interested in male-to-male engagement, but I love imagining you are a girl or should I say, a lovely young woman?”

“I like that idea, too.”

Finally, he released me from his grasp and we sat together without speaking for a while. He broke the silence with a question: “So you like the thought being a woman, Jason?”

I smiled at him; I’m afraid to admit that it was a flirtatious smile, and said, “Call me Julie.”

He looked at me strangely, and I suddenly became fearful that he would find my statement to be offensive and would think me afflicted with a shameful perversion.

“Julie,” he said smiling. “It fits you.”

“Hank, I think I can trust you,” I said. I knew I was taking a chance.

“Yes, Julie, you can. You’ll find me open-minded, even though it didn’t seem that way when I insulted Jon that day. I was wrong and you should know I apologized to him.”

“That’s good you apologized. I hated you at that moment and thought you were a bully, and I guess I was wrong about that.”

“I know, and I don’t blame you.”

I smiled sweetly.

“Hank, I need to change my clothes and get into something special for you,” I said.

“Oh?” he said, appearing puzzled.

“It’ll take a few minutes, but I hope you’ll like it.”

After I told him to make himself comfortable and showing him the remote to the television, I went into my bedroom to change. My heart was pounding and I felt anxious.

*****
I gave myself a quick sponge bath to rid my skin of the grime from a day at the Mets game, brushed my hair so that it flowed freely down to my shoulders, a natural bob developing. I put on a black bra and matching panties with lace trim. Reaching into the closet, I found what I was looking for almost immediately among the rack of dresses, skirts and blouses. I pulled out a black cocktail dress and carefully brought it down over my head, adjusting the spaghetti straps over my narrow shoulders and smoothing the dress so that it hung properly. It ended at mid-thigh, exposing my legs.

I toyed with the thought of putting on stockings, but decided against it since it would take time. I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that in my haste to put on the dress – my favorite of all my lovely clothes – I had forgotten to put on makeup. I hated to do it after I put on a dress or blouse, since the powder or make-up might get on the dress.

I put a towel over my shoulders and put on a light foundation, a bit of blush, and light pink shade of lipstick and gloss and a quick touch of eyeliner. I exchanged the tiny studs in my ears for a pair of silver, rhinestone earrings, gave my hair a quick brush and smiled at the result.

“Voila,” I said, prancing into the living room, looking expectantly at Hank, who had been reading the morning paper.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed, looking up from his paper. He was clearly shocked, and I worried that I had done the wrong thing by dressing up in my girlish best.

“Is that you?” he said, his face still a mystery to me.

“Meet Julie. I hope you like her,” I said.

He eyed me up and down, still silent, and I grew concerned. He disapproved, I was certain.

“Should I change back?” I said finally.

He smiled. “No. No. No. Stay like that. My God, you’re beautiful.”

He got up from the couch and said, “Come here, honey.” I walked into his arms and surrendered myself to him, finding my slender, soft body buried into his muscular frame. We cuddled and kissed that night, but did nothing more sexual. I explained I still had my male member but was to begin seeing a doctor as my first step to a sex change.

Neither one of us, it seemed, was interested in a male-to-male experience; he treated me only as he would any girlfriend. I loved it.

“You’re already a girl in my mind,” he said as the evening ended.

“I’ve always felt more girl than boy to be truthful, Hank,” I confessed.

“I can see that.”

It had been a marvelous day, and as any girl would do for her man, I fixed us supper. I found some ground beef in the refrigerator and whipped up a quick casserole, fixed some salad and with another bottle of wine we had a lovely candlelight dinner, too. What could be more romantic?

*****
When Hank left my home that night, I found myself full of conflicting thoughts. What an exciting day it had been, as I found the events rolling through my mind. I could think of only two previous times in my life when I had felt stimulated and appreciated and those, of course, were the times I met Randy on the previous Labor Day and Christmas Eve.

On all three occasions it was my femininity that made me an object of affection. In Randy’s case, he knew me only as a young woman and he obviously was enthralled not only because of what he thought was a beautiful woman but by his youthful sexual cravings. Now, here comes Henry Duke, who seemed to dismiss me at first as an effeminate sissy boy and now seemed to sincerely adore me as a woman. Was Hank’s affection for me, in fact, a homosexual urge on his part, in spite of his earlier seeming homophobic actions in bullying Jon? Or, did he honestly see me as a woman as evidenced by his apparent spontaneous hug and kiss he affixed on me in the excitement of the baseball game?

Then there was the fact that I was living as a young man teaching high school students in a job I loved. I was only a substitute and had no protection and thus had to be a good teacher of good morals. Would not my donning the cocktail dress and cuddling and kissing with Hank Duke and involvement with a sixteen-year-old boy be cause for instant discharge? Of course, it would, I concluded.

Before going to bed that night I cleaned off all my makeup, tied my hair in a boy-style ponytail and donned a pair of pajamas carrying the New York Giants logo that I wore in high school. Shame and guilt overwhelmed me as I settled down to try to sleep; I couldn’t. As I tossed and turned, the lingering scent of femininity that had permeated my lovely bedroom overcame me and I thought alternately of the kisses of both Randy and Hank. I thought of how marvelous it was to be a young lady and finally I slept.

Chapter Five: The Confrontation

In the remaining four days of spring break, I waited anxiously for a call from Hank. He never called, nor did he email or text me. On Saturday I debated whether to call him; several times, I got my cell phone in my hand and wanted to touch the speed dial button that would bring up his number (yes, I had put his number into my phone). Realizing that traditional advice was that a young lady should never call a man, I never did punch the button.

I concluded that Hank never called because he may have been ashamed of his own conduct toward me, his sudden kisses and desires to treat me as a woman. For a while, I was convinced that he wanted nothing more to do with me and might even report my behavior to the principal. It finally dawned on me that he wouldn’t do that since he would be exposing his own behavior and would risk his own job.

I continued to wear casual female clothes the rest of vacation period, since I spent much of it grading papers and working on lesson plans. My concentration, however, was distracted with memories of both Randy and Hank and my school chores seemed to take twice as long as normal.

I was struggling with grading schoolwork at two o’clock Saturday when my cell phone rang; my heart skipped a beat, hoping it was Hank. Instead a young female voice answered by cheery “hello.”

“Mr. Pearson?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“This is Carmen Mendoza.”

*****
I was speechless and let what seemed like an hour go by before the girl asked: “Mr. Pearson, Jason. Are you there?”

“Yes,” I said, hearing my voice squeak out in a high register.

“I need to tell you that Randy was talking about you today,” she began hesitantly.

“Oh?”

“I was with him and my boyfriend Ryan today at the mall, and I was trying to interest him in taking out my friend Maria Elena who really likes Randy,” she said.

“That would be nice for him to find a nice girlfriend,” I volunteered, finally pleased that I was growing calm and my voice was dropping down to a more masculine level.

“It would be and Maria Elena is really a sweet girl, too, but the fact is, Randy wants you, Julie,” Carmen said firmly.

“Oh, you know that’s impossible for many reasons, Carmen.”

“Yes, I know that and I told Randy that it’s impossible, using the age thing,” Carmen said. “But, he responded saying that he’ll wait ‘til he’s 18 and can be with you legally.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Just tell him that you can’t find me and that I’m gone forever.”

“I tried, but somehow he felt I was lying, Mr. Pearson. I dunno, maybe he could see it in my eyes, but he said I knew where you were.”

I shuddered and muttered, “Oh, my.”

“I didn’t tell him anything, Mr. Pearson, but that didn’t satisfy him.”

I felt sorry for Carmen, of course, since she was being put in the middle; yet, I couldn’t risk being exposed any further as a man who sometimes dressed as a girl and had won the attraction of a sixteen-year-old boy.

“He should soon forget me, Carmen. Boys grow out of such infatuations,” I tried to assure her.

“I guess, but there’s something you should know and that he’s coming to our school next week in the forensics contest. He’s on the Hamilton forensics team.”

“Oh my Lord,” I said, the words coming out involuntarily.

The announcement came as a bolt of lightning, since I was assistant coach of the Farragut forensics team, which was host school this year for the Coastal Conference Forensics Tournament. Since I had assumed the duties of Ms. McGuire, I had also been expected to assist the team. It was a good fit, since I had been on the forensics team during my own high school days, and I had relished the competition; it seemed to be the only thing I excelled at in school. I had handled many of the details of the coming tournament, including the registration function, which meant I would inevitably come face-to-face with Randy as he signed in.

“Yes, Mr. Pearson,” Carmen said. “That’s the main reason I called, since I knew you would be involved in the contest.”

“Thank you, Carmen. Let me think about this.” After exchanging a few words, I hung up. I was in deep despair.

*****
Twelve schools made up the Coastal Conference, competing in everything from basketball and football to music competitions and forensics; all twelve had signed up for the forensics contest and my job was to assure they all got registered, had proper credentials, and were directed to the appropriate classrooms while they awaited to do their on-stage presentations.

All week I dreaded what might occur when the Hamilton group showed up for registration for the all-day Saturday event. Because of my direct involvement with the competing students I would likely come face-to-face with Randy more than once. Eventually, I was certain he’d recognize something in me, perhaps the way I brushed my hair back, the inflection in my voice or the panic he’d sense emanating from me. Then what?

Even though I was having a busy week in the school – due both to the preparations for the tournament and a series of tests I was giving to my classes – I was unable to get Randy out of my mind, cursing myself for encouraging the boy during my weekend outings to Point Pleasant. What a folly it was for me to engage the affections of a sixteen-year-old boy!

I was also disturbed by Hank’s obvious efforts to avoid speaking to me. Since he and I both had no classes for third hour, he and I often saw each other in the teachers’ lounge. This week, however, he was a “no-show,” and while there could be many reasons for his absence, I felt he was fearful that he felt seeing me would be awkward. Maybe, too, given his previous outwardly homophobic actions, he was feeling ashamed for kissing me as his “girlfriend.” I considered calling him – or at least sending him a text message – to invite him over on an evening for lasagna, one of my culinary specialties. I didn’t, of course.

Jon Edwards again asked me to join him for our usual Wednesday night outing, and I accepted, hoping the company would distract my mind. I had grown fond of Edwards as a companion, whom I found to be sensitive and caring; most of all, he did not have a narcissistic bone in his body, rarely reflecting upon his gayness or the issues it had caused him in life. While he had some mildly effeminate mannerisms he was not flamboyant; I dare say my own girlish movements might have been more noticeable to the casual observer. I’m certain many who saw us together in the restaurant or bar (we had soon decided to avoid being together in places which catered to gays and lesbians) viewed us as two handsome (or certainly pretty) young homosexual men. That was hardly anything rare in the city and thus we became comfortable companions.

It wasn’t long in our friendship that Jon began to share his feelings, experiences and life with me.

“I tried so hard to be accepted as one of the boys in high school,” he confessed on Wednesday as we finished our after-dinner cognac. I was still in my deep funk over the potential meeting with Randy and Hank’s apparent dismissal of me.

“I guess I can understand your situation, although I didn’t particularly try to do much to fit in with others then,” I replied. “I pretty much stayed out of sight and was pretty lonely. I never had a date.”

Jon smiled. “You didn’t miss anything. I tried to date, even had a girlfriend in my junior year. Her name was Jillian and she was really a cutie and smart and nice. As often as we cuddled and kissed, I hardly ever felt anything. It was so strange.”

“Didn’t you get the least bit aroused?”

“Well, maybe a little bit, when I tried hard, but that was when my mind drifted to Jared Timmons, a slender, wiry boy on the basketball team.”

“Hmmm. And it was then you got hard?”

Jon blushed. He had a cute blush, and I could see why girls might be attracted to him, even though he was not attracted to them.

“Here I’d be hugging and kissing this perfectly luscious girl while at the same time I imagined Jared was in my arms. Then I got hard.”

“What happened?”

“Eventually Jillian seemed to figure it out and one night as I was kissing her goodnight in front of her house, she said, ‘Jon, you never seem to get too inspired when you kiss me. I guess you don’t really like me.’”

“I told her I liked her – a lot – but she didn’t believe me. And I really did like her and enjoyed being with her, but I didn’t want to have sex with her or anything like that. I only wanted Jared, it seemed; that’s when I realized I must be gay, for sure. I guess I knew all the time . . . well at least from about age 13 . . . but that time with Jillian convinced me.”

“That must have been hard for you,” I volunteered.

“It was, largely because it would mean I’d have to come out to my parents and my friends, but on the other hand, it was a relief to know just exactly who I was and what I was.”

*****
Jon and I took in a movie, another “chick flick,” a type of movie the both of us shamelessly admitting to enjoying. I have to admit to a proclivity to cry easily at movies; fortunately Jon suffered from the same non-macho malady.

“I feel like a drink,” I suggested as we headed for Jon’s car.

“Good idea. How about this place?” Jon said, pointing to a small lounge bearing the sign “Interlude” in its small rectangular window.

We were both surprised when we entered to find a dimly lit place with a small bar at the entrance. There was only room for a half dozen drinkers at the bar; to the left was an arch that led into a larger backroom. In the faint light, there appeared to be numerous clusters of easy chairs and sofas. Soft, light jazz filled the room along with the undercurrent of voices, muffled by the carpeting and curtains that provided pockets of privacy for the customers. A slender, older man with flowing white hair welcomed us: “My name is Porter. Would you gentlemen prefer a sofa or two chairs?”

I looked at Jon, wondering what he would answer. Obviously Porter, who appeared to be an old hand at the business, believed us to be a gay couple and I was hoping Jon would answer that he’d prefer the chairs.

“The chairs will be fine,” Jon said, looking at me questioningly.

“That’s great,” I added, relieved.

Porter led us to pair of chairs, located in a cluster around a small fountain that provided a soft, soothing sound of gurgling water, lighted with ever-changing colors of lighting.

“This is most relaxing,” I said as we sat and looked over a drink menu that contained a plethora of exotically named – and pricey – alcoholic concoctions.

“This is quite a place,” Jon said.

Even though we were seated near several other groups of people, I was astounded to realize that I could not distinctly hear what they said. The sounds were muffled and the place gave an overall feeling of comfort and easiness.

“We specialize in cocktails made with champagne, but otherwise we serve a full range of cocktails, wine and imported beer,” Porter explained.

After studying the menu, I felt a bit adventurous and ordered a “kinky boots,’” made with Ciroc, lime juice, simple syrup and champagne; Jon chose a “pink pussy cat,” made with lemon, Chambord and champagne.

After the waiter left, Jon looked at me and giggled. “I must have chosen that just because of the name,” he said.

“Me too,” I added. “I bet he pegged us as a pair of queers.”

Jon laughed: “A pair of queers? I guess we fool others quite easily.”

I felt a bit giddy, even though I felt guilty about passing myself off as a gay person.

“You’re the ‘pink pussy cat,’ sir?” the waiter said, placing the drink down with a flourish on the tiny table before Jon, who nodded in argreement.

“You must be ‘kinky boots,’ then,” he said, looking at me, giving me a knowing wink.

“I swear he winked at me,” I said, as the waiter walked away.

“He’s got his eye on you, pretty one,” Jon said.

I was happy it was dark, since I was certain I must have burst into a deep blush. We sipped our drinks for a few minutes without speaking, letting the peacefulness of the surroundings overwhelm us. It was then I began to consider whether I should tell Jon of my love of being feminine, how I often wished I were a girl. Now that my mother, who was my lifelong confidant, was gone, I felt totally alone and I wanted badly to share my feelings with someone. Hank, of course knew of my cross dressing, but he was hardly one that I felt like exposing my thoughts to. Jon, on the other hand, seemed like a sensitive, caring person and, best of all, someone I could trust to keep a confidence.

“Jon, I feel I must share something with you,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Well, you just called me ‘pretty one’ and I know you were joking. The truth was that I was flattered when you called me that.”

“You are pretty, Jason. Pretty describes you perfectly,” he said, smiling and reaching over to pat my arm.

“Jon, you flatter me.”

He smiled and paused to take a sip of his drink.

“Jon, what I’m going to tell you must remain a secret, just between us,” I began.

“Unless you’re confessing a murder or bank robbery, your secret is safe with me.”

I said nothing for a minute, picked up my hardly-touched drink and took in about half the liquid before beginning to speak.

“Jon, I love everything feminine and girly; I dress at home like a girl almost every night and most weekends. Most of the time I wish I were a girl. My mom always decorated our house in a most dainty, feminine style and I’ve kept it that way after her death. I always sleep in nightgowns and I only wear panties, nice pretty lacy ones. Even now.”

My friend said nothing. Instead, he took my hand and held it in his two hands. Slowly, he turned it over in his hands, looking at it in the dim light. I felt the roughness of his hands on my smooth skin; I knew he worked out a lot and that he was an avid bike-rider, accounting for the calluses on his hands.

“Even your hands are pretty and soft and dainty,” he said finally.

Just then the waiter came back. Jon dropped my hand, but I’m sure he saw us holding hands. “Care for another drink?” he asked.

“No thanks, we have to work tomorrow,” Jon said quickly.

We paid the bill and left; as he drove me home I told Jon a short version of my girly background, how mom helped me express myself and even that I took to trips as a young woman to Point Pleasant. I didn’t tell him about Randy, of course.

“I really want to consider transitioning to be female, Jon,” I confessed as he stopped before my house to let me off.

“That might be difficult if you want to keep teaching,” he said.

“I know, but for this semester, until I get accepted full-time, I’ll try to live as a man.”

“It’s all you can do, Jason.”

He leaned over and gave me a gentle kiss on my lips.

“You’re a sweet friend, Jon,” I said.

I left his car and as I walked up to my door I felt pleased I had shared my secret. Though I felt complete confidence in telling Jon, I still felt uneasy with the fact that two teachers – as well as one student – knew my secret.

*****
Carmen Mendoza cornered me in the cafeteria on Thursday, drawing me into a corner while I stood balancing my tray of salad, yogurt, vegetables and crackers, “Mr. Pearson, you’re doing the arrangements for the forensics tournament, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, wondering where she was going. I noticed several of her girlfriends eyeing our interaction. I had learned that apparently, in spite of my obvious effeminate behavior I had won the attention of a number of the girls in the school; apparently and to my surprise I realized that I must have some sort of sex appeal, and I guess Carmen’s friends may have been suspecting she was flirting with me.

“I heard you need volunteers to help out. Right?” she asked.

“Yes, I have a few students to help with guiding the visiting teams around, getting them into classrooms and so forth, and I can use a few more.”

“I’d like to volunteer and help,” she said.

I looked at her suspiciously, wondering what her motive might be. Did she hope to clue Randy in on my identity? Or, did she merely want to help out? Or, perhaps I could enlist this girl to help keep Randy from paying too much attention to me, thus lessening the chances that the boy would recognize me as Julie.

“Why yes, Carmen. That would be great. Perhaps you’d like to help out with me at the registration table. It’s going to be busy as the schools check in and we have to see each student’s credentials, give them a badge and send them off to the proper room.”

The girl smiled and agreed to meet with me and the other volunteers after school on Friday to go over arrangements for the Saturday event. As I began to walk to the area where several other teachers sat, Carmen whispered to me: “Mr. Pearson, I’ll keep Randy’s attention so he won’t pay much attention to you that day.”

*****
I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I had a pang of excitement when I saw Randy, who looked even more athletic and handsome than I recalled from our two weekend meetings. He was standing in line at the registration table, when I looked up to see he was the next student to be registered. I was about to say, “next” in a bid to register him, but found myself looking directly into his eyes; my heart jumped and the words refused to come out. I swear I saw a moment of recognition in his eyes, and before I could speak, Carmen said: “I’ll take that next student, Mr. Pearson.”

She beckoned Randy to come before her, greeting him with a friendly, “Hi Randy. Ready to beat Farragut today?”

“Hi, Carmen,” he said. How sweet his voice sounded, a bit husky, but with gentleness that belied his large, masculine presence.

Fortunately, the day was a busy one for me, and I had few chances to interact with Randy. If he recognized me, he made no indication that he did. Later, as we were cleaning up from the day’s activities, Carmen said as far as she could determine Randy left none the wiser.

“You’re a dear friend, Carmen,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“I know this job is important to you, Mr. Pearson, and I know all the students like you and think you’re a good teacher,” she said. “I don’t know how long you’ll be able to hide who you really are.”

With that the girl left. It was obvious that Carmen knew me as well as anyone, including myself.

*****
Whether it was seeing Randy – that marvelous looking boy – or the fatigue of the day at the forensics tournament, I wasn’t certain. I knew I could hardly wait until I got home Saturday night to prepare a lovely bubble bath for myself and to lower myself into the warm water amid the pinkish sweet-scented bubbles. It was heavenly.

The soothing bath had nearly put me to sleep when the phone rang; I had forgotten to bring the portable handset into the bathroom, so I had to let it ring until the voice mail picked up. When it did, I was surprised to hear a familiar voice: “Hi, this is Hank calling about six-thirty Saturday night. Call me . . . ah . . . if you wish . . . ah . . . Julie at 555-5896.”

Hank? Calling me, after ignoring me for a week? And now he wants to speak to Julie, not Jason? I decided to get out of the tub and dry myself off. I had also shampooed my hair while in the tub, and stood in front of the steamed mirror, seeing my slender, smooth body faintly through the mist gathered on the glass. I used the hair dryer to clear off a portion of the mist on the glass, so that I could look at myself more closely, smiling at the image. It was clearly Julie’s image in the mirror, not Jason’s.

Wrapping a towel about my head, I walked into my bedroom, reaching into the dresser that held Julie’s intimates to bring out a bra, panties and full length, black slip. I love slips and their silken feel upon my skin. In a few minutes, I had put the items on, along with a robe that my mother once wore; I had loved seeing her in it. It still had the scent of her, a sweet scent combining the scents of the soap she used and perfume she wore. Several months after her death, I decided to try it on and found that the robe’s lacy, dainty fashion made me feel totally female.

It was also at that time that I moved into her room, which had been decorated in a totally feminine fashion, with a dainty duvet, curtains and skirting all in white material with peach-colored and light teal designs. I felt she might like to have her new daughter enjoy her things. Mother was such a lovely woman and I wished so much to be like her.

I didn’t debate long about returning Hank’s call. Briefly, I felt I shouldn’t continue to see him as Julie, since it certainly compromised my effort to continue living as a man. I stood before the phone, arguing with myself over whether to call. Within a few moments, I realized I had become Julie, and I wanted to hear his voice.

His phone rang only once before he picked it up and I heard an eager “hello.”

“Hank, this is Julie,” I said, using a soft, low voice.

“Julie, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he said quickly.

“You have?”

“Yes, my darling and I hope you’re not mad I called now.”

“No, not at all, but I wondered why you avoided me all this week at school.”

There was a brief silence before he answered. “I’m sorry about that, Julie dear, but you know that when I looked at you in school this week, I only saw Julie. I was so afraid I’d forget myself and call you ‘Julie’ in front of other teachers or a student.”

“We had a lovely time last week, didn’t we?” I asked.

“The sweetest ever,” he said.

In a moment of understandable weakness, I invited him over and he accepted; since neither one of us had eaten, I promised to fix supper. He said he’d bring some wine and suggested we settle in for a nice evening together.

“Please give me an hour, Hank. I am just out of the tub and need to get ready for you and get dinner started.”

“You don’t need to dress up, Julie, since I’m sure you’ll look great no matter what you’re wearing.”

I laughed – a sweet, warm laugh – and said: “You don’t understand girls like me, Hank. We need to look as pretty as we can for our man.”

“I can hardly wait,” he said. “But, I’ll not show up ‘til eight then, OK?”

Chapter Six: Candlelight Dinner for Two
The minute I hung up, I had second thoughts. What had I done? Hadn’t I been trying to be a man, a male animal so that I could safely continue my budding career as a teacher? Now, I had invited a man over so that I could be “the woman of the house,” painstakingly putting on make up, a lovely seductive cocktail dress and then preparing him a supper of a salad with sliced chicken breast, pasta and a chocolate mousse dessert.

Momentarily, I considered calling him back to suggest I’d meet him at some bar, dressed not as Julie, but as Jason. I dropped that idea quickly, perhaps because I was recently out of a scented bath water, standing in my dark slip and feeling totally feminine. I wanted to show Hank just how lovely and pretty I could be.

I fussed terribly in the hour or so before Hank showed up, fixing my hair this way and that way before settling upon leaving it brushed and flowing freely, but with bangs carefully moving to one side. At first I put on too much eyeliner and a lip gloss that was far too bright and garish. I looked like a street-walker, I was convinced. Hurriedly, I cleaned it off, before putting on more modest makeup, giving me a more schoolgirl-like look.

Then, I decided that I probably shouldn’t wear my favorite dress – the black cocktail outfit – and instead put on a plaid, pleated skirt, a white blouse, stockings and ballet flats. I loved the result; the mirror told me I looked like an innocent, first-year college girl who would be “carded” for being too young to drink, even though by then I had turned twenty-four.

“My, my Julie, now you look too young for Hank,” I said to the mirror.

It would have to do, I realized, since I had about fifteen minutes left to assemble the salad; I had pre-cooked chicken breast in the freezer and merely needed to microwave it and slice it; after his call I began to boil the water for the pasta. I placed a white table cloth on the dining room table, found two pink candles and placed them in their holders and made the place-settings, using my mother’s best dishes and silver – all of which she had received as wedding gifts some thirty years earlier, but had rarely used.

I was still working on the salad when the bell rang; I ditched the apron I was wearing, looked in the mirror and was horrified to see some random strands of hair had gotten out of place. I tried to brush them back, as I ran to the door.

“Oh my, Julie, you look great,” Hank said as he entered. He thrust a dozen pink roses into my hand.

“Hank, thank you,” I said, rising on my toes to kiss him lightly on the lips. “But, Hank, I feel like a mess. I’m just finishing the salad and I had such a long, busy day.”

“You look lovely, dear,” he said, smiling.

“Let me put these roses in a vase,” I said. “Make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink now? I’m afraid I only have vodka, some diet cola and light beer.”

“A beer’s fine. And let me join you in the kitchen, I’m a pretty good salad tosser,” he said.

As we gathered at the kitchen counter, he put his arm around me and drew me to him. We kissed long, deeply and passionately. Our tongues played with each other, and I smelled the musk of his after-shave lotion, growing intoxicated by the press of his body against mine. Our breathing became heavy and excited; I could feel his bulge growing in his pants, while my own tiny penis hardened. It was an erotic moment.

“We’d better not start this now,” I said, turning my head so as to break his kiss.

We broke apart, and set about to work together to finish preparing our meal. As Hank tossed the salad, he asked me about my mother; he had seen pictures of her on the breakfront in the dining room and remarked that she was a beautiful woman, “just like her daughter.” I told him that I missed her terribly and that she had been my only real friend, the only one I could turn to when I was troubled.

“She understood me, Hank, like no one else could,” I said, tears beginning to form in my eyes.

“Julie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring back memories like that,” he said. Hank pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and gently reached in to dab my eyes. It was a sweet, warming gesture.

“It’s not your fault, darling. You didn’t know, and the truth is I love thinking of mother even if I sometimes cry because she’s gone now.’

“Did she want you to be a girl, Julie?” he asked when he had finished fixing the salad. I put the cut-up chicken breast into the microwave, giving us a few minutes rest from our chores. We stood opposite each other in the kitchen; I was balanced against the back of a kitchen chair and he leaned back with his buttocks on the counter.

“Not really,” I replied. “Not at first, anyway, since she had wanted me to go out and play with the guys in the neighborhood, but I just never fit in. The guys said I threw like a girl, which I guess I did.”

“Not every boy has to be good in sports,” Hank said.

“It wasn’t just that, Hank. I began taking an interest in how mother dressed and in reading fashion magazines. And I began playing with the girl next door a lot. Her name was Amy. She was a year younger, but we hit it off. I even played dolls with her and one day she let me take one of her dolls home, just for an overnight, you might say.”

“How old were you then?”

“Maybe nine or ten and I proudly showed mother the doll when I got home. I think it shocked her ‘cause she took the doll from me and said ‘boys don’t play with dolls.’ Well, I began to cry and I think she finally began to realize I might be a bit different from other boys.

“A few days later – after the doll incident – mother surprised by buying me a doll of my own. I was so happy and soon I had a small doll collection and she quit telling me to go out and play with the boys. For a couple of years, until middle school, Amy and I were best friends.”

As I told Hank how I began to realize that maybe I was truly a girl and that my male anatomy was just a big mistake, I found myself relishing in revealing my life; I had rarely opened up to anyone like this and I found it so liberating. I had begun the process with Jon Edwards, whose sensitive nature was obvious, but now I was telling even more secrets to Hank – a man whom I at first had assumed was a crude, uncaring lout.

“I’m happy that your mother saw the girl in you,” Hank said, as the microwave alarm sounded indicating the breast was done cooking.

“Me too,” I said, standing on my tiptoes to give him a quick, but affectionate kiss.

*****
Our dinner turned out to be divine in many ways. The pasta and chicken dish was tasty and the salad was delicious thanks to Hank suggesting the addition of several herbs that I never thought of using. The conversation was easy, mainly about school, our favorite movies and some of his sports successes.

I recalled again his experiences as an all-everything in football at high school and college playing as a quarterback-sacking linebacker, the type of player often associated with meanness. I know Hank was regarded by his students and the other teachers as a no-nonsense instructor, demanding much and unyielding with those who failed to obey as instructed. Yet, Hank’s sensitive nature was becoming more and more evident to me. The evening went on and we finished the bottle of wine, before adjourning to the couch to watch a movie from a DVD that Hank brought, claiming it was a favorite of his. I was surprised that the movie was not a shoot ‘em up action film but was “The Bridges of Madison County.” What a surprising choice for this macho man! And we both cried as the movie ended, having been emotionally moved by Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood’s brief, but intense affair in the movie.

“Is this what happens when two people fall in love and have to walk away from it?” I asked.

Hank held me more tightly, stroking the back of my head and I buried my head into his neck, taking in his man scent. It was delicious!

“You mean, like us, Julie?” he asked.

“Yes, like us. This can only be a dream, Hank,” I answered, as my tears began to gush forth, moistening his shirt at the shoulder.

“Maybe someday it can become real,” he said, his hands moving passionately over me.

We hugged, moving in unison on the couch so that we were soon lying side-by-side, needing to squeeze tightly together to avoid falling on the floor. I could feel his heart pounding and his manhood grow against my thigh, as we kissed vigorously, both breathing heavily.

“I’m not ready for sex,” I said breathlessly after a while.

“Me either,” he said. “I want you to receive me as a woman, Julie.”

“Oh darling, that’s so marvelous. That’s the way I want it too.”

“Maybe someday,” he whispered.

“Yes, someday, I promise.”

*****
During my lunch break the next Monday, I found time to call Dr. Pamela Wojcziehowski, the gender specialist I had seen a few times in the past year. Mom had arranged for my first appointment in the last months of her life, having realized that my fetish to wear women’s clothes and to enjoy female endeavors were signs of my true nature. With mom’s death, and the fact that I had to pay for the visits out-of-pocket, I had found it impossible to see her but a few times.

My visits with Dr. Pam, as she insisted I call her, recognizing that Wojcziehowski might be hard to pronounce, had proven to be helpful; she was understanding and patient, allowing me time to tell her my innermost thoughts, dreams and feelings. She also realized that my shy, almost reclusive nature might make it difficult to effect any major life change, such as from male to female.

“Whenever you’re ready, Jason, I believe you’d likely be a good candidate for a gender change,” she said.

She convinced me that I was not “weird” or “strange” or just plain “nuts,” but that I was experiencing what a select group of men have faced throughout centuries: a realization that they were women in mind, soul and feelings.

“You must get out into the world as a young lady to see if that is what you want,” she had urged him. “Live outwardly as a female for a week, a month or a year.”

“I can’t do that, Dr. Pam,” I argued.

“We’ll let that up to you, Jason, but I know you want to try it, but that you’re worried about what others might say and what reactions you’d get.”

“I’d be scared, Dr. Pam. Besides I want to be a teacher, and that would be so difficult. I’m such a coward.”

The doctor, an attractive woman in her late thirties with close cropped blonde hair, shook her head and said: “No, Jason. It’s a natural feeling and a realistic one.”

After mom’s death, I saw Dr. Pam only once, in June, two weeks before the Fourth of July weekend when I ventured out as a women, traveling to Point Pleasant where I first met Randy. I’m sure her renewed suggestion that I get out as “Julie,” a name I told her I wanted to use, prompted me as much as anything to make that initial outing.

She had an opening at five-thirty in the afternoon on Wednesday and I booked it. I knew I would have to tell Jon that I’d have to cancel our usual Wednesday night outing, but knew he’d understand. He also had been urging me to become serious about my transitioning. “Unless I’m imagining it you’re becoming more feminine week-after-week,” he told me.

His remark made me smile, even as it frightened me.

*****
On the Tuesday before I was scheduled to see Dr. Pam, Carmen caught me as I was leaving school, “Mr. Pearson,” she yelled as she ran after me. The girl had become formal with me, never exhibiting any signs that she knew me outside of the school setting, and for that I was grateful.

“Yes, Carmen, what’s up?” I said. I had just reached the sidewalk off the school grounds and began walking toward the train stop.

“I need to tell you something, and I know you’ve got to catch the train. It won’t take long,” she said hurriedly, the words coming out in a rush.

“Walk along with me then, if you wish, Carmen,” I suggested.

She moved alongside me on my right and when we were away from the throng of students leaving the school she began, “Randy and I went to the coffee shop after the tournament on Saturday; he had to wait for his mom to pick him up from her job, so he had time to kill, and do you know what he asked me?”

“No,” I said, although getting a sick feeling that whatever it was it would be about me and it wouldn’t be good.

“Well, he asked me who the teacher was at the reception table where we did registration, and I said it was Mr. Pearson, who was subbing that semester for an English teacher on maternity leave, and I thought would be the end of it, but he then said this: ‘when I walked up to register, I saw the teacher, and the way in which he flicked his long hair out of his eyes and for a minute I thought it was Julie sitting there.’”

I was stunned by the revelation, having tried that day to act as manly as I could, but my girlish habits apparently were becoming too ingrained.

“Randy then said he realized you were a man and for a while ditched the thought about seeing Julie,” the girl continued. “Yet, he watched you when he could that day, fascinated by how much like Julie you were. Really, Mr. Pearson, I hate to say this but I and lots of students already are commenting about the ‘femme’ teacher in our school. I just wanted to warn you.”

I knew there had been comments like that, having overheard some undertones of conversations among the students and having observed many students giving me long stares and then averting their eyes when I looked back at them.

“That’s all right, Carmen,” I told the girl. “I thank you for keeping my secret.”

“No problem, Mr. Pearson, since I know you’re a good teacher and wouldn’t do anything wrong to harm other students, but frankly I’m worried about Randy. He’s still obsessed with you, or should I say ‘Julie?’”

With that, Carmen gave me a quick “good-bye,” and even before I could respond, she had turned away and was bounding back toward the school. Apparently I was becoming the talk of the school, which for some reason didn’t bother me; what did concern me was that Randy seemed committed to pursuing “Julie” and might one day find out who she really was.

Carmen’s words confirmed it: I was female.

*****
“I’m a woman,” I told Dr. Pam directly when we met.

“Not so fast, Jason,” she counseled, reverting to my male name perhaps to emphasize the point. We were seated in a part of her office that had been developed as a lounge area with overstuffed chairs, a love seat and a coffee table. I had taken the love seat, which I had found to be the most comfortable of chairs, largely because it was firm. The chairs were soft and I seemed to sink down in them, making me drowsy. Dr. Pam kept the light subdued in the office, keeping only table lamps (with old-fashioned incandescent bulbs since they gave off a soft light) lighted.

“I’m convinced, doctor,” I said. “Just look at me. I’m wearing men’s clothes, but look at how I cross my legs, hold my hands in my lap and brush my hair like a girl does. One of the students at school told me I’m looking more-and-more female every day.”

She let me prattle on about what Carmen told me, about Hank’s visit on Saturday night and how much I felt like a woman. After about ten minutes of narrative, which I delivered in a breath-taking cascade of words, I stopped with the words: “Dr. Pam I feel like a . . . no . . . no . . . I am a woman.”

She said nothing for a few minutes and put her fingers together, matching the tips of each finger from each hand. She was seated in a side chair that held her body erect, looking directly at me.

Growing impatient with the silence, I finally asked: “What do you say? When can I start hormones?”

“You seem like a young lady in a hurry. Let’s talk about this,” she said, smiling.

“I think I’ve known I’ve been a girl for years. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. Now I know.”

When the fifty minute appointment was ended, Dr. Pam convinced me that it would be in my best interest to delay a decision on taking hormones at least until the end of the school year, which was about two months away.

“This is a decision about which you need to be certain,” Dr. Pam said. “The consequences of beginning transition that involves chemical changes in your body can be irreversible. Not every patient I’ve had finds such a transition successful, and then they’re in terrible distress once they’ve taken such hormones.

“Furthermore, transitioning will bring all sorts of challenges, particularly with your desire to continue teaching. Not every school district wants to deal with transgendered teachers. You’ll likely face more health problems later in life, too.”

“I thought there were laws prohibiting discrimination against transgendered people,” I countered.

“No, honey,” she said, her voice growing more gentle and soothing. “The laws cover sexual orientation, but not those who were born male or female and wish to live as the other gender.”

I agreed that I would live the next two months as a male, wearing female clothes only in the privacy of my own home. In the meantime, I would schedule two more meetings with Dr. Pam, get a complete physical examination and see an endocrinologist who would prescribe appropriate hormones once I decided – along with Dr. Pam – that I was a good candidate to transition. Also, it would be a period in which I could discuss my pending transition with the school principal and perhaps other school officials. I knew Mrs. McGuire would return for the next school year, but the principal had told me my performance had been excellent and they were ready to offer me a contract if there would be an opening for an English teacher in the district. “You’re really a very talented teacher, Jason, and we’d love to have you in the system,” Miss Hammond said.

The question was now: would the school district be so eager to keep me as a teacher if I was Miss Julie Pearson?

*****
I wanted to cool it with Hank; while he ignored me at school, he called me at home once a night – and sometimes twice. In the calls, he treated me as Julie, making no reference to Jason or to school. That he considered me to be his “girlfriend” I had no doubt. We had a Saturday night date; this time he wanted to take me to an out-of-the-way club in another community where it would be doubtful we’d run into anyone we knew. I tried at first to decline.

“Oh Hank, it’s been a long week and I’m tired,” I said when he called on Thursday night.

“It’ll do you good to get out, wake you up, darling,” he replied. “Besides, I’d love you to wear that dark violet cocktail dress, the one that shows your lovely arms and shoulders. You look so hot in that.”

“No, Hank, we shouldn’t be doing this now while school is still in session. What if someone will see us?”

“Nobody will see us, Julie,” he pleaded. “No one I know even knows about the place. Besides if someone shows up who knows me, they’ll never place you. You’ll be my new girlfriend, Julie, that’s all.”

“We shouldn’t,” I said, though I sensed he felt my opposition to the invitation was weakening.

“Julie, I really want to show you off. Let’s go out and have a good time.”

In the end, I agreed. How can a girl refuse such a request from a handsome, strong and sweet man?

*****
Club Crystal was in a warehouse-type building, hardly fitting for a top-rated restaurant and night club. It was in a decaying industrial area of Crystal River, a community named after the river that cut through the center of town. I had checked the club out online and found that it had a four-star rating, offered great entrees and had a live quintet that featured danceable music. Valet parking was available at the fancy entrance that seemed out of place with the rest of the building.

“You’re my princess for the night,” Hank announced when he picked me up about six-thirty on Saturday.

I blushed as I opened the door to my bungalow to see him standing there with a wrapped box in his hands, wearing a formal black suit. The night was unusually warm for late April and for the first time that cold spring he didn’t wear a coat.

“Here, let’s see how this looks on you,” he announced, handing me the box as he entered the house.

“Oh Hank, you shouldn’t,” I said, rising on my toes to kiss him. Even in my three-inch heels, he was still taller than I was.

I was so excited being treated as such a special girl, but I restrained myself, carefully untying the bow on the box, opening it and finds a corsage of tiny white roses.

“It’s lovely, and it’ll look lovely on this dress,” I said, clearly astounded that this man – whom I once considered to be a lout – could be so sensitive and artistically tasteful in choosing a corsage.

“Nothing’s too good for you,” he smiled.

He helped me pin the corsage to the area on the area above my left breast, his hands gently accomplishing the task. Of course, the corsage perfectly complemented my dress, which was a sleeveless halter style outfit, with a plunging neckline. To ward off the chill of the night, I wore a white, crocheted wrap about my shoulders. I made little effort to enhance my breasts, choosing to wear only a padded bra; I had learned to use cosmetics to provide the hint of a cleavage, and was satisfied that I looked very much a woman who just happened to have only modest breasts.

I felt we were Cinderella and Prince Charming as we were met by a uniformed valet as Hank drove his Ford Mustang up to the entrance. What a marvelous way to start a lovely evening! Little did I know how badly it would end.

Chapter Seven: A Bump Occurs

The night was beginning just as ideally as Hank promised it would be. As he paraded me into the club and its exquisite interior, I found the maître d’ to be most solicitous, calling me “ms.” I noticed the eyes of many of the men following me, even seeing the scowls of a few of their female companions. Never in my life had I felt to be so universally admired, and it obviously was due to my natural femininity.

“You must be the prettiest woman here tonight,” Hank said in a low voice once we were seated at a table for two.

“Oh posh,” I said, but it was lame attempt at being humble since in my mind I couldn’t resist the vain thought that I truly was a remarkably lovely woman. It was a revealing moment, realizing that as a woman I was truly remarkable, while as a man I was quite pathetic.

Thankfully, the band played at moderate volume, usually performing Big Band era songs that added to the magic of the evening. Maybe because mother had loved music of that period, I enjoyed the tunes as well. While we waited to receive our food Hank dragged me onto the dance floor to dance to a slow, romantic version of an old song, “Stardust.” I protested at first, fearing that I would be clumsy, since I had rarely danced.

But I need not to have feared. Hank proved to be a patient and the very rhythmical steps quickly put the two of us into a warm togetherness. “This is so lovely,” I said as we moved comfortably about the floor, Hank drawing me close to the slow beat of the music.

“I love how radiant you are, Julie,” he said.

I looked up at him, as we began to move with greater ease. I became more and more comfortable dancing with each step, assured by the firm control Hank had in our movements. I loved feeling his strong arms about me and I found it so easy to follow his lead.

The food was marvelous; we both chose a ginger-flavored mahi-mahi fish plate, which was fresh-tasting and flaky, coupled with a leafy salad, topped off with a Black Forest cake that was unusually light and fluffy.

Our “perfect night,” however came to a screeching halt when a young bus boy approached the table to brush off the crumbs and refill our coffee. I paid little attention to him, until the boy said in a hurried voice, “Julie. Is that you, Julie?”

I instantly recognized the voice. It was Randy.

I froze, unable to look at Randy, but could see Hank take a quizzical look at me. There was an awkward moment of silence, and I finally looked up to see the eager, fresh-washed face of the boy I had kissed passionately on those holiday trips to Point Pleasant.

“Hi Randy,” I composed myself.

“How great it is to see you,” he said.

“Randy, this is my boyfriend, Hank, and Hank this is Randy, a boy I met at the beach last summer,” I said, hoping to make the meeting just a casual event. I also hoped that by introducing Hank as my boyfriend would dash any illusions that Randy might have for renewing his relationship with me.

“Oh?” Hank said, obviously bothered by the boy’s presence and my rather lame explanation. He may have also been surprised at my characterization of him as a boyfriend, something I had not previously acknowledged.

Randy seemed to sense the awkwardness of the situation and quickly said: “Yes, it was fun talking with you then. Nice to see you, but I need to get back to work. I live in this town and just work part-time here.”

The boy quickly took his leave to administer to other tables. Hank looked at me strangely, “I didn’t know you had been out as Julie meeting boys like that before and he’s just a kid, for God’s sake.”

I reddened, realizing that the incident may not have looked as innocent as I tried to make it. “I’ll explain later, and I know he’s just a kid. He’s sixteen.”

Hank shook his head, obviously disturbed by the unexpected appearance of the bus boy. I felt just terrible; how could I possibly explain the situation? I broke the silence and began, “Hank, please let me tell you the whole story later and I hope you’ll understand.”

“It better be good, that’s all I have to say,” he responded his tone taking on a sudden meanness that seemed out of character.

Just then, the waitress appeared with our dessert, bringing us both to silence. We ate in silence, finished our coffee, refused an after-dinner drink and waited for the check. “Let’s get out of here,” Hank said, not bothering to practice the gentlemanly manners he had displayed earlier in the evening. What started out as a perfectly romantic, lovely evening ended with both of us in despair.

*****
Hank said nothing as we began the drive back home; in fact, he seemed so angered that I feared he’d decide to stop along the highway and kick me out of the car, leaving me to find my own way home, high heels and all.

“Don’t you want to know the whole story, Hank?” I finally asked, my voice trembling, worried about his response.

“You don’t need to justify yourself, Julie or should I say, Jason? I don’t know who the hell you really are.”

“Please Hank, listen to me,” I said, beginning to sob.

“Oh for Chrissakes, now you’re pulling that fake girl crap on me by crying.”

With that I began to cry even more violently. I had thought I had found a kind, caring male friend who enjoyed me as Julie; now I was wondering if he wasn’t a brute all along, just as I had originally thought. I rummaged around in my tiny clutch purse for a tissue to wipe my tears. Soon my sobbing subsided and I tried to move away from him, but the bucket seats in the Mustang failed to give me much wiggle room.

Hank apparently saw my motion and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hit you. I’ll never hit a woman . . . or even a pathetic man like you.”

What Hank said hurt, but I decided not to respond. I sat quietly for a few minutes, turning away from him to look out the window of the car, watching the storefronts along the suburban street, many showing displays highlighting summertime clothing, garden supplies and other signs of coming warm weather. Even the cheeriness of the setting failed to take me out of my funk.

I made one last attempt to ask Hank to listen to my story; I wanted him to know that I was not a promiscuous crossdresser who flung himself at men for a sexual relationship. In fact, at age twenty-four now I was still a virgin, my sexual experiences involving kisses and caresses with two males, young Randy and the older Hank.

“Please come in the house, Hank, so I can tell you my whole story,” I pleaded, as he dropped me off at my place. It was obvious he was merely stopping in front of my house and that he would not get out, open my door and escort me to the front door, as you’d expect a gentleman to do.

“It’s all over. Get out.”

I wanted to cry, to grab onto to him and hold him tightly, wishing he could understand how I was feeling. He had made me feel like a princess at the restaurant, had treated me with gentlemanly care and had fawned over me. Now, he was figuratively kicking me out of his car.

“I wish you could listen to me, Hank,” I pleaded.

“You want me to come in?”

“Yes, please. We can’t end our friendship on a misunderstanding. Please.”

He followed me up the walk to the house, not attempting to hold my arm as he did in the past. Hank let me fumble for my keys and open the door standing by patiently while I failed after several attempts to find the keyhole with my key. Impatiently, Hank grabbed the keys from me, put the correct key in the lock and, with an angry motion, opened the door.

*****
“Gimme a beer,” he ordered.

I nodded and went to the refrigerator, drawing out two beers, setting them on the kitchen table. He sat down at one of the chairs, drawing one of the bottles to him and twisting off the cap. He left the other bottle unopened on the table. It was obvious I would have to open it myself.

The spring night had grown chilly and I was chilled, the wrap too thin to provide much protection against the coolness. I asked to be excused so that I could put on a robe to warm myself. In the bedroom as I found and put on the robe, I wondered why I hadn’t become angry at Hank’s behavior. He was acting like such a selfish, uncaring, jealous man; yet, I felt he needed to understand me so that he would not hold me in such disdain. I had seen the kindness in the man and for a moment I even wondered if I was in love with him and that he was the man in my future.

Returning to the kitchen, I struggled to twist open the cap, but my soft, weak hands failed to turn the cap. He sat and watched me, forcing me to go to a drawer and pull out an old-fashioned beer bottle opener to snap off the cap.

“Want a glass?” I asked him.

“No.”

I don’t like drinking out of the bottle; perhaps I didn’t think it was lady-like. I found a goblet shaped beer glass and poured my beer into it.

“Let’s hear it. I’m all ears,” he said, sarcastically.

“I’ll begin at the beginning,” I said.

I related how I had first wondered about why I wasn’t born a girl and how my mother soon recognized those feelings and let me express myself as a girl at home. I told how much of a failure I felt as a boy and how out of place I was. The sadness of mother’s death affected me and prompted me to make those two ventures to Point Pleasant as Julie.

“I met Randy by happenstance,” I explain. “He was there without a girlfriend along with his best friend Ryan and his girlfriend. You know Carmen Mendoza? She’s a junior at Farragut.”

“Yes, she’s a good student. She was in my freshman health sciences class I taught for a while,” he said, finding growing interest in my story.

“Randy and his friend sat near me on the train coming out and then saw me all alone on the beach, and suggested I join them, which I did. Well, we had a great time together, laughing and swimming and then having a bite to eat.”

“But there was more, wasn’t there?” he asked.

“Yes, I found myself being kissed and cuddled by him,” I admitted.

“You didn’t stop him?”

I blushed, and nodded in a negative fashion.

“When I realized he was only sixteen, and I was an adult, I immediately put an end to it,” I said. “But Carmen tells me he’s still smitten with me.”

“I sensed that tonight. And Carmen? She knows you’re Julie?”

“Yes, but she’s promised to keep it a secret and so far she’s been true to her word.”

“Oh my God, if they ever found out about us?”

“I know. We’d both be canned.”

“You’re sure you’re done with this boy?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, definitely and, Hank, I was never with him to start with,” I said firmly. It was true. I had never wanted to be involved with Randy; yet, I still had these fantasy-filled pangs of infatuation for the boy. After all, it was Randy who offered me my first experience of physical affection as a woman.

“I guess I must accept that, Julie,” Hank said after a moment.

I’m not sure Hank totally was convinced of my claim that the boy no longer mattered to me. He didn’t kiss me good-bye, finishing his beer in a few hurried gulps and leaving with no further words. I sat in stunned silence as he walked out the door. He didn’t slam it, but closed it slowly and deliberately. I desperately wanted to call out to him, to ask him to turn around and come back to hug me. Oh, how badly I needed a hug?

*****
Around noon on Sunday, the next day, I called Jon Edwards, the only person I knew whom I could confide in with confidence. I was anxious to talk to him since I had come to a decision: I was going to begin a new life – as Julie Anne Pearson.

“Are you free today, Jon?” I asked when I called him.

“Huh? Oh, it’s you Jason?” his voice was thick and muddled. It sounded as if I had awakened him.

“I’m sorry. Did I catch you in bed?”

“What time is it?”

“About noon, Jon.”

Then I heard a male voice in the background say also in a thick, throaty rasp, “Who is it, Jon, darling?”

“Just somebody from school,” I heard him respond to his companion.

I apologized for bothering him and suggested that he could return the call later, but Jon insisted that I tell him what my call was about. He said his friend was headed into the bathroom to take a shower, and that he could talk.

“Thanks, Jon,” I said. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this. It’s a decision I must make and I need your advice. Might you be free to meet me sometime today so we could talk?”

“How about Mulligan’s for a drink about four this afternoon?” he suggested.

“Thanks, Jon, but I don’t want you to change any plans for me, since you have a friend there today.”

“Nah, he’ll be going soon, besides I’m tired of him and he’s boring. All he wants is sex,” Jon laughed.

*****
Mulligan’s was a grubby bar located along a strip of diverse taverns that catered to any and all types of patrons ranging from gays and lesbians to horny straight gays and bikers. There were no fancy upholstered booths or lounge areas in Mulligan’s; instead, as you walked into the place you were engulfed in a din of noise. The place was dark with the illumination coming mainly from lights on the backbar and dim, recessed lights in the ceiling, half of which had burned out. The bar occupied one side of the room while a series of darkened, plywood booths lined the other side. There were no barmaids, and drinkers who occupied the booths had to wrestle their way to the bar to get their own drinks.

“Here’s a booth,” Jon said as he led the way through the throng of drinkers to the rear.

I was, of course, dressed as Jason, and to others I’m sure we looked like a gay couple out for a Sunday afternoon drink after a night of wild sex.

“I’ll get the drinks, Jason,” he ordered as I sat down. “You’ll be best to order something to drink directly out of a bottle since I wouldn’t trust the cleanliness of Mulligan’s glassware. I’m getting a Miller Lite.”

“The same,” I said.

When he returned, he crowded in next to me adding to the illusion that we were a gay couple.

“I hope you don’t mind, Jason, but this way we can talk and not be overheard,” he explained.

“Good idea,” I said, moving over to give him more room. I could feel the heat of his body against me.

“Now, what’s this all about?” he said after we toasted each other by touching the beer bottles together.

I came directly to the point and told him I had made a decision that I was planning to transition to becoming a woman as soon as I could work out details with my doctor.

“I expected that, Jason,” he said.

“It doesn’t shock you?”

“No, not at all, you’re just about as feminine as any woman I know.”

“Thanks, Jon. I felt that way as long as I can remember, but there are two reasons I wanted to talk with you about it. First, you’re a friend I can trust to keep a confidence and secondly you’re on the bargaining committee of the teachers’ union and might know of my rights.”

He patted my arm, and said, “Darling, let me say that first of all I am honored to be your friend and to keep your confidence. You know I will.”

“Thanks, you’re a dear.”

“Now as far as your rights,” he began. “Right now you don’t really have any. You’re a temporary employee of the school and that’s like being on probation and it means the union cannot speak for you or defend you in any disciplinary action.”

“I suspected that since I’m not yet a member of the union,” I said. “But Mrs. Hammond has indicated to me that they like me and might offer me a contract for next school year. I hate to miss that opportunity.”

“And you’re afraid that if you try to transition you’ll jeopardize your right to teach?”

“Right, but aren’t there some anti-discrimination laws that would protect me?”

“Yes, there are anti-discrimination laws and while they protect people like me – gays and lesbians – from workplace discrimination, they don’t cover transgendered persons. I know there’s a campaign going on to cover transgendered men and women, but who knows when that’ll happen?”

“Oh.” It was all I could say.

Jon said, “I’m sorry but you’ll be on your own basically.”

“Can’t the union help in some way?”

“Oh Jason, I didn’t mean to say we wouldn’t try, but you have few if any legal rights in this. I’ll talk to our representative and have him check out your rights, too, and I know our folks at Farragut would put in a good word for you, but that’s about it.”

“This means I’ll be fighting a lonely fight, then, right?”

I slumped down into the hard plywood of the crude booths, my spirit fading quickly.

“Jason, please, I’ll be with you all the way,” Jon said, putting his arm about me and drawing me close.

I melted into his arms and rested there for a moment, comforted by his friendship. Both he and I knew our embrace was not in any way sexual, but merely an expression of mutual respect. Finally I moved away from his hug and sat upright and announced: “Jon, now I’m more determined than ever. I will become Julie as soon as I can. Nothing will stop me, nothing.”

I was shocked at the words coming from my mouth. Never in my life had I made such a firm commitment to anything, but I was convinced that I would finally, once and for all, become the person I really am.

*****
After getting home that night, I treated myself to a warm, leisurely bubble bath, shampoo and a light meal of a tuna salad and glass of wine. I put on a light, gauzy baby doll nightgown and found my favorite jazz record by Frank Morgan, who plays a lovely, toned sax. I put my hair up and relaxed, content with my decision to live soon as a woman. I sealed that commitment the following morning as I prepared for school. For the first time, I decided to wear panties and black sheer thigh high stockings under my slacks, which a close examination would betray that they were designed for women. Rather than tying my long, light brown hair in a more masculine-style ponytail, I decided to let it flow freely, and it hung down with a slight curl at the end.

My outfit, I felt, still was primarily that of a slender young man to the casual observer, but I felt distinctly female as I boarded the train for my morning trip to Farragut. However, I soon found that I must have appeared more like a young woman, after I bumped into an elderly man while rushing onto the train and he excused himself saying, “Excuse me, miss.” Later the woman sitting next to me on the train commented as the train left its underground tunnel and ascended onto the elevated tracks into the bright morning sun, “What a beautiful day this is. It makes a girl think of flowers and romances, doesn’t it, dear?”

I noticed she wore no wedding ring and I decided to confirm her observation that I was a young woman. “Sometimes finding the flowers is easier than getting the romance, though.”

She smiled and said, “Tell me about it.” I looked at her closely; she was a woman about thirty and wore a dark business suit. I could tell she had pretty features, but she wore only light makeup and her dirty blonde hair hung carelessly. Even with the smile, she appeared careworn.

“Well, the sunny day helps though,” I said in an effort to reassure her.

We said nothing more, though I was tempted to carry on a conversation; she seemed like a nice person and one that could be a good friend. I left her at the next stop and we exchanged wishes that each “have a good day.” As I walked to school, I reflected how sweet it was to be entering into the welcoming embraces of other women. Never before had I – as Jason – talked to a female stranger one-on-one. She would not have said a word to a young man as she did to me that morning.

Realizing that I may have gone overboard in expressing my femininity, I rushed into the teacher’s bathroom and locked the door. I tied my hair back into a ponytail and removed the light applications of eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss that I had applied earlier. I was certain that such girlish accoutrements might raise eyebrows among other teachers and cause undue comments from the students and that I had better try to put on as masculine look as possible.

*****
Carmen Mendoza cornered me at lunch hour again, almost pushing me into a corner alcove that served as the entrance to a janitor’s closet.

“I heard from Randy Sunday,” she announced. Her voice quavered as if she were trying to avoid being angry.

“Oh?” I said, feigning innocence.

“You know he saw Julie Saturday night and I think Julie was with our PE teacher,” she accused me.

“Oh my? Did you . . . ?”

“No, I didn’t tell him who Julie really was, but I should have. Mr. Pearson, you shouldn’t be fooling people like this, and with Coach Duke, too.”

She stood before me, her face flushed and her eyes flashing. I sensed that she wanted to punch me in anger for continuing what in her mind was a charade that was causing her friend Randy pain and may be in some remote way harming other students. I said nothing for a moment, seeking to gather my thoughts. I felt Carmen was a young woman of high principle as well as common sense – qualities that were rare among girls of her age. Nonetheless, I knew that what I was doing was pushing the limits of her levels of tolerance.

“Carmen,” I began finally, slowing moving a bit to the side in an effort to remove myself from being trapped against the back of the alcove. “I need a few more days of your discretion in which to set matters right, and I promise to do just that.”

“This is serious, Mr. Pearson,” the girl replied, her anger level seemingly dropping.

“I know that very well and whether I was with Coach Duke or some other man is no one else’s business but my own.”

“But, sir . . .”

“Now I must get back to my classroom, Carmen, and I truly appreciate your understanding on this.”

I pushed passed her to leave the alcove, but the girl held onto my sleeve, and I stopped: “Just remember what I said, Mr. Pearson. I’ll give you ‘til Thursday to set this straight; otherwise on Friday, I’m going to Mrs. Hammond.”

She let go of my sleeve and I escaped into the throng of students and hurried back to my classroom, and locked the door. I sat down at my desk and held my head in my hands and sobbed. I had about twenty minutes until the students would begin to arrive for class. I worried that some students or teachers might look through the window at the top of the classroom door and see my crying and decided to lay my head down on the desk on my forearms, as if I were taking a short nap.

After several minutes, I heard the door rattle and then a light knocking. I looked up to see Hank motioning me to open up.

I wiped my face quickly and let him in, leaving the door open. “Come in.”

“Were you crying?” he asked.

“A little, but I’m over it now, Hank. I have to tell you something.”

I motioned him to sit down at a chair I reserve for students when they come to my desk for a one-on-one talk. I sat down at my desk.

“Randy, the busboy from Saturday night, called Carmen Mendoza to say he saw me – that is, Julie – and that Julie was there with a man. The sight apparently angered him, because I know he’s still infatuated with Julie.”

“As am I,” Hank interjected.

I smiled and continued. “Hank this is serious, ‘cause after Randy described the man Carmen guessed it might have been you.”

Hank frowned.

“But while I admitted being out with a man I told her the identity of the man was basically none of her business.”

“Did she accept that?”

“I don’t think so, but I told her I would set the matter straight by Thursday and that everything would be OK.”

“And if you don’t?”

“She’ll go to Mrs. Hammond with her information.”

Hank sat stunned for a moment. “I was foolish to ask you out. This could cost me my career.”

“I know and it is my intention not to involve you in any way,” I said. I was sincere in my desire to hold Hank harmless.

“How will you resolve this, Jason?” he asked.

“Hank, I have a plan that should end this honestly and without harming anyone, except perhaps myself,” I said.

“What will you do?”

“It’s best you not know, Hank, but I promise you what I’m doing is for the best of all of us.”

“In the meantime, we better not be to seen together, right?” he asked.

“Agreed, though I know Julie will miss you.”

Hank got up from the chair, smiled at me and said: “I’ll miss Julie as well. Let’s hope someday that Julie and I can re-unite.”

*****
There was no question in my mind that I was a woman and my worry was that Doctor Pamela Wojcziehowski would not see it as clearly and might delay my start on hormones, the first step to permanent transition. I had been able to set up an appointment at five o’clock that afternoon, thanks to a cancellation the gender specialist had; I had called her during my lunch break since I was determined to move forward.

When I got to the doctor’s office that afternoon, I learned that Dr. Wojcziehowski was tied up with another patient. I sat for nearly half an hour before she could see me. I fidgeted, framing my words in my mind as I sat there, pretending to read an ancient copy of Vogue, failing even to see the strikingly beautiful clothes portrayed on its glossy pages as my mind raced.

“Doctor Pam, I need to begin my transition now,” I said, those being the first words out of my mouth when I entered her office.

“Whoa,” the doctor said, having risen from her chair to greet me.

“Doctor, I’m serious. I can’t wait any longer. I’ve never been more convinced that I’m a woman, a real live woman.”

“Sit down, Jason,” she said firmly, leading me to the lounge area she used for consultation and directing me to the love seat.

“I’m Julie,” I protested.

“For now, you’re Jason,” she said. “Now, I’m going to go get something to drink and leave you here to settle down. What would you like?”

I asked for tea, black with no sweetener, and she turned to her desk, turning off a desk light as she left, leaving the room in illuminated from the window that looked north upon the city and dim overhead recessed lights. It was meant, I was sure, to set a soothing mood, although in my anxiety I was having trouble calming down. I must have sat in the semi-darkness for ten minutes, and when the doctor arrived carrying a silver tray with a tea pot, sugar, creamer and two cups I did indeed feel more relaxed.

“Sorry this took so long,” she said. I watched patiently while she poured the tea into the two cups, handing me one, before she sat down.

I wanted to tell her that I didn’t think she was sorry at all, since I suspected her delay was contrived to merely force me to calm down. I didn’t say anything, because I had learned to respect her and also because her scheme seemed to have worked.

“Now, Jason, I’ve never seen you so determined before. What brought this on?”

She was right; I felt that I had the failing of being indecisive, tentative and frightened to make a decision. It seems like I’ve always been afraid in my life, afraid of letting people to get to know me, afraid that I’d say something wrong and afraid that I didn’t fit in with the crowd.

“Doctor Pam,” I began, my words coming out slowly and with a measured precision. “This week I learned many truths about myself and the basic one is that I am female.”

“What happened this week?” she probed.

I told her about my liaisons with Hank Duke, about the short, but revealing encounter I had with a young woman on the train that very morning and about the meeting with Randy in the restaurant. I had told her earlier about my trips to Point Pleasant and about meeting Randy; previously I had indicated our meetings were casual, but this time I related the passion I felt as a young woman in the arms of the boy. I told her also about Jon Edwards’ observations about my femininity.

“That’s quite a litany,” she said when I finished.

“It’s all true, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the full story about Randy before, but I felt so ashamed since he was so young and that you might be required to report me to the authorities,” I said.

She smiled.

“Technically – and if what you say is true – you didn’t commit statutory rape,” she said. “He’s sixteen and that means it’s no longer statutory rape. In this state statutory rape occurs only when an adult has a sexual encounter with a youth under sixteen. It could bring a rape charge, but the state has to prove you were the aggressor, and that doesn’t seem to be the case here. Let’s forget that for a moment, but it does explain your comfort in being treated like a young woman and helps build your case.”

“And doctor,” I said. “It’s urgent since I want to tell the school of my plans to transition this week.”

“Why the rush?” she asked.

I told her that I was afraid my life as Julie would be exposed by Carmen or others if I didn’t take steps to set things right. I knew I was under pressure to inform Randy of my gender in the next few days, and who knew what he would do when he found out.

“I want to tell the principal in the next couple of days about my plans, which will mean I may have to quit, but I’m prepared for that,” I said. “I can still go back to my old nursing home job if I have to and mom did leave me some backup money.”

It was after six o’clock when we finished and Dr. Wojcziehowski gave me a referral to an endocrinologist and told me to get a physical from my own doctor, after which she expected I could begin hormones.

Just before we left, Doctor Wojcziehowski took a few minutes to write out a note; she handed it to me and said, “I hope this will help with your school.”

I took the paper from her and read the note, written in a precise hand (unlike the way most doctors scribble) on a prescription blank with the doctor’s letterhead.

“To whom it may concern:

“This is to confirm that Jason Pearson has been under my psychiatric care for the last seven months and that I have concluded after careful consideration that for his own long-term mental health he should be recommended to begin gender reassignment treatment as soon as possible. It is my further recommendation that, pending the results of several other medical examinations, that he should begin living as a woman no later than July 1 of this year.

“Pamela Wojcziehowski, M.D., Ph. D.”

I took a moment to read it and then looked up to Doctor Pam. “Thank you,” I said.

“That’s just the first step, Jason. If your physical tests pan out and your doctor agrees, which I expect they will, you’ll likely be on hormone therapy by the start of next school year. But for now, once you begin living fulltime as a woman – which you should start once school ends in June – we’ll see how you adjust.”

“I’ll adjust just fine, doctor,” I said, totally convinced that nothing could stop me now.

“Let’s just wait and see how it goes in those first few months,” Doctor Pam said. “This will be a real test to see if you’re totally serious, before we do the physical changes such as breast enhancement, some possible facial surgery and sexual reassignment surgery. That’s several years down the road, most likely.”

“I’m ready now doctor.”

“We’ll see,” she said dismissing me.

(Copyright 2014)

Chapter Eight: Hope and Despair

Principal Hammond welcomed me into her office, motioning for me to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite her desk.

“You asked to see me, Mr. Pearson?” she asked, eyeing me warily, obviously wondering what my issue was. She had learned in her nearly ten years as school principal that teachers rarely asked for such meetings unless they had a problem.

“Yes, I asked to meet you now because fifth hour is my free period and I have a personal matter to discuss with you,” I said, sitting stiffly in the straight-back wooden chair.

“Oh? Are you having problems with your classes or other teachers?” she asked.

“Not at all, I love my students – well most of them – and the teachers all seem to treat me fine.”

“That’s what I had heard, Mr. Pearson. None of the problems we had talked about when we hired you seemed to have developed. I’m pleased and it’s probably a tribute to how you’ve handled the classes. I was so afraid you might not have been strong enough or firm enough to work with some of our students.”

I grew more comfortable and relaxed in my seat. While I had some problems at first – likely exacerbated by my obvious effeminate mannerisms – they had been largely laid to rest.

“Well what it is then?” Mrs. Hammond asked.

I reached into my shirt pocket and drew out the note from Doctor Pam, unfolded it and handed it to her. The principal took the note from my hand and glanced quickly at its contents.

“What’s this mean?” she asked a puzzled look on her face.

“It means, Mrs. Hammond, that come the end of the school year I expect to begin living as a woman,” I said, trying to sound confident and firm while hiding a terrible tension within me.

She leaned back in her high-backed executive chair, looking at me and saying nothing.

“Well, I’m a bit shocked, although I guess I shouldn’t be. You’ve exhibited plenty of signs such a thing might be coming,” she said finally.

“I know, but I have become convinced that deep down inside I’ve always been female,” I said.

“And, I suppose you’re wondering what this information will do to your chances of gaining a full teaching position here, right?”

“Yes, I guess I expect that I won’t be welcomed back now,” I said.

“You’re probably right, Mr. Pearson, although it wouldn’t be because you were a lousy teacher. You have signs of becoming a great teacher and I would have offered you the next opening that might occur in the English department, but it would be disquieting to the demeanor of the school with you trying to come back as a woman teacher after most of the students and other teachers had known you as a man.”

“I understand,” I said.

Mrs. Hammond paused for a minute, examining her fingers as she touched their tips together.

“On second thought, however, I really like your teaching style and your ability to keep the attention of your students. I’d like to keep you for next year and maybe, just maybe, we might be willing to try to bring you back,” she said, smiling.

“You think so, Mrs. Hammond?”

“It’s not my decision to make, you know. The superintendent will have to agree and the school board may have to get involved and then you don’t know what will happen. If I know the anti-discrimination laws, my dear, you likely are not protected as a transgender woman. But if the final word is ‘no,’ I will be pleased to give you the highest recommendation to any other schools.”

I nodded my head, thanking her. She rose from her chair as if to shake my hand and dismiss me. I remained seated.

“Is there something else, Mr. Pearson,” she said.

“Yes, and I need to inform you of a potential problem involving me right now,” I said.

She sat back down, her demeanor that of a person who wishes not to hear of any more issues.

“What is it?” she said, her voice showing weariness.

“You see, for years I have been dressing as a woman at home and in my private time and two teachers and one student have become aware of that. Although they are supportive of me, I’m afraid that fact may leak out and it might prove embarrassing to the school.”

She looked at me more suspiciously. “How did they find out?”

“I had become friends with the two teachers and I just told them. The student had seen me in a setting outside of school and recognized me; now another student may soon find out and I’m not sure that student will not spread the word.”

“So, you think there’ll be controversy if it leaks out?”

I nodded.

“Mrs. Hammond, I don’t want to cause either you or the school or my students any problem and for that reason I’ll be happy to quit this job immediately if you think it wise.”

I began to cry. The principal grabbed a box of tissues and reached across the desk, placing it in front of me.

“Did you do anything when you were dressed as a woman that was a crime or seriously wrong?” she asked directly.

The forced myself to stop crying and wiped my eyes. I looked directly at the principal and said, “No, I just treated myself to two weekend trips as a woman. It was before I began teaching. That was when I met the student.”

“And you were accepted as a woman on those trips?”

I must have blushed and nodded in the affirmative.

“I’m sure you were very pretty, too.”

“I guess so, but Mrs. Hammond I never had any sex. Everything I did was quite innocent,” I said.

She looked at me. “Do you think you can finish out the school year staying sufficiently male?”

“Yes, definitely,” I said.

“OK, I would like you to stay. However, if any problems develop or it becomes a big public issue, you may have to leave. I understand your situation, but I have to answer to the superintendent and the school board, too,” she said.

“I understand, Mrs. Hammond,” I said, rising from my chair to leave.

“I will share this with the superintendent today, and see what he says.”

I nodded and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she said. “Did you have a girl’s name?”

I turned to look at her, surprised at the question. “Yes, it’s Julie.”

She smiled: “It fits you, dear. Thank you for telling me about your plans and best of luck.”

*****
I left her office with a growing hope that I could begin my transition quietly and unobtrusively, and I was able to sleep that evening more peacefully than I had done in the last week. For some reason, I even felt I may have saved my career as a teacher. That feeling of hope fueled me in the next day of school, helping me to put more enthusiasm into my teaching and as a result bringing out similar responses from the students. All in all, it was one of those marvelous days in school that teachers experience every so often that makes the job worthwhile.

My euphoria crashed as I left school that afternoon. As I rounded a corner of the school building after having exited out of the teachers’ door I heard a voice yell out to me: “Julie.”

“Julie’ came the voice again, more insistent and louder.

Instinctively I turned, having recognized the young voice of Randy and realizing he was calling out for me. Several students were gathered in a group nearby and they turned to watch me put my hand up to my mouth in horror as I saw the husky form standing several yards away. I turned to move quickly toward him, mouthing the words, “Quiet. Not here.”

“So it is you, Julie?” the boy said, a triumphant look on his face.

“Here and now I am Mr. Pearson to you,” I said in a quiet voice, hoping that I wasn’t overheard by the nearby students; two of them I realized were students from one of my classes.

My heart began pounding as I looked at the young man who had grown and matured in the few months since our Christmas Eve meeting. His face looked more handsome than ever and the several days’ growth of his beard of blondish hair added to his allure. The fear of being exposed at that moment in the schoolyard and my excitement at seeing this marvelous hunk of young manhood combined to raise my anxiety.

“How could you do this to me?” he said, adding with an exaggerated sarcasm, “Mr. Pearson.”

“Randy, I’m sorry,” I began slowly. “Walk with me and if you got time we can stop at a coffee shop near the train station and I’ll explain it.”

“I can’t believe this,” he said, walking alongside me as we headed down the sidewalk. I noticed the students eying me strangely as we walked by. One of them, Julie Stein (how ironic!), said: “Have a good evening Mr. Pearson.”

“You, too, Julie and Eddie,” I said in reply, including the name of the other student from my class.

“Wasn’t that weird? I saw that girl wave at me when I first yelled out your name,” Randy said.

As we walked toward the coffee shop, I couldn’t help but feel weird. I wanted anyone watching us to see only a teacher and a student innocently discussing classwork; yet, I knew that Randy’s mature looks and my always youthful appearance might show us up as friends. Perhaps, too, the students who saw Randy and me outside of school might conclude that I was a gay man meeting my lover who might or might not be underage. I knew the students of the school were continually speculating over my effeminacy, often concluding wrongly that I was gay. Whatever they were thinking, I knew, was not flattering.

“You shouldn’t have come to the school, Randy,” I said.

“That was the only way I could see if my suspicions were correct, and I see they are. I got excused from my last hour and came over here to see ‘Mr. Pearson’ for myself. After I saw you at the tournament, I almost called you ‘Julie’ there, but Carmen kept dragging me away from you. I knew she was hiding something.”

“Randy, I’ll tell you all you want to know, once we get settled at the coffee shop,” I said, hoping to take control of the situation.

“You better confess,” he warned.

“I will, but Randy I want you to know I was impressed with your participation in the forensics tournament,” I said, hoping temporarily to change the subject.

“Thanks, Mr. Pearson,” he said, again using the sarcastic tone.

“Really, Randy, you did a great job in formulating your arguments and you must have done good research. You’re a bright young man with a promising future.”

“Don’t think you’re going to get off by flattering me,” he said menacingly.

We found a small table for two in the busy coffee shop; Randy got a latte and I got a double expresso and we shared a plate of cookies.

“You’ve heard of transgendered women, Randy?” I asked when we had settled down with our drinks.

“Is that what you are?”

“Well, right now, I’m under treatment of a specialist who thinks I am. I’ve always thought I should have been a girl.”

“And you think that excuses you from dressing up like a girl and tricking me?” he accused me.

“Oh Randy, I wasn’t tricking you. At least that was wasn’t my plan.”

“You’re so fucking pretty and feminine,” he said, his voice exasperated.

“I didn’t want to trick you and I tried to avoid you, but you kept popping up.”

“What did you do, spend every weekend like a whore? God what a pervert you must be. You shouldn’t be teaching kids.”

“Lower your voice,” I ordered, aware that he might be overheard, even over the heavy fog of noise that echoed throughout the shop.

“My God, what are you?”

“Randy, first of all, I don’t go out every week like a whore, as you say. When you saw me on the Fourth of July weekend that was my first time out as a girl in public. My first time, I assure you.”

“But then we saw you on Christmas, too.”

“And that was only my second time, believe me.”

“Hah. How can you lie like that to me? After how we kissed.”

“Honestly, I had only gone out twice in public by Christmas, largely ‘cause I was having a lonely weekend. My mom had just died and I was all alone and depressed. Only when I dressed up pretty did I feel happy, so I decided on those two trips to Point Pleasant.”

Randy nodded, as if perhaps he wanted to believe me.

“I asked you,” I continued, “Do you understand what transgendered means?”

“Only that it refers to guys who like to dress up as girls, and I suppose to cover those girls who wanna be guys.”

“Well, it’s more than that,” I said.

I explained that transgendered persons are those who feel they were born in the wrong gender, that even though they may have a penis and a beard they might indeed feel inside that they were female and that those beliefs were too hard to overcome. The opposite is true of girls who believe they were boys. I explained how my gender specialist was treating me and what steps I would have to take to change my gender.

“By July first, if all goes according to plan, Randy,” I said, “I’ll be living fulltime as a woman and if I can get a teaching job I’ll be known to the kids as Miss Pearson.”

“Wow,” he said, looking at me.

“I know it’s a big step, but I think Julie is the real me.”

“I only see Julie even now as I look at you,” he said. “I want to kiss you right now.”

“Randy, no. Get those thoughts out of your head. You’re still a minor. I can’t see you anymore. Besides I have a boyfriend and you met him Saturday night.”

“That guy?” he said disdainfully.

“What’s wrong with Hank?”

“He’s not good enough for you. I can see he’s just a jock!”

“You don’t even know him, Randy. Yes, he’s a jock but he’s also smart and caring.”

“Oh? You really like him?”

“Yes, I really like him.”

Randy shook his head. He seemed to go into deep thought. I sipped on my expresso that by now had cooled off.

“Answer me something,” Randy said after a moment. “When you’re done with all these operations and all will you be a total woman? Will I – or that Hank guy – be able to . . . ah . . . you know . . . ah go to bed with you and have sex?”

I smiled and nodded my head.

“You mean you’ll be a woman with a pussy?” He blushed as he asked this question, perhaps due to his use of the crude term, indicating his probable ignorance about how to define a woman’s vagina.

“Yes, with a pussy,” I said smiling. “The only thing I won’t be able to do is conceive children.”

“The only thing?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“I hope you understand,” I said.

He took his eyes off me, and appeared to be gazing at the cookie plate. Neither of us had touched the cookies, something that I felt was strange. Randy was obviously a typical teenage boy, the type that has a bottomless stomach. Finally, he took one of the cookies. I watched him, worried about his reaction. My explanation seemed to have quieted the anger he had been nursing since we met outside of the school.

“I guess I understand it,” he mumbled, his mouth still full of the large bite of chocolate chip cookie. “And you’ll become real this summer, right?”

“Not totally, since my operation will have to wait at least another year,” I said, pleased the conversation had settled down.

“But by the time I’m eighteen and legal you’ll be a woman?” he said it as a question.

I nodded.

“Then we can date again,” he said.

“Oh Randy, you mustn’t think about that. A lot can happen in two years, maybe Hank and I’ll get married or I’ll move away or find another boyfriend or you’ll find a nice girlfriend. Who knows?”

“But Julie, it’s still a possibility. Eight years age difference is nothing,” he said, continuing to address me in my female name even though I was dressed as Mr. Pearson.

“Anything’s a possibility, Randy, but that’s something neither you nor I should expect,” I said. “Now, given all that I think it’s best we break this up and we each go about our business. I’ll get back to my teaching and you get back to your studies and your sports and find yourself a sweet girl and move ahead to a nice future.”

“What?” he said. Suddenly, he grew angry; his eyes flashed and his face turned red. “I should act as if nothing happened? I should forget all my love for Julie, my months of heartache when I dreamed about being with you? You want me to forget your kisses, like they were nothing? How can you ask me that? You loved my lips, I know you did.”

“Randy, Randy, please lower your voice. People are watching us.” I warned.

“I don’t give a damn. You led me on. You are a fraud. A freak. A sissy man. Oh, damn, I don’t know what you are.” He began crying.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get up a hug him, pressing his lovely head with its unruly cowlick tightly against my breast and comfort his tears. I hated to see him in such torment and realized that I had caused him such pain.

“Randy, Randy, please calm down. Maybe I am a freak and that’s why you should have nothing to do with me. Go and get on with your life.”

“That’s so easy for you to say,” he said. He looked at me, his eyes red and moist. “I wanted Julie so badly and now I learn she was just a fairy tale. I hate you.”

“That’s OK. You should hate me. Maybe I did lead you on, but I didn’t know I was doing it. You kids were so welcoming for my company and I just found it so nice to be with you. Randy, even if I was a real woman then it wouldn’t have mattered. You were still sixteen and I was nearly twenty-four. It wouldn’t have been right.”

“God, I hate you and you shouldn’t be teaching kids. You’re such a freak. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

With that, he got up, gathered his backpack, turned his back from me and marched out the door. I watched him go. I felt so sad. Was I really such a freakish, evil person who would turn a perfectly fine boy into a wretched, sorrowful and perhaps vengeance-seeking body of hate?

I stared at the door of the coffeehouse, my mind holding the picture of the back of Randy stalking out, hoping that somehow the boy would consider how fruitless his infatuation with Julie might be and that he could jettison Julie from his consciousness and move forward into a happy, successful life. It was only while on the train, heading home that I realized that Randy might well let his despair turn into a vengeance in which he would announce to the world that I was a perverted, sexual predator unfit to teach high school students. For some reason, his possible vengeance did not seem to concern me. What I worried about was my role in helping to turn this lovely boy into a forlorn seemingly hopeless individual.

*****
Jon Edwards was alarmed at my announcement when I called him that evening to tell him I would be asking Mrs. Hammond to accept my resignation as being effective the very next week.

“What? You’re quitting? You don’t need to do that. We’ll support you,” he protested immediately.

I had called him partly because he was a friend and also because he was on the teachers’ union bargaining committee. He was also known as an advocate for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender rights. My concern was not to get anyone to “defend” me should I decide to try to continue teaching but just to see if I was going about it the proper way.

“I’ve made up my mind, Jon,” I said. “Look, it’s probably likely my cavorting about as Julie will become public soon, and I don’t want the attention, nor do I want to cause embarrassment to the school or you or anyone else.”

“Jason, I wish you wouldn’t do that, but why do you think ‘Julie’ will become public?”

“Never mind about why, it just might. Anyway, I don’t want a fight. I’ve got some money in reserve and I’m pretty sure I can get my old job back so I’ll survive.”

“I know the union can’t formally save your job, but we could make a strong case of discrimination and you’d have the whole LGBT community behind you,” he argued.

“Can’t you see I just don’t want to become such a big deal? This way I can transition into being Julie without a lot of fuss.”

“Won’t you miss teaching?”

“Of course,” I said. “I loved the kids; they were just great and I really think I was making a difference.”

“I know you were. You’re a born teacher.”

That night I went to bed, more confused than ever. I had left the coffeehouse convinced that I would quit teaching and revert to my old, lonely existence; it was with that determination I called Jon, whose wisdom and counsel I knew I’d respect. He was my best friend and certainly caring; yet, he was advising me to jump into a possible turmoil that could turn ugly and create a controversial environment within the school. What was I to do?

It was a sleepless night. The next day, I went to class still wondering whether I should announce I was quitting or to tough it out.

My third hour class had been the most difficult to handle. It was the class which contained Thomas and his cohort Demetrius; both students had sought to use my effeminate mannerisms to embarrass me. Somehow, I had gained control of the class and it had become the class I looked forward to, even though I knew some days they might get unruly. Perhaps I liked the interplay that Thomas and Demetrius created; their comments were often made with a wry wit, and I found I could play off their quips in a way that maintained class control without being offensive to the students.

As the class entered that morning, I was still in turmoil about whether to quit. The class homework assignment called for each student to compose a couplet that would incorporate the iambic pentameter format, which I knew they’d had trouble understanding. I honestly expected that only about one third of the students would have completed the assignment.

“Now, class,” I said after the bell rang, “which of you has a couplet they wish to read?”

To my surprise, every student, yes, every student raised his or her hand.

“All of you?” I said, stunned.

“Yes, and can I go first?” asked Thomas, always the mischievous one.

“Ok, Thomas,” I said warily, still worried that the boy would have some disruptive scheme in mind.

Thomas stood up, and the class went silent. He read in a lilting voice:

“Often I wonder would there ever be
Such a teacher who might understand me.”

“Into the classroom came just the ‘teach,’
Mr. Pearson, by name, he’s a peach!”

The class applauded. About half of the couplets that were read aloud that morning showed a praise and liking for “Mr. Pearson.” OK, many of them failed in understanding iambic pentameter, but they all tried. I had tears in my eyes before half of them finished. I never made it to Mrs. Hammond’s office. I would return the next week to continue teaching.

*****
I spent a lonely and uneasy weekend. Since Hank would be ignoring me, I had no plans for the weekend, except to grade papers and work on my lesson plan for the following week. The truth was that I had let my transgendered confusions interfere with my teaching and had fallen behind both on grading the students’ work and on planning for the weeks ahead. As it was I had only a vague idea about what I’d do in class in the immediate week ahead. While Mrs. McGuire had left me her lesson plans for the semester, I had strayed from them, largely with great success, and, as far as I could tell, I still covered the relevant materials.

Jon called me about mid-morning on Saturday, suggesting we take in a movie that night, but I thanked him and declined.

“I think if I concentrate on my schoolwork, Jon, it’ll help me take my mind off my worries,” I told him.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “I’m hoping you get through these weeks without any problems, but remember, I think a lot of us are behind you if it does come out. And I heard that your students like you, too.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” I said.

For most of the weekend I wore a pair of beige Capri pants and a sleeveless blouse; I tied my hair back in a schoolmarm-like bun and put on a pair of simple pearl earrings. I felt just like a woman who would be lounging lazily about the house as I leisurely plunged into my schoolwork. That night, I put in a DVD of the 1995 transgender movie: “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar.”

Yet, periodically, the fear came: Would Randy in his pique expose me, tell of my liaison with him that would certainly imperil my hopes of a teaching career?

*****
My fears were unfounded, since as the weeks until the end of the school year went by, I heard nothing, and even though the students were growing restless as the end of the school year neared, they continued to be interested in my classes.

“You really have a gift of teaching,” Harriet Simpson, a veteran English teacher, told me. “I hope they are able to find a spot for you here.”

Miss Simpson had been in the system over twenty-five years, having won great praise for her role also as the drama teacher. It appeared her life had been devoted solely to teaching. She must have sensed that I too had a lonely personal life for she invited me to join her to see a play being performed by a community theater group in which several of her former students were performing.

We must have been a strange looking couple, Miss Simpson a tall, angular, graying lady and me a slender, effeminate young man. Perhaps others might view us as a mother-son combination. Soon, I learned not to worry about appearances; Miss Simpson proved to be a fun-loving companion and we found ourselves laughing together many times. She had witty comments to make about things we might be observing and that seemed to bring me out of my shell. Now, along with Jon Edwards, I had found a third friend among the teachers. I couldn’t be happier, except that many times I wished I could have been their young woman companion.

Eventually, I told her about Julie; instead of showing shock, she merely said: “OK,” and she dropped the issue right then with a short bit of advice. “Just be yourself, honey, and you’ll do fine.”

My mind was further laid at rest two weeks after my encounter with Randy when Carmen Mendoza stopped me after school and told me she didn’t think Randy would say anything about Julie.

“I think he’d be embarrassed to admit to his buddies that he was fooled,” she explained.

“I didn’t want to fool him, Carmen,” I said. “It just seemed to happen, but I was wrong, I know that.”

“Besides, I think he still likes you,” she said, smiling.

“I like him, also, but we just can’t be more than acquaintances.”

“He knows that, I’m sure.”

*****
The last weeks of the semester flew by, the hours being filled with preparing for final tests, grading papers and finishing up lesson plans. There was little time to fret about my future, about the life-changing step I would begin in earnest during the summer. Each night and during weekends at home I switched quickly into my Julie mode, putting on shorts and a tank top as the weather warmed. Rarely did I put on a skirt or dress; yet, I felt totally female, dressing as a normal young woman would when spending time alone at home.

Looking in the mirror all I could see was a young woman in a casual outfit, looking soft and feminine. Fortunately, I had no sinewy muscles in my arms to betray my physical gender; my legs were slender and lovely with their thin ankles, smooth curved calves and somewhat fleshy thighs.

There was no question: My decision to transition was the proper one.

*****
During exam week, Mrs. Hammond left a note in my mailbox in the school office, asking that I meet with her at 2 p.m. Tuesday. Apparently she had checked my exam schedule and knew when I’d be free.

“Have a seat Mr. Pearson,” she said cheerfully, inviting me to sit in a hard wooden chair opposite her desk. “May I get you something to drink?”

I mumbled a “no,” wondering why the woman was being solicitous. Was she trying to soften the blow in which she’d tell me my services were no longer needed?

“Let me get straight to the point,” she began. Mrs. Hammond had a reputation of being a no-nonsense administrator, which was a trait I found to be most appealing.

“OK.”

“I will say right from the start that you have proven to be a most effective teacher. It’s something we rarely see in a beginning teacher. You know I was worried about you. You seemed to be such a . . . oh how should I say it? . . . a delicate individual and I was afraid some of the students here would devour you alive. Perhaps it was my intuition, but I felt I could take a chance on you, and from all reports you passed with flying colors.”

I began to feel hot and I’m sure I was blushing. I hoped it wouldn’t show.

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

“Anyway, Mr. Pearson, I’m planning on offering you a contract for the next school year, that is, if you’re willing to teach freshman classes, which will be mainly grammar and writing classes. They won’t be easy, since the kids usually hate that stuff. It’s the only English assignment I’ll have free next year; Miss Langley is getting married and leaving the city.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hammond, I’d love to try it,” I said. “I was hoping there’d be a position here. I’ve grown fond of this school.”

“You’d be a great addition to our staff.”

“Mrs. Hammond,” I said.

“Yes?” she replied, obviously sensing a problem arising from the tone of my voice.

“You’re still offering me a contract, even though I’ll be Ms. Pearson next year?”

“It’s still my intention to offer you a contract,” she said. “As you know, the final decision will come from the superintendent’s office. It’ll be a month or so before you’ll know for sure, so you might begin to shop around for another position. I want you to understand that what you told me does not alter my intention to offer you a contract.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond,” I said.

She rose from her desk and moved to shake my hand. I accepted it, and she smiled at me.

“Julie? That’s to be your name?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, Julie, I know you’ll be a lovely woman, and if the superintendent agrees and we hire you I know you’ll cause a bit of a stir here in September.”

“I know, and I would like not to cause a stir or to hurt the school in any way.”

“Julie, sometimes a bit of controversy is good for the soul,” she said smiling.

“Thanks for saying that, but I told you my plans so that you could still choose not to offer me a contract,” I said. “I would only hope that as I sought a job elsewhere you’d give me a good reference.”

“That I’d be happy to do. You deserve it, but I think we could weather the storm. But let’s see what the superintendent says. And just so you don’t get too concerned, we won’t be sending out contracts until mid-July, particularly to new teachers. But, either way, you’ll be informed.”

With that she gave me a hug. It was a sisterly hug such as only two women can share.

*****
My two closest friends on the faculty, Jon Edwards and Harriet Simpson, were happy to hear that the school was seriously considering offering me a contract, even after I informed the principal that I would be transitioning.

“I always had good feelings about Mrs. Hammond,” Harriet said when I told her the following day in the teachers’ lounge.

“I did, too, even though she always seemed to have a rather cold personality,” I said.

“Don’t let that fool you, honey. She’s got a heart of gold, but in the principal’s job I guess you’ve got to show some toughness. I’m not so sure about the superintendent. He talks a good game, but I think he’s a weasel and if he gets even the slightest bit of criticism, he’ll seek to wiggle out of offering you a contract.”

I nodded, recognizing that might be the case. Harriet and I had become fairly constant companions, usually attending a play or movie over the weekend, enjoying a dinner together and shopping. Once school was over for June, we began spending more time together, going out at least twice a week. We seemed always to gravitate toward activities that mainly attracted women, and I enjoyed the experiences. Of course, in our public outings, I always dressed as a male, though I hardly sought to hide my effeminate mannerisms.

Chapter Nine: The Neighborhood

When school ended for the semester, I began living fulltime as a woman; it caused a bit of stir in my neighborhood, since mother and I had lived in the same house since I was about four years old. The neighbors had seen me grow up as a boy, even though I had been likely characterized as gay. The other kids often called me a “sissy,” so I didn’t think my transition would be too much of a surprise.

I had hoped that our next door neighbor Paul Phillips – who had always been friendly to mom and myself – would accept me openly as Julie, and was surprised when he greeted me with a scowl on the Saturday after school ended. I purposely walked out of the house, wearing a yellow sundress with floral patterns and approached him as he was weeding a flower patch in his backyard.

“Mr. Phillips let me introduce you to Julie,” I said directly to him. He looked up at me, at first not recognizing me.

“Julie?” he said, puzzled.

“Yes, I’m Jason, your next door neighbor, and I’d like to tell you that from now on I’ll be living as a woman.” I spoke directly, almost with pride, even though I had debated with myself for several days over how I would tell him of my decision.

“My God, Jason, what’s going on with you?” His look was one of shock and wonderment.

“Well, sir, since you have been such a good neighbor and you and your wife helped mom and me over some difficult times, I felt I ought to tell you directly about this change in my life,” I said.

“But I don’t understand,” he said.

Paul Phillips and his wife, Marian, had always been friendly and helpful to us, with Paul always ready to offer his natural handyman’s expertise when mom had a problem with plumbing or appliances; in return, I had helped him with yard work and snow shoveling while I was still in school. When Marian took sick, I spent many hours after school and on weekends helping nurse her, even helping to clean the house. When mom died, Paul helped immensely with funeral arrangements at a time I felt hopelessly overwhelmed in both grief and confusion.

I knew Paul must have viewed me as somewhat of a sissy, and probably thought I was gay.

“Remember how hopeless I was when you tried to teach me to throw and catch a baseball?” I asked as I began to explain my transition.

He chuckled. “Yes, I remember it was quite a challenge.”

“Perhaps then you’ll realize that I was never happy as a boy and I began to wish I was a girl,” I continued. “I often felt I was a girl, and finally mom understood and let me begin wearing dresses at home. That made me so happy, and now I realize I really am a woman deep inside me and have begun taking treatments to transition into female.”

He shook his head and then looked at me, his eyes boring into me as I stood in the late morning sun.

“That explains everything,” he said finally.

“What does that explain?”

“Who that girl was I saw leaving your house a few weeks ago and getting into a sports car with a husky, good-looking guy. That was you, wasn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Marian saw the two of you and wondered who the pretty girl was and I told her they must have been friends of yours or something,” he said. “You were so beautiful in the outfit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Phillips. I’m really so happy now and I feel like myself, finally.”

“Oh Marian, Marian,” he yelled. “Come on out here.”

In a few seconds, Marian Phillips emerged from the house; like her husband, she was in her eighties, and had a trim figure. She wore Bermuda shorts and an old faded blouse. She walked haltingly, mainly as she confessed due to growing balance issues.

“What is it, Paul?” she said, a coffee cup in hand.

Before he could answer, she looked at me and said, “And who is this?”

“Meet Julie, she lives next door,” he said, leaving my identity a mystery.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, her free hand going to cover her mouth. “My God, it’s Jason, isn’t it? You’re just adorable.”

She placed her cup down on the floor of the back porch and rushed over to hug me. “I always felt you’d make a pretty girl, and here you are.”

She hugged me for what seemed an eternity, finally releasing me.

“You’re not disappointed in me?” I asked.

“Not at all, dear,” Paul Phillips said. “We’re not the old fogies you might think we are. We’re aware of changes happening in the world and when you get to be our age, you’ve seen it all.”

“What would your mother say about this, Julie?” Marian Phillips asked, pointedly using my female name.

“I think she’d be happy for me,” I said.

“As long as you’re happy, dear,” she said.

“I am,” I smiled.

We spent the rest of the morning chatting over coffee; Marian Phillips even suggested that I use her hairdresser. “She’s kept up with the latest fashions,” she said.

I had always admired Mrs. Phillips’ hair styling and we agreed to go together soon to get our hair done.

*****
Not all the neighbors that summer were as supportive of my change as the Phillips. I couldn’t help feel that as the word spread down the street that hundreds of eyes examined me as I walked to the train station. For that reason, I decided to dress as modestly as possible, often wearing slacks or Capri pants, and rarely wearing all but the most neutral of lipstick.

There was a group of young teens that gathered most afternoons in front of the McCloskey home, about two doors down from mine. It was a mixed group of about eight, divided usually about half and half between boys and girls. In previous summers, the group mainly played pickup baseball and football games between the parked cars; sometimes they rode their bicycles along the sidewalks scaring pedestrians as they whipped by. Mainly, however, they were just being kids and it was refreshing to see them out-of-doors playing rather than hunched over computers or playing video games inside. This summer, however, was different; the girls had begun to mature; nearly all of them sprouted modest breasts while the boys – who always lagged behind in the maturing process – still weren’t sprouting scraggly mustaches or beards. I noticed, too, they were playing fewer ballgames in the street, and were hanging together giggling, sometimes a boy and girl would pair off and separate from the group. They were discovering life and, in truth, I envied them; I had rarely played outside when I was their age, feeling too inadequate as a boy to compete in their sporting games and macho pursuits. Also, I had missed those middle years that I wished I would have lived through as a girl.

It was about four o’clock on a warm, weekday afternoon in late June that I had my first serious encounter with the group. I had walked from the train station and was returning from the summer school classes I was taking at the local university branch to receive a master’s in education. I was dressed as you might suspect any young lady in a master’s program would be dressed during the summer. I wore light blue shorts that reached to mid-thigh, sandals that exposed my toes painted in a light pink and a loose-fitting, button-down peach-colored blouse. My hair was tied into a pony tail that poked through the back of a light blue baseball cap and bounced up and down as I walked. I wore a backpack.

I guess I probably was called “cute” by most who observed me that day; I caught some men staring at me, both on the train and in class. One of them, an older man who had touches of gray in his hair and whose few wrinkles in his face made him most handsome had made some small talk with me and I politely reciprocated, answering his questions with a brief smile, hoping that I was not being too welcoming to him. I truly was not interested in a new man friend at this time when I was trying to achieve a career in teaching. Besides, I suspected the man was likely married.

The kids on my street, however, didn’t see me as “cute;” in their eyes I was a “freak” or a “danger” to them.

“Hey, freak, let’s see your sissy cock,” Bobby McCloskey, the scruffy sixteen-year-old youngest child in the large McCloskey family, said confronting me.

He placed himself directly in front of me as I tried to walk through the gathered youth, forcing me to stop. Another boy, equaling unkempt, moved so close to me I could smell the odor of his sweaty body. He added, “Yeah, you fag; let’s see what you got in those shorts.”

Both the boys were as tall as I was, and obviously considerably stronger. As they confronted me, the others – boys and girls – crowded into me, making it impossible to move. I was suddenly afraid what might happen, but I tried to summon up the resolve I had in the classroom and take control of the situation.

“You let me by,” I said, trying to put a commanding, firm tone in my voice, even though I was afraid it came out a bit in a high register and with a bit of a tremble.

“My mom says you’re a pervert,” Bobby snarled at me.

“A pervert,” chimed in a tall, light-complexioned girl called Susie Nordquist who lived across the street and for whom I had been a baby-sitter when I was about fourteen. Her mother was a hard-working, single mother of three trying to keep the house that she had been able to keep in her divorce.

“Susie, you know me, remember how much fun we had when I baby-sat with you,” I challenged her. I remember that as a five- and six-year-old girl she had pleaded, almost to the point of crying, when my time came to leave her when her mother came home. I had great joy in reading books to her, play-acting and even playing with her dolls.

“You’re still a pervert,” she said, her voice quivering, and I realized she didn’t believe her own words, but likely said them to be accepted among the other neighborhood kids, always an important need for girls in their teens.

“Come on kids, just let me through,” I pleaded, putting more emphasis in my voice, trying to use my age to give me the image of authority.

Just then, I heard a booming voice yell out: “Kids, let that person through.”

Mary McCloskey, the matriarch of the large family, approached slowly, her dark hair straggling from her head and wearing a ratty tee-shirt that did no favor to her large, flabby body. The kids scattered quickly, and Mrs. McCloskey approached:

“Jason Pearson, you’re not only a disgrace to the neighborhood but you’re an abomination in the eyes of God.”

“But Mrs. McCloskey, you don’t understand. I’ve always felt . . .”

“I don’t care what you felt, you queer,” she boomed back. “Why don’t you just move? Get the hell outa this town and dammit, move to a place where all the weirdos go like San Francisco.”

“I have a right to live here, Mrs. McCloskey and I plan to stay, regardless what you think,” I said firmly.

“Not if I have anything to say about it. You’re setting a bad example for the kids,” she said.

“Good bye Mrs. McCloskey. You have a good day,” I said, turning from her and heading to home. My heart was pounding heavily and I had to strain to hold back tears that I knew would erupt into a full-blown crying bout once I was safely inside, behind locked doors.

And that’s just what happened as I locked the front door, leaning against it and crying profusely. With deep sobbing, I lowered all the shades in the house, went to my bedroom and landed flat on my stomach on my bed, burying my head into a pillow. I was a pariah in my own neighborhood.

*****
For the rest of that week, I dreaded the thought of walking down my street, afraid of another confrontation with the neighborhood kids – or, even worse, bumping into that horrid person, Mrs. McCloskey. Fortunately, no such meeting occurred; perhaps the kids found other persons to hound. On Friday afternoon, however, I saw Susie and another girl, whom I didn’t know, talking together in front of Susie’s house across the street. I hurried, trying not to look in her direction and thus avoid an awkward meeting of eyes. I failed; at one point I glanced toward Susie and she saw me, our eyes met and she gave me a faint smile accompanied by a slight movement of her hand that may have been a wave. I know I reddened. I was not sure how to respond. Feeling cowardly, I looked away and bounded up my steps and into my house.

Doubts crept into me that night about my decision to be a woman; was it the right thing to do, considering the price I was paying, facing the potential loss of my teaching career and feeling such an exile in my own neighborhood? A depression began to darken my household, possibly brought on by my continued obsession to keep the shades drawn to block out the outer world. I wondered whether to continue on with my studies and to try to live off the inheritance my mother left me, to move into a lonely oblivion once those dollars were gone.

They say you will never dream of your own death, but I did that night.

“She always was a beautiful girl,” Mrs. Hammond, the school principal said.

“Always so fragile and dainty. I loved her so much,” Hank Duke said his voice quivering as he spoke through sobs.

“Such a waste, just like the pretty Ophelia in Hamlet,” Harriet Simpson added referring to the suicide scene in the Shakespearean play.

They were standing looking at silver casket, covered with a bevy of flowers. The room was draped in pink and white and a perfumed scent wafted through the living room of the Pearson house on Maple Street.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Paul Phillips said. “She was the best neighbor and Marian, my wife, and I loved talking with her.”

Hank elbowed his way through the onlookers, bent down and gave Julie Pearson a soft kiss on the lips.

“I think she blushed just now,” said Jon Edwards. “She was my best friend and I know she blushed and cried so quickly. She was all girl.”

A tall, blonde, muscular teen boy moved toward the casket and stood before it. He obviously had been crying; he stood looking at the young woman who was clad in a lovely gown of white and peach lace. She had a sweet smile on her face.

“I know you loved her, too, Randy,” Hank said to the boy.

“May I kiss her?” the boy asked.

“Yes, I think she’d love that,” Hank said.

Suddenly the crowd of admirers vanished. “You’re a pervert,” shouted a towering smelly boy with a sinister look.

“Get outa this town,” the huge, fat, ugly witch with straggly hair yelled . . .

The doorbell rang. It rang again. After a few second, it rang still again. There was pounding at the door and a faint voice could be heard yelling, “Open up. I know you’re home. Please open up.”

Julie wondered why no one in the funeral home opened the door to let the person in.

A few minutes later, the telephone rang . . . no one answered. Ten, twelve times before it stopped.

“Answer the phone,” Julie said from her casket. Then she wondered: What happened to all my friends? And, where did Mrs. McCloskey and Bobby go after tormenting me?

The pounding at the door kept thundering into my confused brain; then a loud, gruff voice could be heard: “Miss Pearson, open up. If you don’t, we’re calling 911.”

“Oh my God,” I said, sitting upright in her bed. “It’s not a dream. Somebody’s trying to get to see me.”

The pounding continued, followed by more pleas to open the door. I finally realized I should get up and answer the door; otherwise the pounding would never cease. I felt confused, but had the good sense to put on a robe, run fingers through my mussed hair and put on my fluffy pink slippers. I ran to the door and opened the backdoor, being blinded by the bright morning sunshine making it momentarily impossible to see who was causing such a ruckus.

“Oh, Mrs. Nordquist,” I said when the tall, Nordic image of Susie’s mother emerged into my tear encrusted eyes.

The woman stood before me, holding a plate whose ingredients were covered with a white cloth. Then, I saw Susie peak out, from behind her mother.

“I’m sorry to have awakened you, but frankly dear I was concerned about you,” Mrs. Nordquist began.

Still trying to clear my eyes (which obviously must have looked red and swollen), I struggled to say, “I slept far too long anyway.”

“Excuse me, but how do I address you?” she began.

Obviously, she had always called me Jason before; now, as I stood before her in the pink diaphanous robe, that name wouldn’t have fit.

“I’d like to be called Julie for now, if you’re OK with that,” I volunteered.

She smiled. “Julie it’ll be then. Now, Susie has something to say to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized.

“You must think me very strange. Why don’t you and Susie come in and I’ll explain everything. Only, you need to give me ten minutes to clean myself up. I must look a total disaster.”

I led them into the kitchen and suggested they sit down at the kitchen table. Fortunately, my house was clean and there were no dishes in the sink. One of the traits I must have inherited from mother was her penchant for neatness; my room was always immaculate and I had always hung up my clothes and promptly placed my dirty things into the hamper. Certainly, my room looked nothing like you’d expect from a boy or young man.

“We won’t stay right now, Julie,” Mrs. Nordquist said. “Susie wants to tell you something.”

Susie continued to avoid my eyes, looking down to the floor. Her mother handed her the plate, and Susie took it.

“Stand up straight, Susie, and look Jason . . .er . . . Julie in the eye and speak to her,” Mrs. Nordquist commanded.

Though the teenager was taller than me, she seemed diminished on that summer Saturday morning. She handed me the plate, still covered by the cloth and emitting the scent of fresh bakery. It was warm to the touch.

“Mom and I just baked these cinnamon rolls and thought you might like them, so here they are,” she said.

“Thank you. They smell scrumptious,” I said.

“Was that all you wanted to say, Susie?” Mrs. Nordquist pressed.

The girl looked down at the floor and mumbled, almost too faint to hear, the words, “I’m sorry.”

“You can do better than that,” the girl’s mother said firmly.

Now Susie looked at me; her eyes were red and moist and I tell see she must have been crying.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you last week,” Susie said, her voice becoming stronger. “I remembered how cool you were when I was little and you baby-sat for me. You were always my favorite sitter.”

I smiled. “I remember those times too; you were easy to sit for, Susie, and I always had fun doing it.”

“And the times you took me to the movies and we stopped afterward for hamburgers, too.”

I uncovered the bakery, and said, “These look so yummy.”

“Well really mom baked those, I just helped a little bit,” Susie said.

“No you helped a lot, girl.”

“Susie,” I began. “Please don’t fret about the other day. I know you were with your friends. Your mother was so kind when mom was sick and when she died.”

“That’s what neighbors are for, Julie,” Mrs. Nordquist said. “I remember how your mother helped me out when we first moved into the neighborhood. And, I remember, too, how good you were when I sometimes was short of cash and asked you to wait before I could pay you your baby-sitting money. And you were so good to the kids, too. I just figure there’s a good reason for your change, Julie, and I want my children – and that includes Susie – to be understanding and tolerant of other people. She disappointed me when I heard what they had done to you.”

“Thank you, Heidi,” I said, using the woman’s first name. “I’d really like to tell you my story so you understand, if you’d like. If you can stay, I’ll make a pot of fresh coffee and I’ll explain what’s going on.”

By the time the three of us finished our coffee, I had told Susie and Heidi Nordquist that I had long believed I was a woman. I explained the transition I was going through and that I was now living as a woman as the first step in the process.

“Please look it up on the internet,” I suggested.

Heidi Nordquist smiled. “Actually, Julie, I understand fully your situation, having run across similar stories in my work as a psychiatrist health nurse. You’re not the only young woman or man going through this difficult period. We know it’s something you can’t help.”

“I know of a boy in another high school who is coming to school dressed as a girl, so I guess he – or she – must be going through the same changes,” Susie said.

“Tell you what,” Heidi Nordquist said. “Let us go for now and then why not come over in the mid-afternoon and we can have something to drink and sit in the back and talk. Would you be free then?”

“Yes, I have nothing going, and I’d be glad to join you. I’ll plan on coming as Julie, if that’s OK.”

“Of course,” she said.

“And mom, Julie’s hot, too,” Susie volunteered.

“I’m anxious to see Julie when she is freshened up,” Mrs. Nordquist said. “About four o’clock then?”

“That’ll be fine. I can see it’s going to be a beautiful day. I hope you’ll be there, too, Susie.”

The girl nodded. Yes, I was certain it was going to be a lovely June afternoon.

Chapter Ten: Rejection and a New Love

For my visit to the Nordquists I wore a white peasant blouse, embroidered with light blue and pink designs, peach-colored Capri pants and flat sandals. I brushed my hair so that it flowed freely and fixed a blue hair band over the top of the head. When I arrived to the Nordquist home, I was welcomed by Susie at the front door and led to a seat in the living room. “Just wait here, Julie, I’ll tell mother you’re here,” Susie said, leaving for the back of the house. I heard what sounded like a screen door open and close and then heard Susie say, “She’s here.”

Susie returned and offered an explanation that sounded a bit contrived. “Mom’s having trouble fixing her hair,” she said.

I thought that was a weird explanation, largely because Heidi Nordquist, who was a naturally pretty woman, seemed to take little care in how she looked; she wore little makeup, her clothes were tasteful enough but hardly what you’d call stylish and she rarely appeared to have put her blonde hair up, apparently brushing it to let it flow naturally to her shoulders. Sometimes, she tied it into a ponytail.

After some halting attempts at small talk, Susie rose and said that I should follow her. She led me through the dining room and kitchen and out the backdoor. I walked into the sunshine and my eyes sought to focus on the figures before me, when I heard a chorus of “Welcome Julie.”

I was taken aback from what appeared to be a chorus of voices of my neighbors. I almost fell down the three stairs from the back porch, but was grabbed by a strong young man before I fell awkwardly onto my face.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying hard to regain my dignity.

Then I was surprised to look into the face of Bobby McCloskey, the same teenager who had taunted me mercilessly a week earlier.

“You’re welcome, Miss Pearson,” the boy said politely.

“Surprise!” the group yelled, and then broke into singing in voices lacking harmony but full of spirited enthusiasm: “For she’s a jolly good lady!”

When they had finished a couple of choruses, Heidi Nordquist led me to a plastic picnic chair that was part of a circle of folks gathered in the Nordquist backyard.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said. It was overwhelming and I fought back the urge to burst into tears.

“I hope you don’t mind, Julie,” Mrs. Nordquist said. “This was all Susie’s idea.”

“Not at all, I’m happy to see you all,” I said, finally having regained my composure.

“Do you know everyone here?” Heidi asked.

“I think so, and thank you all for coming and understanding me,” I said.

One by one the neighbors greeted me, offering warm welcome of varying sorts. Among those present were Paul and Marian Phillips, my next door neighbors; Mr. and Mrs. Gettleman who had been friends with my mother and for whom I had mowed their lawn for several summers; Don Chambers and Francis Proski, two middle-aged, balding men who shared a house together; Bobby McCloskey and his older sister, Carol; and Wynona Winfield, a woman attorney with whom I often joined in walking to the train in the morning.

“I’m sure there would have been more folks here, but it’s all I could round up in such a short notice,” Susie explained.

There a few awkward moments before Bobby McCloskey spoke up, his tone hesitant and apologetic.

“Miss Pearson, I hope I’m right in calling you that,” he began.

I nodded and said that was fine, then quickly added, “I’m not in the classroom and you – all of you – may call me Julie as well.”

“Well . . . ah . . . Miss Julie . . . I can only say I was so sorry for what I said to you the other day,” the boy continued. “Susie here told me I was wrong . . . that we were all wrong . . . even her.”

Susie rescued the boy from his attempt to explain himself. “Yes, Julie, when mom heard what we kids did to you that day, she climbed all over me. We must respect everyone, even when we may not like them or we think they’re different. Then she told me to look up transgender on the Internet, which I did. Then we had a long talk, and I understand now.”

“Tell me Julie, how does it feel to be a woman?” Bobby blurted out.

“Bobby, how could you ask such a thing?” Susie scolded him. It was clear the boy was “hot” for Susie and was desperately seeking her favor, most likely explaining his change of heart. It was likely, too, that his older sister, Carol, who had short, cropped hair and favored male clothing, influenced him as well, overcoming the narrow-minded thinking of their mother.

Bobby reddened at the rebuke and I felt sorry for him. Susie, who seemed always to be a leader among the kids, must be leading him a merry chase, I presumed.

“That’s OK, Bobby, but first of all let’s remembers I’ve always felt I was a woman, and when I was younger, a girl, too. And, also, I must tell you it feels good, mighty good to be able now to live outwardly as a woman. Thanks for the question.”

He smiled and I walked over to him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Blushes colored his pale face. Everyone cheered and soon the party morphed into what so often happens at neighborhood picnics as folks began to gather into smaller conversational circles. Another set of teenagers joined the party and soon a makeshift basketball game developed on the Nordquist garage slab shooting at a basket attached to the garage front. They urged me to join the game where, of course, I proved totally inept, causing Bobby whom I was attempting to guard to tease me that “the way you play you really are a girl, aren’t you?”

At that point, Susie – who may have been the best athlete on the court – stole the ball from him and dribbled to make a basket.

“And you were just beaten out by a girl!” Susie taunted Bobby. It was a light-hearted jab, and soon we were all laughing and good-naturedly pushing and punching each other.

When the game ended, the two male partners came up, offering me a beer from the cooler that they had brought. I know I was sweaty and gladly accepted the bottle, which felt cool and moist in my hand. I was breathing heavily; I was not used to such exercise.

“We’ve never really met, Julie,” commented Don Chambers, the taller of the two.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you, Julie,” added his partner, Francis Proski.

“We’ve made no secret of the fact that we’re a gay couple, soon hoping to get married, and I know some of the neighbors aren’t happy about that,” Don said. “I can only imagine it might be worse for you.”

“That’s why we came to show our support,” Francis added. He was a short, nondescript man with a pudgy tummy on a small frame, in direct contrast to his tall, muscular partner.

“I’ve heard some of the neighbors may be trying to start a campaign to force you to move, and we just don’t want to see it,” Don said.

“Yes, we’ve always thought this was a welcoming friendly neighborhood in the six years we’ve lived here,” his partner said.

“Mom and dad bought that house the year when I was four,” I said. “So my family has been here more than twenty years. We’ve never had a problem, even though mom lived here as a single mother. My dad left when I was five.”

“You can see most of your neighbors adore you, Julie,” Don said.

Bobby McCloskey and Susie joined the conversation. “I wished Carol and I could do something about my mother,” Bobby said, referring to his sister.

“Yes, she’s among the folks trying to get a petition signed to get Julie and you two to move,” Susie added, nodding to Don and Francis.

“Carol and I argued with mom, but she’s gotten religion with the Evangelist Church and can’t see beyond that,” Bobby said.

Don said he had heard that perhaps three families, besides Mrs. McCloskey, might be involved. “They can’t petition us to move. We all have our rights. Francis and I have good jobs, we pay our taxes and break no laws and I’m sure that’s true of you, Julie.”

The party continued and I was glad that the conversation soon moved off my transition; instead the neighbors began to learn more about each other. There was much laughter as well as earnest conversation about jobs, families and the always unpredictable weather of the area.

Eventually the party broke up and I thanked Heidi Nordquist for her thoughtfulness in getting the neighbors together.

“I’m glad we did this,” Heidi said. “It’s about time we all got to know each other.”

“It made me really happy that I don’t have to be ashamed of who I am,” I said. “I feel part of the neighborhood again.”

“And don’t worry about Mrs. McCloskey and her small group. I think we showed that you have plenty of support here,” she said, giving me a sisterly kiss.

It was hard not to worry about the small group of neighbors who might do something that could disrupt the feeling of neighborliness that I had felt while at the Nordquist party. I thought about all sorts of gimmicks they might pull, such as picketing at my house or trying to get some phony housing code violation leveled against me. I knew Mrs. McCloskey’s crude lout of a husband was a city housing inspector who I suspected might be taking a bribes on his job; I could see him succumbing to his wife’s pleas to find some violation at my house.

*****
For supper, I decided to fix myself a salad, slice a few pieces of sharp cheddar cheese and mix together a veggie smoothie. I was still feeling a bit full from the snacks and two beers I had at the Nordquists. It was a lovely early Saturday evening and I had no plans, and I thought I’d eat in my backyard, taking along the latest Debbie Macomber romance novel to read. She had become my favorite author when I wanted to read for pleasure; I guess I always enjoyed her heroines who rarely fit the description of being “beautiful” and always had some flaw but always found love in the end with men who appreciated their honesty, empathy and love. I often mused that I could easily become one of Macomber’s heroines.

As I brought the fixings for the salad from the refrigerator, the phone rang. Hurriedly putting the lettuce, kale, radishes and cucumbers on the counter, I rushed to grab the phone off its hook next to the kitchen door.

“Julie? Is that you?” The voice paused, before responding to my “hello.” The voice sounded muted, almost too faint to hear.

“Yes,” I answered, growing impatient, before I realized it was Hank Duke on the line.

“Hank, is that you?” I said, hardly disguising my eagerness to talk to him. We hadn’t talked privately for nearly two months. For the last six weeks of the school year, we had agreed not to be together, largely to avoid the gossip that surely would have erupted among our fellow teachers and possibly even among the students. Both of us had agreed that given my transition and the future of both of our teaching careers it was best to remain distant, greeting each other in school only when necessary for school business, which hardly ever occurred since he was in physical education and I was an English teacher.

“Julie, I debated whether to call you. It’s been two weeks since school let out, and I should have called you sooner, I guess,” he said.

“Yes, you should have Hank,” I said rather harshly, not trying to hide my disappointment in not hearing from him.

“I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.”

“If you missed me, why couldn’t you have called?” I said.

There was only silence on the other end of the line. He didn’t answer the question.

“Hank, why didn’t you call?” I pressed. “I thought you must have found another girlfriend or something. Maybe a real girl instead of a phony like me.”

My anger turned to a full-blown crying jag. Each night, I had debated with myself over whether to call him, but decided it wasn’t the girl’s role to call a guy; if he still wanted me, he knew my phone number, I figured. Many nights, I fell into depression thinking about him. Often my thoughts turned in desperation to Randy, but I knew that any love with him was out of the question. It was Hank I loved. I missed him terribly and every night I dreamed of being in his arms again, of having my slender, soft body engulfed in his hugs, his full lips upon mine. I missed the scent of his male sweat, the salty taste from his skin and the rippling muscles of his back as I drew him close against me.

“Oh, Julie, Julie. Please don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

My sobbing continued making it difficult for me to respond other than to repeat his name several times between sobs. Finally I got my crying under control and he suggested we go out to dinner that night, unless, he said, “you have another date for tonight.”

I told him that I was free for the night, but was not interested in a full dinner since I had just come from a picnic where I had filled up on snacks and had two beers. Finally we agreed that he’d pick me up in a half hour and we’d go to a sandwich and dessert shop located along the shoreline. “They really have great cheesecake there,” he said, which helped me come to a quick decision. Cheesecake and Hank: what a sweet and yummy combination!

I gave myself a quick sponge bath to wash off the dried sweat from my sorry basketball adventure. I put on a fresh bra and panties under a flowing peasant skirt and a simple light pink blouse that buttoned down the front, adding a single strand faux pearl necklace and matching earrings. I let my hair flow freely as I had earlier in the day. Adding a touch of light citrus perfume, I felt as “fresh as a daisy.”

“I am a pretty girl,” I said to myself when I finished, shamelessly letting myself fall into a narcissistic mood.

*****
I was eager to see Hank and I finished dressing, fixing my hair and applying makeup with minutes to spare before Hank was scheduled to arrive. Something gnawed at me during Hank’s call; though he had said all of the appropriate words, he seemed cold and rather matter-of-fact. I didn’t feel the same warmth in conversation that I had felt in our earlier private moments together. I reasoned with myself – more with hope than with evidence – that he felt ashamed for having put off calling me for so long after school had ended for the year.

To make matters worse, Hank was twenty minutes late in picking me up. He was polite and gentlemanly, as he always was, telling me how lovely I looked, holding the doors for me and assisting me into his sports car. It was impossible not to expose a bit of my thigh regardless of how careful I was in fitting myself into the bucket seat. This time, however, Hank made an obvious move to avert his eyes so as to avoid seeing the soft white flesh.

It was a warm June night with a soft breeze off the water and Hank and I decided to take an outdoor table with an umbrella canopy of pink and light green with dainty lettering of the establishment: “Karen’s Cakes ‘n Stuff.” The table was off to the side of the patio, overlooking the beach, and with the noise of the waves, cars and other talking patrons offered an intimate setting with a degree of privacy, if we kept our voices low and sat close to each other.

Our conversation was awkward, almost like we were a couple on a “first date,” having been thrown together by two friends who told us both that “we’d be perfect together” but then discovering that each of us was disappointed in our “perfect” dates. We talked mainly about what we were doing for the summer, me about summer school and Hank about the summer recreation program he was running for the city’s teenagers.

“I’ve been busy setting it up,” he said, repeating his earlier telephone apology for not having called.

“That’s OK, Hank, I’ve been busy myself,” I said. It was partly true; I was busy with the classes and cleaning the house, a chore I had neglected during the school year. Yet, I found plenty of time to think about both men in my life, Hank who hadn’t called, and Randy, whom I was hoping would not call.

“This cheesecake is to die for,” I gushed after savoring the last bite of my caramel rum cheesecake.

“I thought you’d like this place, Julie,” he said. It was a flat, emotionless statement.

I looked down at the half-full cup of coffee before me, thought for a moment, and then looked up at him. His eyes had a dull, sad look.

“Hank, what’s wrong, honey,” I said, reaching over to touch his hand.

He pulled his hand away abruptly, my surprise at his rejection exceeded only by melancholy. I felt I was about to cry.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“What’s up, Hank? What did I do? Tell me, for God’s sake,” I said, tears beginning to flood my eyes.

He said nothing for a moment; I looked out at the water, noticing the sun had gone down, seeming to throw a dark blanket on what just minutes before had been a bright cheerful place bouncing with activity. I noticed most of the patio’s customers had left, leaving us somewhat isolated in the growing chill of the evening.

“We can’t see each other anymore,” he said finally.

I looked at him; his face betrayed no emotion.

“What’s going on with you? I thought you said you missed me,” I finally said.

“Julie, please understand,” he began. “I do miss you and I have fallen in love with you. You’re truly amazing, not only beautiful, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known, but also so warm and friendly and smart. Oh, this is awful . . . “

His voice trailed off into mumbles and he looked down at his coffee.

“But why? I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“Oh darling, my darling Julie,” he said, taking both my hands and holding them across the table.

I could see tears forming in his eyes, too. I wanted to break out into full blown sobs, but realizing we were likely to cause attention I forced myself to hold back.

“Have you got a girlfriend? A real girl, not a freak like me?” I asked finally.

“Don’t call yourself that, Julie, but I don’t have another girl. You’re the only girl I’ve ever felt l truly loved, but we can’t see each other. It’ll ruin both of our careers.”

Hank finally explained that when he found out that I’d likely get a contract to teach the next year at Farragut High it would compromise us both; the fact was that while he denied I was a “freak,” it was a reality that my transgendered status was the barrier that would separate us forever. I could understand Hank’s situation: he was involved in the macho world of sports where everyone was supposed to be heterosexual, strong and masculine. In addition, he had been offered and accepted the job as Farragut’s football coach, a job that would put him in the spotlight. His friendship with me, particularly since most people in school would know that Miss Pearson once was a male teacher named Mr. Pearson, would cause him no end of humiliation and difficulty.

I argued with him, of course, stating I would try to go to a different school, maybe even a school outside of the district. He met most of my suggestions with a grunt or a noncommittal statement like, “I guess that might work.”

“Forget it, Julie, we just can’t meet anymore. I will treat you with respect in school, and maybe even say ‘Hi’ to you from time to time, but we can never date again.” His words were definite and final.

“Then you’d better take me home,” I said, getting up abruptly.

He did not open the door to his sports car this time and let me struggle into the front seat. He made no effort to assist me at the house, letting me open the door by myself as he stared straight ahead.

“I guess this is it, then?” I said as a moved out of the car.

“Yes, Julie, for us it is. Best of luck, girl. You’re a real special person and you’ll always be in my thoughts,” he said, his voice tender for the first time that night.

“Thank you,” I said, closing the door of his car. I walked directly and purposefully up to my darkened house. I didn’t look back to follow the red lights of his departing car. Just hearing the even purr of his engine gave me pangs that a lovely chapter in the short life of Julie Pearson had ended on this warm, June night.

*****
Though she was thirty years older than I was, we seemed to mesh perfectly. Through her friendship I learned about being a woman. Not only did she have a particularly keen sense of how to dress and make herself look attractive and appealing to all persons, but she demonstrated that being a woman is not easy and that it takes fortitude and patience rarely found in a man.

“You’ve already faced one such incident that ended in rejection,” Harriet Simpson said one Saturday while the two of us sat in the coffee shop at the Botanical Gardens where we had gone to view the lush, fresh green that is vivid in the month of June in the northern climates.

I waited for her to continue; it had been a week since Hank summarily dumped me and I was fretting over my decision to transition, going into despair that I may headed for a life of loneliness. How could anyone fall in love with such a person who was half man and half woman?

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Julie. You’re thinking that Hank dumped you because of your gender issues. Well, you’re wrong. Men dump women all the time and it’s usually because of their own vanity. God, men are terribly afraid of challenging the norms. Look at our friend, Jon; he’s one of the most courageous men I know since he’s living his own truth, the fact that he’s gay. So don’t blame yourself and think you’re worthless, dear, because you’re not.”

“That’s all well and good, Harriet, but the fact is that I’m not a complete woman and never will be,” I said. “I can’t blame a man for wanting a woman who could give him children.”

Harriet looked at me; I could sense she was getting exasperated at my continual expression of self-loathing. After all, I had unburdened both my sadness and shame at losing Hank in both of our outings that week. Harriet and I decided that Thursday nights would be a “girls night out” and that usually meant a visit to a jazz club (if one of our favorite groups was performing) or to a movie. Saturday afternoon usually meant a visit to a museum or art gallery or shopping. It had become our routine and broke the loneliness that summer often brings to female schoolteachers who are single.

“You’re a natural woman, honey, and you’d be just as feminine in a pair of slacks and with no makeup on,” Harriet.

“You’re just trying to cheer me up,” I said.

“Dammit, Julie, quit beating up on yourself,” she said.

“OK.”

“And just to prove the point,” Harriet continued. “You see those two young guys over there eying us up and down. You can rest assured they aren’t looking at an old bag like me.”

I had noticed the two of them; they were tall, broad-shouldered and well-tanned. Both wore polo shirts and shorts that exposed muscular calves. They were accompanied by a tall young woman, also tanned and hard-bodied, who apparently had left them momentarily, perhaps to use the facilities or make a purchase at the concessions. After she left, I noticed the two of them looking in my direction, leaning across the table to whisper. The one with longish, blonde hair caught my eye, and seemed to give me a guarded wink. I looked away and blushed.

“They are hunks, I guess,” I said, feigning an interest in them, though at the moment I was in no mood to entertain a liaison with another “hunk” unless it was Randy (who would have had to miraculously turned eighteen).

“They probably think I’m your mother or else the one without the girl would have already been over here to hit on you, Julie,” Harriet said with a giggle.

“That’s just what I need,” I said sarcastically.

“Give it time, Julie. You’re too lovely a person.”

Quite apart from my gender issues, I had always thought I was a generous, caring person who was usually open to befriend other people. I had always felt that mom had such qualities and I hoped that I could be half as good as she was. I looked across the table at Harriet and saw the same warm qualities in her. I had seen during my first semester of teaching how the students adored her; I had even sat in on one of her school play rehearsals and was impressed with the way she got the students to follow her directions, using humor or praise to correct a flaw or to suggest a movement.

Harriet was a handsome woman, still trim and firm in her mid-fifties. She kept her hair short, and it had developed strands of gray. In spite of wearing little makeup, her face maintained a smooth quality that was only now beginning to show lines. She had none of the stereotypes that accompany spinster schoolteachers; she was not a sour person, but rather one that enjoyed a good laugh, that had had her share of love affairs, both male and female. In truth, Harriet Simpson lived a full life.

“Harriet, you are a lovely person and I’m so happy for your friendship,” I said.

“Julie, I’m your friend because I want to be with you. You’re interesting and except for today when you’re mooning over Hank Duke you’re a helluva a lot of fun.”

“OK, I’ll forget about Hank Duke right now . . . well, at least for today.”

“Well that’s a start,” Harriet said with a laugh.

Suddenly I felt an urge to kiss Harriet, to embrace her passionately as we snuggled together. Why was this happening to me? I’m supposed to be a woman and now I felt the need to caress her, to examine her body and all of its enticing crevices. She smiled at me and I instinctively reached over and grabbed both of her hands and began to tear up.

Harriet must have sensed my feelings, though I said nothing. She was silent, too, and I felt her hands, coarser and larger than mine, caress slowly, her thumbs massaging my palms.

“I guess we’d better pay the bill and get out of here,” she said finally.

As we left the Botanical Gardens, she suggested that I join her for supper at her place, a fashionable condo along the river that drained into the harbor. “I’ve got a pizza in the fridge and the makings for salad. How about it, Julie?”

We never got to the pizza or the salad. Even before we finished our first glass of wine in her apartment, we were in her bed.

We kissed and caressed voraciously as we helped each other undress, sometimes giggling over the contortions we had to go into while taking off our outer clothes, before getting to the lingerie. I marveled at her lean, firm body, her muscular arms and her long legs. I felt weak and insignificant before this elegant woman. We fell together onto the bed.

“I’m so inexperienced, Harriet. I hope I don’t disappoint you,” I said. In truth, I was scared; I felt so helpless with this strong woman and I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

“Just be yourself, darling. You’re doing fine,” she said, her hands kneading my fleshy inner thighs.

“I’m still a virgin,” I confessed suddenly, letting out a shame that I had reached the mid-twenties never having had sex with anyone of either sex.

“My darling, darling Julie,” Harriet said in a low, soothing voice.

We continued like this for a long time, gently running our hands up and down each other’s body, alternately kissing gently and then with urgent passion as our tongues entered the other’s mouth and played and intermingled.

“You’re so soft and tender, Julie,” the older woman said as I surrendered myself in her arms.

I nestled my face into her armpit finding myself strangely aroused by the scent of her deodorant. Her body was unusually smooth. Even her smallish breasts remained firm in spite of her age but as I caressed the left breast I could feel its nipple harden and grow and the woman began panting heavily.

As we cuddled and caressed, Harriet’s body began to churn and move excitedly and she let out occasional moans, even gasping “oh yes, yes, Julie” as my fingers found her vagina and entered. I could feel Harriet’s hand move down my soft tummy to find my tiny, sorry piece of manhood, now soft and largely unresponsive due to the hormones. Yet, in the excitement of the moment the piece had grown semi-hard.

“We don’t need to have sex, Julie,” Harriet said. “Just play with me down there and let me caress you.”

“I’m probably not capable anymore anyway,” I said.

She had three orgasms that night, each one more violent than the one before it. Eventually I fell sound asleep, having grown excited but never able to reach my own climax. I couldn’t wait to have my own vagina.

The next morning, Harriet cooked bacon and eggs; I made pancakes and we gorged ourselves after our wonderful evening together.

*****
Harriet and I became constant companions as the summer wore on. I learned that until recently she had a live-in boyfriend, a tall, handsome man of her same age with a becoming mustache and full head of hair (to judge from the picture she kept on her dresser of the two of them at some type of formal dance). He had proven to be so irresponsible that she had kicked him out.

“He was great in bed, but that was about all,” she told me one night. “Couldn’t keep a job. He still calls me, but I refuse to talk to him.”

She was troubled by her sexuality, she confessed. “I guess I’m bisexual, but maybe all I crave is a loving partner. What do you think?”

I thought about that for a moment, wondering if perhaps might explain my own sexual adventures, such as they were. My first infatuation was for a high school boy, then a somewhat older male physical education teacher and now an older woman. What did they have in common and what was it that brought me to their arms and warmed me to their kisses? Perhaps it was because my feminine beauty, my weakness and my fragility intrigued all three of them. I hoped that was not all; I wanted, too, to be loved for more important qualities such as being a complete, generous, intelligent human being. I wondered if I was such a human. I hoped, too, it was not vanity.

We went out together to eat supper, go shopping and attend outdoor concerts that had become popular in our community. Both of us liked the “oldies” stuff from the Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. We also loved going to the ethnic festivals to wander the grounds, enjoy a few beers and maybe down a few brats or hamburgers to totally destroy our diets. We giggled a lot – like a pair of school girls – and Harriet sometimes embarrassed me by hooting loudly, even letting out a piercing whistle in cheering a band.

Of course, we ended many nights in bed together. I never attempted to try to use my pathetic male organ to penetrate Harriet. First of all, it might not have stayed hard long enough to accomplish the task, obviously due to the hormones; secondly, I wasn’t quite sure how it was done. Soon I came to the realization that in perhaps a year’s time I would exchange that organ for a vagina and would never have had the experience of performing that masculine function.

I lived in wonderment thinking about Harriet. Of course, I was infatuated with her, and she was in fact the most interesting person I’d ever met. At the high school, she was strict, firm and correct, almost the stereotype of the “old maid teacher.” Yet, I now knew her as a complete, vibrant woman.

Harriet had also had a tragic life, I learned. Quite by accident, one night while waiting for her to get ready for a night out, I noticed I had a run in my stocking and she had a couple of new pair I could use. “Wear one of those, Julie,” she suggested. “Go help yourself; they’re in the top dresser drawer in my bedroom.”

The stockings were buried among her panties, and while rummaging about I ran into a framed picture at the bottom of the drawer. I brushed aside the panties enough to see it was a picture of a young soldier, standing in front of an armed car in what appeared to be a desert background. He was smiling, and in the fat strokes of a marker there was written in a neat script: “I love you mom, Kevin.”

“Having trouble finding them?” Harriet entered the room. I looked up and grew red in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the stockings at first, and I saw the picture at the bottom of the drawer. I didn’t mean to pry.”

She came over to me and hugged me and began to cry; I rarely saw her cry before and I wondered if I had stumbled upon some terrible secret.

“That’s OK,” she said, trying to hold back tears.

“I’m really sorry,” I said again. I was at a loss for words.

“I should have told you, darling. That’s my son, Kevin. My only son and wasn’t he just about the handsomest thing?’

“Yes.”

“Killed by sniper fire in the first year of the Iraq war. It’s been eleven years now, and I tried to bury all my thoughts about him. I loved him, Julie. So much and he had so much promise. I urged him not to volunteer for the Marines, but he felt it his patriotic duty. And such an unnecessary war. So shameful.”

She confessed that in her first year out of college, while teaching English in a smalltown high school, she fell in love with the school’s athletic director, health teacher and football coach. He was a handsome man, but also a bully and a womanizer, a fact that Harriet learned after she had become pregnant. When she refused to get an abortion, the boyfriend dumped her, and Harriet moved off to her current job, where she had been ever since. Kevin was but one month old when she started teaching at Farragut.

“Maybe I should bring out my pictures of Kevin,” she said.

We decided not to go out that night after all. Instead, she and I pored over several albums of photos she had buried deep in a clothes closet. She and her young son made a truly handsome family. There were pictures of Kevin from his first day of life, his various birthdays, in his Little League uniform, in the school play, in his graduation gown and finally in his Marine Corps blues.

Her reminiscences brought joyous laughter and twinkles to her eyes as she relived the happy moments of her life. It was obvious that Kevin had been the center of her life; now all she had were memories and a drawer full of pictures.

“I’m sorry if this brought you pain,” I said.

“No, honey, I needed to do this,” she said. “It’s about time I quit trying to bury my sadness.”

Our love-making that night was slow and gentle. For the first time in our relationship, I was in the role of comforting her. That evening, I never felt closer to anyone than I did with her, except of course my mother.

*****
Fortunately the early weeks of the summer break were busy ones, giving me little time to dwell on my strange willingness to seek kisses and warm embraces from several persons at once, and of both genders. My summer school classes – telescoping thirteen weeks of work into six – took most of my time, along with the regular chores about the house. While I never had any problems falling asleep, I did find myself waking early, sometimes as early as four-thirty in the morning, with my mind racing in all sorts of directions: my constant yearning for the strong, maturing body of Randy, or the more hairy muscular frame of Hank or the sinewy curves of Harriet.

In each relationship, I was weak and submissive, content to feel engulfed by warm arms and comforting caresses. I relished my soft, physical helplessness that brought out the protective love from the other person. Did it matter to me that I didn’t care who or what was protecting me? A strong teenager, a muscular giant of a man or an angular older woman?

Since mother had died my life had been empty. She had been my protector and the director of my life. Because of her I found myself as a girl and then later as a woman. My mother knew me and understood me. Perhaps what I craved now was the same kind of protector and lover.

No, that can’t be, I puzzled, as my mind raced ahead, changing courses. Is all I can offer in a relationship is soft, flabby feminine weakness? Have I no other qualities?

Who is this person emerging from within myself? What defines the real Julie? Certainly she has more to offer. Maybe she will never discover herself.

These thoughts haunted me as early light of summer dawn began seeping through the shades. I had many questions, but no answers.

Chapter Eleven: Summer Days
My summer days began to follow a routine: Up at six in the morning, more than an hour for taking my shower, shaving the light fuzz on my face, my underarms and occasionally my legs, applying makeup and fixing my hair. I easily accepted the added time it took just for the realization that I was now a real woman (well, almost) and I could take time to watch myself turn into what I hoped was a lovely young woman every day. Even on weekends, I followed much the same routine, though usually not being quite as fastidious with makeup and hair.

By eight o’clock, after a light breakfast of a banana, orange juice and coffee (sometimes I would add an English muffin or a bagel), I was off to the train to my nine o’clock class at the City University campus. On cooler mornings, I wore Capri pants, a pullover peasant blouse and a beige sweater. On hot days, I favored light, flowing skirts and sleeveless blouses. Sometimes when I felt adventurous, I wore a pink skater dress with no stockings and white heelless sandals; I felt it bordered on scandalous since I feared that if I bent over carelessly or crossed my legs that my panties (usually of simple cotton in various colors) might be exposed. I had often been told my legs were lovely and sexy; more than once I noticed men staring at them, particularly when I wore the skater dress.

Luckily my classes were back-to-back and I was done at noon, permitting me to get home by one o’clock to study, shop, work in my garden, clean the house or just plain goof off. My evenings were quiet for the most part, with Harriet and I having dinner together on Thursday nights, sometimes followed by a stop at our favorite wine bar, where we had gotten to know the owner and several of the waiters. Harriet and I felt right at home in the bar, which was usually occupied by couples, small groups of women friends (like ourselves) or even single older women. The wines were pricey, but the waiters were helpful as we sought to make our selections; they treated us with respect and courtesy, and their small talk was devoid of any sexual innuendoes.

It became routine, too, that on Saturday nights we’d get together, either at my place or hers, and would end up sleeping together after an evening out. Our liaisons were always passionate and oral; I never once sought to enter her, nor did she seem to desire it.

It’s strange to say that we never considered ourselves to be lovers; we seemed, however, to have a mutual need for physical togetherness and unabashed, open passion. Her orgasms were always violent and eager, and I dreamed of the time when after my own surgery I’d have the same experience. For my part, I grew hard enough – even after the hormones – to ejaculate small doses of my juices onto her smooth skin. That often stimulated Harriet even more.

By noon Sunday, we were both back at our homes, with a couple of exceptions when we took in a Sunday baseball game. We had discovered we both had the masochistic experience of following the often-hapless Mets. I think my girlish squeals of delight when our team scored or made a sterling defensive play embarrassed Harriet somewhat, but she never said anything. I did see her wince several times when my whoops may have been a bit over-the-top. She, however, sometimes draw attention to herself with her ability to let out with high-pitched whistles, the kinds usually reserved for construction workers. So much for being dignified ladies!

I saw little of Jon Edwards that summer. Perhaps the main reason was that he took an eight-week teaching assignment at a summer camp upstate and he was rarely home. He also found a new friend, an older school administrator by the name of Peter Orloff, a handsome, graying gentleman who still carried himself with the athletic build he must have had while playing football in college. Though Peter and Jon had become lovers, I joined them on several Sundays for dinner or drinks when Jon was home, always having a great, cheerful evening full of laughs and some serious political talk. (All three of us were strong liberals so we shared an easy camaraderie.) While I knew most gays tended not to like girls like myself, I never felt rejected by these two marvelous men. I was thankful, too, that Jon would be at Farragut the next semester if I was lucky enough to get a contract for the next school year.

In short, it was a marvelous summer to be a woman. I began to think less and less of Hank Duke; Randy remained constantly in my consciousness.

*****
I had always loved flowers and even before I entered the 7th grade I had fashioned a small plot in our tiny backyard in the summer. While other boys my age may have been playing baseball or gathering in gangs, I was busy raising flowers. Through the years, the plot had grown so that it took up nearly the entire area. I favored various varieties of roses, along with beds of annuals, seeking always for plants that would bloom long and brightly. After mom’s death, I found a two-foot high statue of the Madonna holding the Baby Jesus and fashioned a memorial to mothers. I tried to keep it in good taste, without being too kitschy, since mom always hated phony religiosity. Though baptized Catholic and having spent a few early school years in St. Thomas Aquinas School, I had drifted away from the Church; yet, I felt the Madonna and Child statue would be a fitting symbol of the love that my dear mother had given me.

This summer was no exception and on Saturday mornings I would spend time tending to the garden; June was always a particularly busy time for the weekend gardener, since it’s a time when weeds grow quickly and are constantly threatening to crowd out the pretty flowers.

On the last Saturday of June, I was busily weeding the garden in the blazing sun when I heard a commotion from the street in front of the house. At first there was the approaching screech of police car sirens that ended abruptly apparently nearby. Then there was a loud command, “Get out of the car with your hands held high so we can see them.”

Not sure what was going on, I dropped my trowel and slowly moved to the side of the house, my curiosity getting the better of my need for caution. If someone, apparently a police officer, was yelling for a driver to come out with his hands up, there certainly must be gunplay possible.

Sure enough, there were three police cars, a paddy wagon and at least two Ford Victorias (obviously unmarked police cars) blocking the street and surrounding an old faded blue Geo. Emerging from the car at the moment was a blonde-haired teenage boy with a muscular frame. He was wearing a Mets baseball cap backwards and was dressed in white tank top and ragged denim shorts.

Even from a distance, the boy appeared terrified. I saw him get out of the car, and following another shouted order, he turned around and placed his hands atop the car, his back to the gun-toting officers. I heard him yell out “don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”

“Randy, Randy, is that you?” I shouted out, not able to help myself.

Most of the officers – and the crowd of neighbors who had gathered – looked at me as I ran out to the street.

Randy turned around to look at me, and he smiled broadly. “Yes, I’m sorry . . .” his words were immediately drowned out by the officer who yelled at him, ordering him to turn back around and shut up and to keep his hands on the top of the aging Geo.

“Do you know this boy, ma’am,” an officer who had sergeant’s stripes on his short-sleeve uniform blouse.

“Yes, he’s a student I’m tutoring,” I said, quickly forming a false story that I hoped would send the police away without further incident.

“May I have your name, ma’am, and do you live here?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes, it’s Julie Pearson and this is my house,” I said.

“We got a call that this car was sitting in front of the house for over an hour and that the driver looked suspicious and we have to check it out,” he explained.

I nodded that I understood, adding, “You have to follow up on these calls, I’m sure.”

“You’re right ma’am. But I need to ask whether you want to press charges against this boy. He seems to have been stalking you. He was using binoculars and looking constantly at your house.”

“Stalking me? I can’t believe that. He’s just sixteen, officer, and I’m an English teacher. What could he possibly want with me?” I said. It was another lie; I knew exactly what he wanted with me and it wasn’t to be tutored in Chaucer’s Tales.

The sergeant ordered Randy to be put in handcuffs and brought over to where the officer and I were standing. I spoke out as Randy approached.

“Randy, I’m sorry I forgot our tutoring appointment this morning. You must have wondered . . .”

“Let me do the talking, ma’am,” the officer said sharply, cutting me off. I hoped Randy heard enough to pick up on the fact that I had given him a reason for his behavior, which certainly did amount to stalking. Randy smiled at me and nodded. It comforted me: I was certain he had taken the hint.

At that point, the sergeant began routine questioning of Randy, his name, asking to see his driver’s license, etc. Finally, he said, “Now what were you doing here. And let’s have the truth.”

“Well, as Miss Pearson said, I was here for a tutoring session, and when she didn’t answer the door, I just waited out front,” he said.

“Why the binoculars?”

“Well, I got worried when she didn’t appear,” he said not too convincingly.

At that point I was shooed from the scene and told to sit down at a picnic table I had installed next to the back door. The sergeant grilled Randy for a few minutes longer and then they led Randy to a squad car, opened the back door and gently held his head so he could sit in the backseat.

“Don’t arrest him, sergeant. He’s just a boy.” I said when the officer came over to me, sat on the picnic table bench opposite me, and took out his book, poised to take my statement.

After another ten minutes, the officer was satisfied no crime was committed; they let Randy out of the squad, took off his handcuffs and led him to the picnic table. I had requested that they release the boy, assuring them that there would be no further trouble. Before doing so, however, the sergeant briefly interviewed Paul and Marian Phillips, my next door neighbors, who must have said I was a longtime resident and honest citizen.

*****
I wanted to be angry with Randy, but the truth was I found myself enthralled by the realization that this sixteen-year-old boy’s infatuation for me had had become so intense that he would actually search me out. For some reason, I didn’t suspect Randy of being a stalker; perhaps it was because of my own continuing interest in the boy. I couldn’t get him out of my mind; it was just as apparent that for the same reason that I must be continually in his mind.

When the fuss cooled down and the neighbors finally withdrew, I asked Randy if he wished something to drink; I had both iced tea and lemonade prepared in the refrigerator. He chose the lemonade.

“May I come in and help you, Julie . . . er . . . Miss Pearson?” he asked.

“No Randy, stay here. I don’t want the neighbors getting any ideas,” I said.

He nodded sadly.

I considered taking a minute to clean myself up; I knew I must have looked a mess. For my morning gardening chores, I had dressed in a pair of old painter’s pants and a faded yellow tee-shirt; I didn’t wear a bra and my smallish breasts were made apparent from the teats pressing against the cloth. I wore an old straw hat of my mother’s to protect against the sun.

I ran some water from the kitchen sink across my face to wash off some of the dried perspiration, and did a quick brush of my hair before pouring the lemonade. As I carried the glasses out to the picnic table, I couldn’t help but notice that Randy watched me closely, a satisfied smile on his face.

“I must look a real mess,” I said, my self-confidence shaken by his examination.

“No, you look beautiful,” he said.

“Like this? You’re kidding.”

“Especially like this. I need you so badly, Julie,” he said.

“No, you don’t. Randy, you must get me out of your head. You can’t see me anymore. You know that. I can’t see you and you know why.”

He smiled as I sat down opposite him at the picnic table.

“If two people love each other, and I know you love me as much as I love you, they should be together, regardless of the situation,” he said.

“You mean like Romeo and Juliet?” I asked. “You know what their fate was, don’t you?”

“I know our love is as strong as Romeo’s and Juliet’s was for each other, Julie, and I know we can work this out. Our ages don’t matter.”

“Right now, you’re underage and it’s against the law, and certainly against the school district’s rules for a teacher to consort with a student or someone your age who is still in school,” I said my voice gain in determination.

“We can do it on the sly,” he suggested, with a wink. “No one needs to know.”

“But what about my gender issue, Randy? When I first told you, you rejected me like the plague, calling me a freak. I haven’t changed since then.”

Randy paused for a moment. He took a sip of his lemonade. As he did so, I noticed Susie, the girl from across the street, standing in front of her house, looking at us. She was an inquisitive girl, I knew and likely would wonder what I was doing serving lemonade to a high school boy. I’m sure she’ll tell her mother about what she saw and I knew I’ll have to be ready to tell Heidi something about this incident.

Randy began, looking me directly in the eye: “You’re the still the prettiest, kindest and nicest girl, or should I say, woman that I’ve ever met, Julie, and best of all I know you care for me. Soon, you’ll be changed and be a total woman. I know you’ll be headed for surgery.”

“Randy, please don’t,” I pleaded, tears coming to my eyes. I wanted so badly to hug and kiss this boy, to take him into my house and onto my bed to experience his warm, hard masculine body pressed against mine.

“If you didn’t love me, Julie, why did you lie for me just now with the police?” he asked.

“It had nothing to do with love, Randy,” I answered quickly. “I know you’re a good kid and I couldn’t see you getting a record. Perhaps it had to do, too, with the fact that I would have been on record as the target of your stalking and that would have endangered my teaching career. So you can see, it had nothing to do with love.”

“I don’t believe that. You love me,” he said simply.

I felt I was about to cry, but I knew I couldn’t let that happen. I was the adult here and I had to take command, I told myself.

“Randy, please go,” I said firmly. “Don’t bother me again.”

“Never?”

“Just go, Randy,” I said. Even though he hadn’t finished his lemonade, I grabbed his glass and my own and darted into the house, locking the door behind me. I ran to my bedroom, flopped on my bed, amidst the tangled bedclothes. I knew I stunk from the perspiring work I did in the garden, but I didn’t care.

I thought I’d hear the doorbell ring or some frantic pounding on the door, but apparently Randy didn’t try to pursue the matter, at least for the time being. The house was silent.

Was Randy gone from my life forever?

*****
As I expected, Heidi Nordquist inquired about the incident. I encountered her in the afternoon when I began to trim some weeds in the front yard. She suggested I stop by for some iced tea when I finished, and I took her up on the offer, realizing that it was best to satisfy her curiosity sooner than later. Although I was uncomfortable with the fact that she asked, I felt she was not doing so because of a need to gossip or inquire needlessly into my life. I felt she did so because she was concerned that I may need some help. To answer her, I wasn’t completely honest I must admit. I was beginning to hate myself for my growing tendency to lie out of situations.

“Randy has become infatuated with me, I’m afraid to say,” I told her truthfully.

“Oh, is he a student at Farragut?” she asked.

“No, he goes to a different school, but he competed at an inter-school competition I worked on, and I was impressed with his presentation,” I began to fabricate a story. “I chatted with him a bit, asked him about his college plans and so forth. He apparently thought I took more than a professional interest in him, I guess, and checked with a friend of his who was a student in my school and she told him how to find me. I think being stopped by the police here and put in handcuffs has stifled his interest. At least, I hope so.”

“You are pretty, Julie, and you do look younger than your age, too,” Heidi said. “I can understand his infatuation.”

“Thanks, I’m finding that out. I was meant to be a girl all along I guess.”

“Suppose you got a hot date tonight then, Julie?” Heidi asked with a teasing smile.

I giggled and then responded that I did have a date, but it was with my older teacher friend, Harriet.

“OK, that’s fine, I was just wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner,” she said. “Seems I’m alone tonight since all the kids will be gone.”

“I’m sorry, Heidi. I’d love to if I weren’t busy,” I said, quickly adding: “Say, maybe you’d like to join Harriet and me? It’s such a pleasant night that she and I were planning on going to Washington Park for the band concert there tonight and just eat at the food stands. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind and I know you two would like each other.”

After a bit of persuasion over Heidi’s objections that she might be intruding on our plans, Heidi agreed to join us.

We dressed informally for the evening. I wore a knee-length floral skirt that hung loosely and comfortably, a sleeveless light beige tee-shirt and pink sneakers with blue trim. I fixed my hair in pigtails that I realized would make me look even younger than my twenty-four years and might even make it seem that Harriet was my grandmother and Heidi my mother. I carried a white knit sweater in case I might need it due to the evening chill.

The three of us made quite a sight, the tall, trim graying Harriet, the equally tall huskier blonde Nordic Heidi and me, easily more petite, daintier and younger. While I had come to the realization that I may have been the prettiest of the three (I hated thinking that because it fed my vanity), there was no question of the attractiveness of the other two. Harriet was particularly handsome with her chiseled facial features, still relatively wrinkle-free. She wore rimless glasses and kept her hair close-cropped that seemed to bring out her basic intelligence; her alert, sparkling green eyes added warmth to her demeanor. As a big, somewhat fleshy woman, Heidi exuded sensuousness. She wore a light green summer dress with capped sleeves, a peasant bodice and a belt.

It was a perfectly exquisite evening, made perfect by the mild, moonlit night and the community band that had developed a reputation for being unusually talented. While the other two enjoyed it, I reveled in their company and the fact that I was accepted as a woman friend. I again enjoyed finding my acceptance among women was easier and more comfortable than I could ever find among men. We talked between the selections, clapped along with the rhythm of the band when it was appropriate and rose on our feet in unison when the crowd gave its final applause.

At one point during the concert, Harriet leaned over and whispered, “I think we’ve attracted the eyes of a few men here tonight, or rather I should say you two have. No one looks at an old bag like me.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I think that guy over there with the Bermuda shorts on is looking at you.”

“Yeah, he’s perfect for you Harriet. Looks like an attorney,” Heidi teased.

“I’ll bet he’s like all men who want them young and pretty like Julie here,” Harriet said as the music started.

There were plenty of young, single men in the audience and I did find their wandering eyes hitting upon me. I was thankful that none approached me; they were probably warded off by the fact that I was in a group of three women.

*****
When I saw a bulky letter from the Sunrise Harbor School District nestled amid the flyers and other junk mail one warm July afternoon, my breath was taken away. I was afraid to open it: did it contain a contract? Or some other message?

I kissed it, leaving a faint lipstick stain on the front of the envelope. Finally, I got up the courage to open it, and found out it was a contract. I let out a squeal so loud that I feared Paul and Marian Phillips next door might hear it and think I was being attacked.

It was a four-page contract in formal, legal language that basically said I would be on probation for the entire first school year and could face dismissal at the will of the district; I learned such clauses were typical. The contract did not specify either the school or the classes I would be teaching, stating only that my assignment would be at the direction of the school district. I would be paid at the beginning rate that had been negotiated in the contract between the teachers’ union and the school district.

Even though I was not assured of my assignment, I signed the two copies of the contract and mailed them back immediately. Within a week I got a call from Mrs. Hammond, the Farragut principal, who said that she was pleased I had accepted the contract and added that I’d be assigned to her school.

“I wonder Miss Pearson if you’d mind stopping by sometime before the Staff Orientation begins to talk a few things over with me,” she said.

“Oh, is there a problem?” I asked.

“Not at this time that I know of, Miss Pearson, but you never know,” she said, talking slowly and carefully. I could tell she was measuring her words cautiously.

“OK,” I said, realizing that my situation might be cause for concern.

“It’s a voluntary meeting. We can’t pay you for your time. You can refuse and you’ll still have the contract.”

“No, Mrs. Hammond. I understand and agree it might be best to meet.”

I agreed to meet with her in mid-August after my summer school classes had ended.

*****
Until summer school ended, my social life that summer was pretty much limited to my outings with Harriet, sometimes with Heidi joining us. I found my days and nights filled with studying, keeping my flower garden weed-free and reading. I met a social studies teacher about my age in one of the classes. He was a shy slender man with a bright twinkle in his eye and a wry sense of humor named Leighton Loomis and I was pleased to accept his invitation to join him for lunch one day after classes.

Unlike my earlier male admirers, Leighton was not muscular; his forearms were soft and slender and his hands almost as small as my own. Yet, Leighton (that was how he liked to be called) had strong sense of his own worth and we shared great conversations about movies, literature and the current state of world affairs. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be the picture of propriety; yet, many of his political thoughts were of the near-revolutionary variety. “We need to take to the streets on banning guns,” he said one day when we both expressed dissatisfaction with the NRA’s stranglehold on gun violence prevention legislation.

I enjoyed Leighton’s company and we often stopped for coffee; he invited me to a lecture at the University on economic justice, which I accepted. I found that Leighton had more than an academic interest in the issue and was actively participating in campaigns around immigration, supporting fast food workers and building a strong teachers’ union. He had also spent several nights camping out during the “Occupy Wall Street” movement, he told me, and even drove nearly a thousand miles to Madison, Wisconsin, in the cold winter of 2011 to join the massive protests of public workers around that state’s capitol.

“Oh Leighton, that’s marvelous,” I told him as he related his activities.

“There’s an environmental rally Saturday downtown. Come with me,” he suggested as we met one Wednesday afternoon over coffee.

“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t. Already have plans,” I said. It was an honest excuse, but one I could have broken, since my plans involved getting together with Harriet. I was sure she’d be OK if I said I was planning something else, particularly with a young man.

“Well, maybe next time.”

Other than friendly kisses when we met or parted, Leighton never expressed a sexual interest in me. I must admit that I desired to connect more physically with Leighton, to feel his soft body next to my own and to passionately join in kisses. I put his diffidence down to shyness and though I might have enjoyed more intimacy with him, I decided not to pursue the matter, largely because I was not yet the complete woman he would want me to be.

Leighton was a strange man. How could anyone be so shy in his personal relationship with a woman and yet be such an outspoken, adventurous person in public campaigns for the poor and down-trodden? He would be an interesting man to get to know, I felt. Yet, I never did join Leighton in any of his rallies or marches, and we lost touch with each other once the summer school classes ended. We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and after a few exchanged emails our acquaintance died. Yet, I hoped I might someday run across this young man; I felt he was destined to make a mark for himself.

*****
“I’m afraid, Miss Pearson, that your teaching assignment in the district this semester may not go as smoothly as we might have liked,” Mrs. Hammond said as I sat down in her office in mid-August.

It was a hot, muggy day that was typical for that time of summer and the school was not air-conditioned. Farragut High’s building dated back to the New Deal WPA days of the 1930s and had a heating system that could not easily be adapted for air conditioning. For most school days, of course, it was not an issue, since even on warm days there often was a breeze off the nearby harbor that provided some relief.

Mrs. Hammond wore a light sleeveless blouse and loose-fitting skirt, obviously in deference to the expectation of facing a muggy, stiflingly warm day in the school. She was a tall, imposing woman with firm, well-toned arms and she reminded me of Michelle Obama. She had two fans operating in the room that seemed to move the otherwise dead air. I was not so well-prepared, having worn a tight fitting brown skirt and long sleeved blouse.

“One of the School Board members has raised an issue over your gender,” she began. “Normally, the Board doesn’t question our decisions on whom to hire, though we always send a list of the proposed new hires to the Board, which they usually rubber stamp. Not so this time. One of the members wondered if the teacher named Julie Pearson was any relation to the Jason Pearson who taught as a substitute last semester, and of course I told them the two were one in the same.”

“And he didn’t like the idea, I suppose?” I asked, knowing the obvious answer.

“Not one bit, but I told him that you had proven to be a particularly effective teacher in taking over Mrs. McGuire’s class and that I didn’t think we could deny you an appointment based solely upon your gender issues.”

“Do you want me to cancel the contract?” I asked. I knew this might happen and I was fully prepared to back off. I truly didn’t want to make a public fuss about myself.

“No, definitely not,” she said. “We’re determined to make this work as long as you’re willing to weather the storm of criticism that might come along with it.”

I was silent. I looked down at my hands, which I held folded in my lap. I looked at the pale pink sheen of my nails that I had freshened up just that morning.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this Mrs. Hammond. Really, I don’t want to cause the school any disruption.”

“I understand, Julie,” she replied, using my first name for the first time. “If you feel you don’t want to put yourself in the spotlight we’ll understand and cancel the contract. You’ll always get the highest of recommendations from us in the future, if you do that.”

“I really want to teach so badly, Mrs. Hammond, and I had such a great experience this past semester, but maybe I should just cancel out the contract,” I said. I felt tears filling my eyes, but fought back any outright crying.

Mrs. Hammond pulled a couple of tissues from the box on her desk and handed them to me. I wiped my eyes, trying carefully against having my makeup run. Despite the warmth of the room, I felt a slight chill.

“Julie,” she finally said. “Are you sure you want to give up so quickly? I want you to know that you will have the support not only of myself and the other administrative staff, but also of the superintendent. To be honest with you, I’ve never known our current superintendent to ever take such a courageous stand, but on this issue, he seems quite firm. With him, it’s a matter of principle. Frankly, we both believe you’re a dedicated and talented person with a great future as a teacher, and we need to keep such persons like you in the profession. Your gender issues, which I know are real and documented, should not deny you from your chosen profession, nor should it deny our children of your talents.”

I looked at her directly in the eye.

“You mean that, don’t you?”

“Yes, we do.”

“What about the other teachers and the kids?” I asked.

“My dear Julie,” she said. “You made a great number of friends here this last semester so I don’t see that as a problem, and I know the teachers’ union will support you as well.”

“I’ll stay,” I said.

“One more thing, Julie. I think we’ll have to prepare for some problems that may develop due to your hiring,” Mrs. Hammond said.

“I expected that,” I said, fully realizing the school was going out of its way to accommodate my situation.

“I’ve already discussed this with Security, the superintendent and Jon Edwards who is your teachers’ union building rep and we’re all in agreement that we want to make your entry into school peaceful and with the least amount of disruption. Now here is the plan.”

Mrs. Hammond outlined how they would handle the announcement about my hiring. I was shocked to hear that they would let the major newspaper in the area know first of all, in a sense “leaking” the news that a transgendered woman was being hired to teach.

“Now if you disagree with this effort to ‘get ahead of the story,’ as they say, we’ll do something else,” she said. “I think it might be wise to open yourself up to a newspaper interview that I believe would give you a forum to explain your situation. It might help take away some of the sensationalism around the story. You will likely be besieged by TV reporters and we can help you deal with them if you’d like.”

I was hesitant about endorsing the plan since I had hoped to come into my new teaching assignment as any beginning teacher would, without attracting any attention. Apparently, that would be impossible and I agreed to the plan, as well as to how they would handle my entry into school on those first days of the semester.

“You’ll have a good escort that will include myself, the superintendent, Mr. Edwards and several other teachers whom I know will join us,” she explained. “In addition, we talking with some of your former students and I know several of them will join us. I don’t think it will be much of an issue, except with a small group.”

“Oh my, Mrs. Hammond. I’m so sorry for putting you through all this trouble,” I said. “Maybe I should forget about this whole business of teaching.”

She eyed me critically. “Ms. Pearson, let’s not play games with this. Are you going to go through with this or not?”

“I guess,” I said, speaking almost inaudibly.

“Look, Ms. Pearson. I never took you for a coward and felt you had the courage of your convictions. You tell me you want to teach, and you’ve already shown us you’ve got potential to be a great teacher. Look at the color of my skin. Do you think I’d be here today except for Rosa Parks riding the bus in Montgomery, Alabama, and that Brown girl in Topeka, Kansas, who became the basis for Brown v. Board of Education?”

“I guess not,” I agreed.

“We’re supporting you – the school district and this high school – because we know it’s the right and just thing to do. Even if I don’t like your decision to change your sex, I understand it and there’s no reason that someone in your situation can’t provide their skills into any profession. We look, Ms. Pearson, upon this as a teaching opportunity. These kids will get to see how difficult obtaining justice can be.”

She paused and I sat overwhelmed by the power of her words. I could see she was perspiring as her passion seemed to push the heat in already warm room to even greater heights.

“Now, are you going to teach this fall or not?”

“I’m teaching,” I said, my voice reflecting newfound confidence I got from hearing the words of Theresa Hammond.

“Good, now let me tell you about your teaching assignments, Ms. Pearson,” she said, reverting to her more formal manner of address.

I left her office after learning that I would be teaching Freshman English, not a particularly easy assignment but one that I felt I could master. She also said that Harriet Simpson had suggested I take on extra hours of work as her drama assistant for which I would get a bonus. For some reason, I left the office fully comfortable with my decision to face a job that would require all the fortitude and courage I could muster. It both excited and scared me.

Chapter Twelve: Mixed Welcomes

“I suggested to Mrs. Hammond that you be asked to serve as my drama assistant,” Harriet told me when we met for our usual Thursday night outing, following my meeting with the school principal.

“Do you think I’m qualified to help you, Harriet?” I asked.

“By all means,” she said. “I know of your interest in drama. I’ll ask you to arrange auditions, to work with some individual students who may need extra coaching and to help me keep track of things. I think you’ll enjoy it, Julie.”

I knew Harriet set high standards for her plays; I fully expected that the two of us might not always agree and that I might sometimes not do just exactly as she wanted. Harriet had a reputation for being a tough taskmaster and in the heat of the tense times of preparing for opening night there might be some terrible blow-ups.

“Harriet, are you really that sure about me?” I probed.

“Yes, darling, you are one of brightest and most dedicated persons I’ve ever met. Besides, it would be a delight to have you at my side.”

We were at our favorite Thursday night after-dinner spot, the wine shop that served desserts; it was a warm, muggy August night and both of us were wearing shorts and tank tops. We sat at an outside table, seated close to each other, and I couldn’t resist leaning over to give the older woman and quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I said simply. I could feel my cheeks grow flush, perhaps due to the strong praise but most likely due to the growing affection that I felt for this lady.

“You’re so cute when you blush, Julie,” she said.

Of course, that even made me feel hotter and I knew my face must have turned an even deeper red.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to take off for the weekend together?” Harriet said, as we lingered over coffee as we both dove into a slice of luscious blueberry cheesecake that we split between us. Secretly, I’m sure that Harriet felt as I did and would have both liked a full slice apiece, but we girls must watch our figures, don’t we?

*****
Late Friday afternoon, Harriet and I checked into the Pelican Inn Resort at Point Pleasant, which seemed to have become even more decrepit than I remembered it from my Fourth of July and Christmas Eve trips of the past. Perhaps because of its seedy decline, we found it easy to get a reservation.

“I love it,” Harriet gushed, as we entered our ocean-view room.

“I was afraid you’d find it too rundown,” I ventured.

“It’s pretty rundown, darling, but it’s got that old-fashioned charm and it seems clean enough.”

The desk clerk told us the air conditioning was functioning at about half its capacity, and shaved fifteen percent off the room rate. “You might want to leave your windows open. There’s a nice breeze off the ocean, ladies,” he said, his voice exuding an effeminate lilt.

The basic lure of the Resort was, of course, its proximity to the beach; even though it was approaching dusk, there were still a fair number of bathers on the beach, only a few of them braving the breakers.

“Let’s go for a swim before we do anything else,” Harriet suggested.

Even though I was not keen on swimming; in fact, I could hardly do much more than a few strokes and knew I could not keep up with my more athletic friend, I agreed.

“Good, let’s do it” she said, shocking me by immediately stepping out of the shorts and removing the tee-shirt she had been wearing for the motor trip to the Resort. She followed that by taking off her panties and bra and stood naked before me, a marvelous sight with her sculptured, sinewy body, smallish but firm breasts and a clump of curly dark hair at her crotch.

I stood frozen; I had never liked to disrobe before others, perhaps too ashamed to expose my soft, sorry body, my fleshy tummy and tiny flaccid penis.

“Come on Julie, dear, change into your suit. It’s not like we haven’t been naked together before,” she said.

She was right; we had spent a few nights together, totally naked. Those encounters had been in the dark. Now, she wanted me to disrobe in daylight to expose all of my sorry physical attributes.

“God, I love looking at you,” Harriet said after I finally got out of my clothes.

“Me? Oh Harriet, my body is so pathetic next to yours?” I protested.

She came over to me and embraced me tightly, overwhelming me with the strength of her arms. I felt weak and helpless and surrendered eagerly to her kisses. My hands clung onto her strong back and her hands explored me, kneading my fleshy flabby body as we embraced. My penis grew firmer, though I knew its chances of getting into a full erection were nil.

“We’d better not get too involved,” she said finally, breaking away.

I wanted to argue with her to say that I felt content in her arms and eager to continue our lovemaking, but she suggested that we had all weekend ahead of us. She wore a bikini that would probably look ridiculous on any other woman in her fifties, but seemed to fit her as perfectly as if she were eighteen. I would never be seen dead in a bikini, and wore instead a two-piece Navy blue tankini.

Our love-making began after we showered together to cleanse off the salt from our swim in the ocean; we kissed and caressed in the shower, so passionately that we basically ignored the sporadic temperature change in the shower flow. We dried each other off and moved together onto the bed, where we shared moments of passion with post-orgasm relaxation until well after it turned dark. We finally got dressed after brief showers to wash off the sweat and juices from our lovemaking and ventured out to find the bar and grill I remembered from my previous visits in time to order sandwiches just before the kitchen was scheduled to close at ten o’clock.

The weekend was not only spent in lovemaking; we walked the aging neighborhoods of this resort town, wandered on the beaches, visited a ramshackle maritime museum and shopped the boutiques that had begun to populate the resort town. It seemed the town had finally been recognized as a potential tourist stop, regaining its once glorious era in that role. Finally after forty years of being forgotten, travel writers and others had found this gem of a location with its largely unspoiled beaches and thus far noncommercial atmosphere.

More importantly we talked a lot; I learned about Harriet’s life that was so much more interesting than mine, her struggles with her sexuality, her dashed desires to be an actress and her hopes to leave a mark upon the world.

“I had a marvelous man who loved me,” she said. “When I first got to Farragut, I was about twenty-five and I had taken over the drama program which then didn’t amount to much. To spur interest I prevailed upon a former college classmate, who had become an up-and-coming actor on both Broadway and off-Broadway productions, to come to the school. We had dated a couple of times in college, but then drifted apart after graduation. I saw a review in the Times and contacted him.

“He was a couple of years older, still unmarried and not in any permanent relationship. He liked the idea of working with the kids, he said, and volunteered to come out several times. To make a long story short, we clicked. He seemed to enjoy my young son Kevin and that was so sweet. We were great together, so compatible and both so sensual in bed. Strangely about that time in my life I fell in love with my roommate, a slightly older female theatrical costumer who introduced me to a whole new way to love. As a result I turned down the man’s proposal for marriage. My girlfriend dumped me a little while after that.”

“How awful.”

“Oh, it wasn’t to be, Julie. Alex – my girlfriend then – was really a selfish bitch and I was best out of that relationship,” she said. “I still wonder what would have happened if I had married my boyfriend then. His name was Chad and he’s made quite a career as a character actor in New York; I’ve even seen him on episodes of ‘Law and Order,’ usually playing some uptight businessman role.”

“I’ll bet you were talented, Harriet,” I said.

“I always thought I was, but being an actor is no piece of cake,” she said with a smile. “Besides I love teaching, particularly in a school like Farragut where you can help kids who come from such troubled environments.”

“Oh Harriet, I don’t know what to make of my friendship with you,” I said as she drove us back from Point Pleasant. “I know I still yearn for the love of a man, but now I’m confused.”

“Probably no more than I am, dear,” she said, as we slowed to a stop in the bumper-to-bumper traffic that was so typical for a summer Sunday afternoon as families returned from the beaches.

“How can I feel love for both men and women?” I asked.

“Maybe you just desire love, my dear,” she said. She smiled at me. We were still stalled in traffic, and she leaned over to kiss me. The car behind us honked, either cheering or jeering upon seeing two females kissing in the car in front of them. Earlier during the weekend, I had confessed the sexual confusion of my short life, a life so sheltered and protected that I was just now beginning to understand how complex human relations could be.

As she dropped me off at my house, we kissed. It was a passionate, wet kiss that I relished; yet, I feared my neighbors would see the long embrace. We parted finally.

“This was one of the best weekends of my life, Harriet. Thank you.”

“No, darling, thank you,” she replied. “I love you.”

*****
To make certain that I wouldn’t be late for the first day of Teachers’ Orientation, a four-day process that began on the Tuesday before Labor Day, I was up by five o’clock in the morning; after showering and fixing my hair, I hemmed and hawed over what to wear. The previous night – fully aware of the importance of my first impression as Miss Pearson upon the rest of the teaching staff – I had set out Capri pants, a sleeveless blouse and a cardigan sweater. By morning I was debating about whether to wear that outfit, or to switch to either a summer dress or a skirt and blouse combination; I even thought about wearing slacks. I hated my indecision over what to choose and actually put on all four choices before settling upon wearing the skirt (a light, airy flowing piece with a white background and wispy pastel floral patterns) with a peach-colored sleeveless slip-over blouse.

Even with what seemed an interminable time in the clothes debate, I still was able to catch an early train, arriving at Farragut a full half-hour before the appointed time. There were few cars on the school parking lot when I arrived. Realizing that I was unfashionably early, I considered briefly that perhaps I might walk around the neighborhood for a few minutes before venturing into the school.

“You’re being silly,” I said to myself.

I resolutely walked to the side teachers’ entrance, rang the bell and was buzzed in by the security guard whom I recognized as the same man who performed the task in the previous semester. “Welcome back, Ms. Pearson,” he said with a smile.

“Good morning, Sam,” I said. “You remember me, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I must say I’m impressed with the new teacher,” he said, his smile broadening.

His friendly greeting worried me: Did that mean he recognized me as the onetime male teacher named Jason Pearson? Would others notice the former me, too?

“Mrs. Hammond informed me you’d be coming back this year, but without her warning, I’d never have recognized you for the teacher from last year,” he explained.

“Thank you Sam. You have a good day,” I said, feeling relieved by the guard’s explanation.

We were told to convene at the front of the school’s cafeteria, which also functioned as a multi-purpose room. Except for several older women working in the kitchen, I was the only one in the room and I sat down at a picnic style, metal table near the front of the room, where a podium with a microphone and a table with a few chairs had been set up. There was an urn of coffee set up alongside some bagels and I poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, leaving it black and avoiding the bagels and the 300 or so calories they likely contained.

Gradually the room filled with teachers, most dressed casually in shorts (some of the younger female teachers in tight, revealing shorts), jeans or cargo pants. I could see only two other teachers wearing skirts and dressed as formally as I was; they were also young and I didn’t recognize them and therefore assumed they were new teachers like me.

At first, none of the teachers joined my table, and I watched as the teachers I knew from the previous year eyed me up-and-down, as they did the other apparently new teachers. From their glances, it seemed none recognized me as the former substitute English teacher named Mr. Pearson. I was surprised when Hank Duke sat down opposite me and greeted be with a cheerful, “Good morning, Julie. It’s nice seeing you’re back.”

“Good morning, Coach Duke,” I said, adopting a formal voice.

“Hope you had a good summer, Ms. Pearson,” he said.

“I did, thank you and I hope you did, too.”

Our pleasantries were interrupted when Mrs. McGuire, the teacher whose class I took over while she was off on maternity leave, joined us. I could tell she was in the harried state that seems to betray that of a woman who might have a newborn at home; her long, blonde hair was brushed a bit loosely and her face was puffy; she was wearing sweatpants and a man’s denim workshirt.

“Nice to see you again, Sally,” Duke said to the new arrival.

“Hank, how are you?” she said cheerfully.

“Great. But exhausted from the rec program this summer. Damn administration made it so rough on paperwork that I hardly had time for the kids,” he said.

I nodded in agreement, since he was stating a refrain that teachers had about administrative chores that cut into their teaching time.

“This third kid I thought would be the easiest, but she’s been colicky which has been tough on my husband and me,” Sally McGuire said.

She went into her purse and withdrew a photo of a round-faced, bright-eyed infant with blonde hair and pinkish skin.

“Oh but she’s a cutie,” Hank said, handing the picture to me.

“Migosh, she is. What’s her name?” I said, handing the picture back to her.

“Julianne,” Sally McGuire.

All the time this conversation continued, I could tell that Mrs. McGuire had not recognized me as her “sub” from last semester.

“Julianne?” Hank said, smiling. “Well you obviously don’t know one of our new teachers, Sally. Meet Julie Pearson.”

Mrs. McGuire finally looked at me closely; up to that point, I could tell she was just settling in from a hectic morning at home, preparing the kids for a baby-sitter and getting herself out of the house in time for the orientation.

“Nice meeting you, Julie,” she said, holding out her large, rough hand.

“The baby’s name is sweet,” I said.

“My God. Pearson? That was the name of the young man who subbed my class last semester. You look like him.”

Hank Duke thankfully interceded. “Miss Pearson until a few months ago was that young man. Julie is transitioning from male to female.”

“What? And teaching here at Farragut? How can that be?” Mrs. McGuire said her tone suddenly indignant.

“Now Sally, give her a chance,” Hank said. “She proved to be an excellent teacher in your place.”

“I know and I’m sorry, but this is such a shock,” she said.

Turning to me, Mrs. McGuire’s face softened. “I’m sorry for my reaction. I understand about this transgendered stuff, but isn’t this going to cause some trouble or disruption?”

“I hope it won’t,” I said. “I found I really loved teaching. You left me some really good kids to teach last year, Mrs. McGuire.”

“Some of them could be a challenge, I know, and I understand you did a masterful job with them, even getting Thomas settled down. I could never control him and his friend Demetrius but I ran into Thomas at the supermarket a few weeks ago and he was stocking shelves and was so polite. He had only good to say about you.”

I smiled, remembering the rebellious and mischievous Thomas who had composed a bit of poetry in my honor.

“Even so, Julie, and I hope you don’t think I don’t respect you,” Sally McGuire continued, speaking deliberately and with some hesitation. “I’m really troubled by your presence in this school, where just about everyone will remember you from last semester when you appeared as a man. Why couldn’t you go to a different school where no one would have known about your past?”

I looked at her closely, unable at first to respond; I felt that perhaps I should begin to cry. Sally McGuire was known to be a caring, dedicated teacher; yet, she was unable to view me as anything but a freak it seemed. Would her attitude be similar to many others in the school, including parents and students?

“I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel, Julie or Jason or whatever your name is,” Mrs. McGuire said.

“First of all, Mrs. McGuire,” I began to answer, also slowly and deliberatively, “Mrs. Hammond offered me the job. She encouraged me to take it even after I said I would not take the job if it would cause distraction in the school. She said the issue might be disruptive, but that it would help to bring a good lesson on diversity to everyone in the school. Believe me, Mrs. McGuire, I’m here to be the best teacher I can be.”

Sally McGuire nodded her head and said, “Well I hope you’re right.”

Then Mrs. McGuire turned her attention to Hank. “Do you think it’s OK for the school to experiment like this, to have teacher who is changing sex? No offense, Julie.”

“She proved herself as a teacher,” he said. “That’s all that should count.”

“I guess so, but I’m not convinced,” she replied, and then turned to me, putting her hand on mine in a friendly gesture.

“I’m rooting for you dear, and feel it’s OK for you to come to me for help,” she said. For some reason, I wasn’t convinced that she meant those words, but I nodded as if to signify that I accepted her good wishes. Her tone still displayed a bit of disdain for me.

*****
Theresa Hammond, the Farragut principal, had called me the day before the orientation session to outline her strategy for introducing me to the other teachers, as well to discuss other plans in seeking to make my appearance on the job go as smoothly as possible.

“I’m going to introduce you along with the other three newly-hired teachers, briefly summarizing the backgrounds of each of you,” she said. “I’m going to state very directly that you were on the staff last year as a substitute teacher and that many of them knew you as Jason Pearson. I see no need to pussyfoot on this issue. It would be impossible to hide your gender status, and we may as well be up-front about it. Do you have any problem with that?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hammond,” I said immediately.

“Good. I know there will be some questions and probably some criticisms, but let me answer them. I’ve studied up on people who have gone through such changes and realize it’s not a disease or anything, but rather a need for individuals to express their true selves. In addition, the District’s experts in these affairs will be available – if needed – to discuss this.”

True to the plan, Mrs. Hammond addressed the seventy-plus teachers at the orientation following the script she outlined.

She asked each of the new teachers to say something, and I followed the example of the other two who preceded me, merely stating that I was looking forward to the teaching year and would welcome the support and friendship of all of them.

I noticed the applause that followed my statement was a bit more tepid than that following the other two newbies. It was apparent that regardless of the assurances from Mrs. Hammond my appointment met with skepticism from many of the teachers.

“I’ll have lots to prove to the teachers here,” I confessed to Hank as we left the session, walking together down the hall.

“I think you’ll do fine, and you know you’ll also have a lot of backing,” he said.

While he and I agreed to swear off any attempt to rekindle our brief romance, he took the lead in saying he’d continue to be a friendly colleague at the school. His friendship was most reassuring, since he had the respect of the other teachers who saw him as an athletic coach who cared as much about his students succeeding academically as he did about winning football games.

By the end of the four-day orientation sessions (mainly composed of in-service trainings and briefings on internal school administrative processes), I had received the best wishes of virtually all the teachers. The two new teachers, Laura McPherson and Tamara Jackson, were in their twenties. They sought me out for information on the school, seeking to benefit from what I had learned from a semester of substitute teaching. We met for lunch on the Saturday after the orientation at a popular restaurant on the ocean and I soon found myself giggling and chatting with the other two; they accepted me as just another young teacher, sharing our doubts and hopes about our chosen profession. They heard the discussion at the orientation session about my transition, but to them I was just another young, beginning teacher. It was a comforting feeling.

(Ms. Julie Pearson becomes news as she prepares for her first year of teaching after her transition. Her femininity captivates many an eye. Edited by Eric. A sequel to two short stories published in 2013, “Julie’s Odyssey” and “Gifts for Julie.”) (Copyright 2014)

Chapter Thirteen: In the Public Eye
As Labor Day weekend approached, my anxiety over the first day of school became overwhelming. Mrs. Hammond had talked to me on the last day of orientation to inform me that she expected some trouble on the opening day, largely from a noisy Evangelistic group that has been known to show up at sites where they can stir up conflict. In addition, several local pastors had written a joint letter to the School District Board complaining that my hiring flew in the face of the teachings of Christianity and violated “family values.”

Again, I offered to step down from teaching that semester, but Mrs. Hammond would have none of it: “We’ve made our decision. It’s the right decision and we’re not stepping away from it, Miss Pearson.”

How could I not support this strong, principled woman? I told her that I would try to stay strong and hoped that I would not prove her decision to hire me to have been the wrong decision.

“You won’t, my dear,” she said. “Now the reason I called you in here was to explain the plans for the first day of school. I think we’re prepared for whatever happens but I need your approval and agreement to follow our recommendations.”

I nodded, indicating I wanted to hear more. She called in the vice principal, a stern-faced man whose scowl seemed to stare down even the most recalcitrant student. I know I was frightened of the man, who still wore a crew cut from his days in Iraq as a Marine shore patrol officer; his hair had thinned a bit and was touched with bits of gray.

“Mr. Benson is in charge of security and discipline in the school and he’ll outline the plan,” she said.

He looked at me with his dark, piercing eyes and I felt guilty, though of what I didn’t know. Perhaps he knew of my trysts with Harriet Simpson or my infatuation with the teenager Randy. It was obvious to me he disapproved of me and likely had more in common with the angry group seeking to deny me the teaching position than with his appointed task of assuring that I could be kept safe as I began to teach at the school.

“You put us in a difficult complicated position, Miss Pearson,” he began.

Mrs. Hammond interrupted him, “Just tell her the plan, Scott. We all know how you feel about Miss Pearson’s decision, but it’s my decision with the support of the superintendent and the Board that Miss Pearson will be given a chance to prove herself as a teacher.”

“As you say, ma’am,” Scott Benson said.

“Thank you, Scott,” she said more gently. “I know you’ll do a good job in following through on this.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said crisply.

Mr. Benson outlined the plan in some detail and I was impressed with his preparation. He seemed to think of everything and I thanked him for his effort. For some reason, I felt comforted that this military-trained man would do just exactly that, even if he may have found me pathetic and disgusting.

*****
My ears filled with a familiar buzz being repeated over and over before I realized it was my cell phone that I had left plugged into the charger on my night stand. Still in a daze, I reached over to pick it up to answer it.

“Julie, this is Paul Phillips next door,” the voice said excitedly. His tone brought me immediately to my senses.

“Yes, Paul,” I said, puzzled by the anxiety in his voice.

“Sorry bother you at this hour, but I think you should know there are several TV trucks in front of your house, looking your place over,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“About six-thirty Sunday morning,” he said. “I think they’re out there looking to interview you about the story in the morning paper.”

“What story?”

“About you beginning to teach as a woman at Farragut. Oh, you didn’t know it was in the news?”

“Oh my God Paul, what should I do?”

“I’m not sure, but for one thing don’t answer your door or raise your curtains,” he counseled. “That’ll buy you some time. If you’d like I’ll pop over and maybe I can help. I used to deal with those vultures from the media.”

I thought for a minute, agreeing that Paul’s presence might help. Being an older man, who still had a commanding appearance from his days as the district leader for a prominent labor union, I felt he’d be most helpful. I agreed to leave the back door unlocked so that he could sneak over (unseen by the media it was to be hoped) and into the house. I asked for ten minutes in which to brush my teeth, run some water over my face and put on my sweats.

“Here you are right on Page One,” Paul said, plopping down the front news section of the Sunday morning newspaper that he brought with him.

“My God, where did they get that picture?” I asked, seeing a picture of me teaching in the classroom from last semester.

“Looks like from somebody’s cell phone,” he offered.

“Could I look any more pathetic in that picture?”

“Julie, it’s not too bad. People always hate seeing their own images in print,” he said, though it did little to reassure me that I wouldn’t appear to be a total loser to the general public.

Within minutes of his arrival, Mrs. Hammond called me; I put my cell on speaker phone and Paul joined in the discussion. After several exchanges, it was agreed that Mrs. Hammond would announce to the press that there’d be a press conference at the school at ten in the morning.

*****
While I was on the phone with Mrs. Hammond, Marian Phillips from next door arrived to join her husband, adding her support. I hugged her briefly as I continued to hold the cell phone to my ear, smiling at the older woman.

I had known Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were strong advocates of civil rights of all sorts; their lawn seemed always to be adorned with yard signs supporting one cause or the other. I had also learned that this remarkable older couple – who had raised six children in their small house – practiced the kindness and generosity that they seemed espouse in public issues.

“I’ll get rid of the press,” Paul said, upon hearing of the planned press conference.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked.

“Just watch me,” he said. “Tell me the details of that press conference. When, where and who’ll be there.”

As I outlined the plan in detail for him, he wrote the information down on a folded sheet of paper. He turned to his wife and grabbed her hand: “Come on out with me Marian. Your presence will help.”

He opened the front door and shouts of “here she comes” . . . “don’t you mean here he comes” . . . “no it’s here it comes.” Paul left the door ajar so that I could hear what was being said. I kept myself hidden from view and I could hear the random shouts continue until I heard Paul speak in a loud, commanding voice: “All right. All right. Here’s the story.”

“Where’s the teacher?” . . . “Who are you?” The shouts from the media crews continued.

“My name is Paul Phillips and this is my wife, Marian,” he said, when the group finally quieted down.

“We have been next door neighbors of the Pearson family for years and I watched Julie Pearson grow up. I can personally testify to the honesty and integrity of both Miss Pearson and her late mother and I know there is no person more dedicated to becoming a good teacher and more committed to her students than Julie is. . .”

“That’s all well and good, but produce her . . . or him,” came a loud voice whom I identified as the chief news anchor for WELI, the area’s most-watched news channel.

“You won’t see her here, folks, but there will be a press conference at 10 a.m. this morning at the front entrance to Farragut High School. I promise you Julie Pearson will be there. Now please go and leave our neighborhood in peace.”

Paul abruptly finished, took Marian by the hand and returned to the house.

“I think they’ll hang around a bit, but soon go,” he said. “There’ll be probably a few that will continue to hang out around here. I’ll get some of the neighbors to shoo them off your property. They can stand on the sidewalk, but not on anyone’s property.”

I offered to make them coffee, but Marian said, “No dear, you go get a shower and get ready for the press conference. I’ll figure out everything. By the way, have you had anything to eat?”

“No, but I’m not hungry,” I said.

“You better eat something or you might faint up at the conference,” she said, smiling. No doubt she had had similar conversations with her own children many times over.

“I guess so,” I nodded. I suggested that I’d like oatmeal, a banana, toast and orange juice, a selection that brought a smile to Mrs. Phillips’ always cheerful face. I always wondered how the woman could smile with raising a large family.

I took my shower and got ready for the day, choosing a pair of grey slacks, a loose-fitting, violet and blush pink blouse with a scooped bodice and short capped sleeves; Marian came in to brush my hair and affix a pink colored hair band, letting the my light brown hair fall casually to my shoulders. Taking her advice, I applied only modest makeup, natural colored lipstick and foundation, adding a bit of color to my cheeks.

“There you are darling,” she announced, obviously pleased with the result. “You look like a typical young schoolteacher, far from the floozy the press probably would like to characterize you as being.”

Returning to the kitchen, I was surprised to see half the neighborhood there, laughing and talking, all sharing coffee.

“I didn’t think you’d mind me inviting them in, Julie,” Paul said. “I called them over to keep the press off our properties and they did such a good job, the TV trucks and all packed up their gear and left.”

I hugged Heidi Nordquist and her daughter, Susie, and greeted Bobby McCloskey and his older sister, Carol, with handshakes, thanking all of them profusely.

“You should have seen Mrs. Nordquist shoo those reporters away,” Bobby said.

“Yeah, mom, you seem to scare them right outa their pants,” giggled Susie.

I can imagine the loud-voiced Heidi Nordquist using her commanding size literally moving the throng into submission.

“You didn’t do so badly yourself, Bobby,” Heidi said.

“I think you all did well,” Paul said.

“We all wish you well, Julie,” Marian said.

The group clapped and I began to cry. Could anyone be as fortunate as I was just then? Here I was facing perhaps the most traumatic experience of my life, ready to bare my life to the whole community, and I found something that is so special and so rare: the good-feeling and support of my neighbors.

*****
I was spirited into the side entrance at the school by Mr. Benson, the vice principal, who had picked me up at my home and driven me to Farragut for the press conference.

To my surprise, he was kind to me, and reassured me that everything will be OK and that I should just give it time for everyone to get used to the new female teacher. “I admire you, Miss Pearson, for your courage in this, even though I don’t understand this whole business of changing your sex,” he admitted as we drove it.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, gratified by his confession. “I only hope that I prove I’m going to be worth all the trouble I’m putting the school – and yourself – through.”

“From what I’ve heard, you should do just fine,” he said.

It seemed television satellite trucks were everywhere as we approached the school; Mr. Benson drove his large Ford Pickup truck around to a back street. There he took a service drive to the school and continued to the side entrance. Telling me to wait in the car, he rushed to the door and used a key to open it. He darted back to the truck, opening my door and ushering me into the school, just as a pack of media folks began accosting us.

Everything happened so fast that I had no time to contemplate the gravity of the situation. I had never been on camera before and was always shy when it came to public presentations and had I had time to think about it, I probably would have run off, never to be heard from again. Yet, I found myself sitting primly, my hands folded on my lap, on a folding chair at the top of the half dozen steps leading to the entrance to school. A podium had been set up in the center of the bank of doors at the entrance, with chairs set up on either side of it.

“Stay calm, dear,” Mrs. Hammond said. She sat next to me, with Jeremy Hudson, the Student Council president, sitting on the other side.

“Carmen Mendoza told me what a great teacher you are, Miss Pearson,” Jeremy turned to address me. “I contacted as many members of the Council as I could when I heard the news and was happy to answer to Mrs. Hammond’s request to show up here. Everyone I talked to supports you and that’s a majority of the board, so I’ll say so at this press conference.”

“Thank you, Jeremy,” I said.

In spite of all the support I was receiving, I still shivered, frightened over what might be awaiting me as I considered what I would tell the reporters. Mr. Benson had given me a brief idea of what to say, and urged me to keep my remarks brief. In the meantime, I tried to look calm and dignified, holding my head up and looking out into the crowd; thankfully, Jeremy was in a talkative mood and kept me engaged in conversation. I could hear the clicks of the digital cameras, and as I looked out upon the crowd of media and other onlookers, I could see they were eyeing me up and down, trying obviously to see what type of person chooses to turn from a guy to a woman.

“You look very much like a lovely young teacher.” I recognized the voice of Hank Duke, speaking as he sat down at an empty seat just beyond the student council president.

“Coach Duke, how nice to see you,” I said, my voice retaining a neutral tone, I hoped.

“Good morning Jeremy,” Hank said shaking the student’s hand.

Mrs. Hammond, who had been talking with the superintendent for a while, broke off that conversation and turned to me.

“I asked Coach Duke and Jeremy both to come and make brief statements in support of you, Miss Pearson,” she said. “I know Hank called a number of other teachers and you can see them showing up now as well. As football coach, Hank said he’d be pleased to give his professional support as a teacher, as well as to indicate that virtually all your colleagues very much approve your appointment.”

When I realized the level of support I was receiving, I felt like crying. To find so many persons willing to come on short notice during a holiday weekend was overwhelming, but somehow I held my emotions in check.

“I appreciate what everyone has done,” I said.

Mrs. Hammond patted my hand and said, “You deserve it, my dear. I guess I better get this thing started.”

*****
I hardly heard what Mrs. Hammond said to the media since I was so preoccupied about how I was going to handle the brief statement that I had decided I should make. I hoped that I could read the statement without crying, and that embarrassing prospect hounded me as Mrs. Hammond and then the superintendent made their remarks.

Later I read from news accounts that she told them I had proven myself to be an exemplary teacher who had handled difficult classes with success; she said that I was a “born teacher” and one whom the District would be proud to have on staff.

“High school students today are exposed to all forms of life styles and most students know full well there are individuals like Miss Pearson,” the principal said. “For some, her presence may be offensive, and we understand and respect that, but we only hope that they not judge Miss Pearson until they have seen her in action.”

The superintendent discussed mainly the legal aspects of the situation, noting that while transgendered women do not have protection under gender discrimination laws there is a chance that to reject such a person on such gender grounds alone could subject the district to law suits. He also noted that the State had already recognized Miss Pearson as “female” on state documents.

The principal and the superintendent faced questions at the end of their statements, and both took several, keeping their answers short.

Hank Duke and Jeremy Hudson made their presentations, both saying that during my semester of substitute teaching I had shown true talent for teaching. “Even Miss Pearson while still a man did appear to be a sissy or wimp to many students,” Jeremy said, “She quickly earned their respect. None of the students in her classes ever talked against her that I know of.”

Coach Duke admitted that some teachers were concerned that hiring me might cause some disruption; yet, he told the press, no one questioned my ability to teach. He said the teachers, as far as he had heard, generally liked me as a colleague.

I was afraid I may have been blushing as the two offered their praises.

Perhaps because the press was eager to hear from me, they had few questions for Coach Duke or Jeremy. Soon I was introduced and as I walked stiffly in my short-heeled sandals a hush came over the media crowd, the silence broken mainly by the rhythmical clicks of cameras, the whirring of video cams and occasional frustrated demands of the camera-wielders as they jostled for better angles.

I had prepared a statement and ran it by Mrs. Hammond, who made a few minor changes. I was prepared to read it verbatim and then walk away from the microphone. As I approached the microphone, my hand shook so badly that I merely held the paper to my side. I saw Mrs. Hammond who was at my side wince at my shaky appearance.

“Friends,” I began, my voice coming out almost as a squeak, “Thank you for coming. I never wanted to be the center of attention.”

“Take your time Miss Pearson,” a voice from the crowd yelled. I recognized it as coming from Thomas, the difficult student I had in my class the previous semester. His encouraging shout seemed to put me at ease. I didn’t refer to the paper as I began to speak; I had nearly memorized the words, it seemed, and found speaking extemporaneously worked far more easily.

“First, I need to thank Mrs. Hammond, Superintendent Taylor, Coach Duke and Jeremy Hudson for their kind words. I only hope I am able to live up to their praise in the coming school year.”

The words now came freely and my voice settled down to its natural feminine nature, a bit low, soft and breathy. I continued, growing more at ease as I spoke:

“I only want to be the best teacher I can be. In no way do I wish to cause disruption in the school or to hinder the ability to teach your children. I only want to be given a chance. Also, I have no desire to foist my transition to influence the students in any way. I am not a crusader.

“Those who know me well accept me as a woman. All of my life I have felt I was a female and when I was a child I was always attracted to same things that girls were, such as dolls and pretty dresses. My mother who was the love of my life and passed only a year ago recognized the girl that was emerging before her and eventually allowed me to dress in pretty girl clothes in the privacy of our home. I hope you all will accept me as who I am, a woman. Thank you.”

The mention of my mother brought tears to my eyes and I walked back to my seat vainly fighting back tears. Mrs. Hammond took me in her arms and hugged me, whispering, “That was very nice, Miss Pearson.”

A few questions were shouted, but Mrs. Hammond returned to the microphone and told the media that marked the end of the press conference, adding:

“I would like to appeal to your sense of decency and to your recognition that you not treat this in a sensational manner. The hiring of Miss Pearson may be troubling to some and it is worth public discussion, but I urge you to respect Miss Pearson’ privacy, as well as the school’s need to educate.”

*****
As the press conference ended, I noticed some of the media folks charging forward, obviously to seek a few juicy quotes from me and others who were gathered around the area just in front the school entrance where the microphone had been set up. Their onslaught was stopped by several of the City of Wantoch’s finest.

“I doubt if this press conference or Mrs. Hammond’s pleas will end this frenzy,” Hank said.

I turned to him and agreed, adding, “Hank, I really appreciate your coming and being willing to support me.”

“Yes, Coach Duke, that was great of you,” echoed Jeremy.

“Miss Pearson, I did it because it is the right thing to do,” he said simply, keeping his voice flat and direct. If he had any feelings for me, he did not show them. I thanked him again and turned around, expecting to find Paul Phillips who was to take me home. Instead, I found Harriet Simpson awaiting me.

“I hope you don’t mind, Julie,” she said. “I told your neighbor that I’d take care of you. I’m thinking maybe you should spend the rest of today and tomorrow at my place, where the vultures won’t find you.”

“That’s sweet of you Harriet, but there’s no reason you should waste your time with me. This is my problem.”

“Please, I’d love to have you,” she smiled.

“But I don’t have any clothes . . .”

“We can arrange to get what you need later. What do you say?”

To be honest, I loved the idea; Harriet and I had become comfortable friends – as well as occasional lovers – during the summer and I pictured a warm, peaceful time with her. She also promised to give me space so that I could continue preparing for the classes I would teach. While I had been working on developing my teaching plans for several weeks, I was still not sure of several areas and wanted time to complete them. She admitted she had work to do on planning for her first school play and might like her newly-appointed assistant (me) to help out.

Besides, I imagined us collapsing together at night onto her large queen-sized bed, snuggled together in each other’s arms. I always felt protected as I nestled against her firm, smooth, toned body.

My dreams for enjoying a lover’s night together were dashed almost immediately. On the drive to her apartment, Harriet said, “We will have to have a chaste friendship, Julie, through the school year. I have a guest room with a comfortable bed and a desk where you can work. We can’t sleep together or give any hint that we ever had sexual relations. I think you can understand why.”

“You’re right,” I said. Of course, she was right, but I still wondered if we could live up to the demands to refrain from cuddling, kissing and caressing.

We were both silent for much of the drive until Harriet finally said: “Looks like we got rid of the media, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, that was clever of you to devise that plan,” I said.

“Wasn’t that sweet of Miss McPherson to agree to switch jackets with you and wear your hair band and sunglasses?” Harriet said, referring to one of the new teachers. While Laura McPherson was taller and huskier, the disguise worked well enough to draw the media’s attention.

“And for my neighbor Paul to take her home, thus dragging the media off the scent,” I said, giggling.

“Can you imagine the looks on their faces when he drops her off at her home miles from yours, minus your glasses, hair band and jacket?”

I couldn’t be more grateful to the myriad of people who have gone out of their way to support me. Now it was up to me to be worthy of their sacrifices. Was I strong enough, intelligent enough and determined enough to justify their trust in me?

*****
After getting me settled in her apartment, Harriet drove over to pick up my clothes, toiletries, laptop and the things I needed to work on my school preparation. Paul and Marian Phillips generously assisted her in finding the materials in my home, sometimes taking time out to shoo nosey reporters and camera operators from the property. They even devised a complicated plan to fool the reporters so that they would not follow Harriet as she returned to her apartment. Among other bits of diversion, Harriet borrowed her sister’s car so that the reporters could not trace the license plate back to her.

It worked to perfection and by early afternoon that Sunday, I was deeply involved in my school work; the day had become warm and I changed into a pair of short shorts and a tank top; Harriet suggested turning on the air conditioner, but we both agreed there was a pleasant breeze from the water that kept the place relatively comfortable.

“Julie you have the loveliest legs,” she told me at one point in the afternoon, having come into the guest room where I was working.

“Yours are pretty hot themselves,” I replied. She wore a longer pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse, exposing the firm sinews of her limbs. I found the masculine nature of her body to be most attractive.

“Not for a woman; mine are too muscular,” she argued. “I look too weird in sleeveless dresses. You’re just the softest, loveliest of creatures, Julie.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I replied honestly. I saw Harriet Simpson as a truly lovely woman, even with her hard, slender physique.

“Enough of this mutual admiration stuff,” she said. “I just came in to see if you wanted a break and would join me on the balcony for some iced tea.”

It was an ideal late summer day with blue skies, temperature in the low eighties and a soft breeze from the water. Harriet’s balcony on the fifth floor of the apartment building looked out over the tops of small cottages to the beach several blocks away and the sparkling blue waters in the background. I was reflecting upon the view when a voice boomed over to us.

“Good afternoon, Harriet. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Hey there Aaron. Yes it is,” she replied.

I looked to the left to the next balcony over to see two men, both relatively tall, one balding and the other with a full head of dark hair with touches of gray at the temples. They both had athletic builds, with the bald man a bit more slender. Both men had bottles of beer in their hands.

“You girls should be out on the beach, rather than in your apartment on such a nice day,” the balding man said. He looked to be in his mid-forties, as did the other man.

“We preparing for our first day of school tomorrow, Aaron,” she said, addressing the balding man.

“Oh, is your friend a teacher, too?”

“Yes, Julie here teaches English and will be assisting me in the drama department, too,” Harriet volunteered.

I acknowledged the introduction by raising my glass of iced tea as if to salute them.

“Julie, you’re much prettier than the English teachers I had in school,” Aaron said, offering what appeared to be a wink. “Maybe if you were my teacher I’d have learned something about dangling modifiers and a few other things.”

“Who’s your friend, Aaron?” Harriet asked, hoping to blunt the man’s obvious flirts.

“Meet George, a colleague of mine,” he said.

George – a strikingly handsome man – nodded in acknowledgement.

“Why don’t you two girls join us? We’re planning a cookout at the park later,” Aaron offered.

“No thanks, Aaron. We’ve got to finish this work here,” Harriet said.

After a few more comments back and forth, we re-entered the apartment to return to our respective work.

“He’s harmless, Julie,” Harriet explained. “He and I have jogged together sometimes and he’s divorced. Really he’s a sweet guy, but he’s not really my type. He likes younger girls like you, anyway. I know we’d have a good time with them, but I don’t think we should today. You agree?”

“Of course,” I said.

It was the right decision to return to our work; yet I couldn’t help but be flattered by the attention I was getting as a young woman.

*****
That night, I did a last check of my emails before heading to bed. Already in my baby doll nightie, I ran through the long list of emails I had received, deleting virtually all of them until I found one from Randy. I was surprised to see it, since I thought we had agreed not to communicate with each other so as not to compromise my budding teaching career. The email’s subject line read: “Congratulations,” and it read:

“Dear Miss Pearson:

“I know I promised not to contact you, but I feel it is important that I send you my congratulations for getting your teaching position.

“Congratulations also for talking about your sex change. That took courage. I saw you on the TV and you were so brave! And so pretty, too.

“I know you will be a successful teacher and only wished I could be in your class as your student. LOL.

“Hope you will remember me. Maybe we can meet again, perhaps in two years.

“Until then I’ll not bother you. You do not need to reply.

“Your friend, Randy.”

I’d like to say I was not affected by his email message, but I would be lying. As I tried to get to sleep that night, memories of his kisses, of his affectionate hugs and of his love-sick looks came flooding back. I tried to block those sweet remembrances from my mind, but even my thoughts of the lovely times I’ve spent with Harriet or with Hank Duke could not overcome my feelings for the husky teenager. Finally, after tossing and turning in the twin bed in Harriet’s guest room, I got up and walked out to the balcony. I sat down and looked at the full moon that was casting its light upon the rippling water beyond the housetops. How badly I wanted to be in Randy’s arms at that moment, sharing the magical scene before me!

Why was I still attracted to this child who was nearly eight years younger than me? It made no sense, did it? Why did it have to be this boy when it appeared I would be having no trouble winning the attention of dozens of men in the future, all more fitting to be my mate? Why this boy, this gorgeous, gorgeous boy?

Perhaps, I mused, it was because Randy was my first experience with love, with passion. He was the first to demonstrate to me what an attractive young woman I was. Oh my dear Randy, how could I not love you? How could I not understand that this passion was to be denied me? My love was a forbidden love. I cried and became chilled in the late night air, finally finding an uneasy sleep.

*****
I decided, wisely, not to reply to Randy’s message. It pained me not to do so, since I wanted to tell the boy how much I appreciated his words. This time I let my common sense and brain override my heart. Randy and I would have to remain apart – at least for two years.

The following morning, we checked with Paul Phillips who reported that the media were still camped out at my residence; they had bothered him steadily as to my whereabouts, but he said he wasn’t bothered by it. “Marian and I enjoy a little excitement in our lives,” he said.

If I was about forty years older – or Paul about forty years younger – and there was no Marian in his life, I could easily fall in love with him, I told Harriet. We all agreed that I would stay with Harriet for Labor Day and leave directly on Tuesday morning from her apartment for school. The day was another beautiful one, forcing me to reflect back to Labor Day in the previous year when I first met Randy, his friend Ryan and Carmen at the Point Pleasant beach; after Randy’s message of the previous night I found it impossible to get the boy out of my mind.

“You seem distracted today, Julie,” Harriet said.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just worried about starting school tomorrow,” I lied.

“I thought you were pretty well done preparing for your classes,” she said.

“I am. It’s just all this other stuff going on.”

“Let’s get out of here then today and have some fun,” Harriet said, smiling.

“Good idea, but what?”

“The boys next door invited us to join them today. Remember they invited us to go with them to the Gardens?”

I did remember their invitation, but I didn’t think Harriet took the invitation seriously. I didn’t think she was at all interested in Aaron, her friendly neighbor, and I certainly was not interested in George, who might be a hunk of a man, but he was also likely twice my age. Besides, I had no interest in getting involved with another man; my life had become complicated enough already.

“You worried they might hit on you, Julie?” Harriet said when I hesitated at the idea of accepting their invitation.

“I guess,” I admitted.

“I don’t think we have to worry about those two. I’m pretty sure they’re gay. But I know Aaron can be lots of fun and he really is a sweet guy. How about it?”

The Symington Gardens – an immaculately maintained five acres of flower arrangements and art objects housed in the onetime mansion house of a long deceased shipping tycoon – proved to be a perfect antidote for my lovesick reveries. The flowers were still in their late summer bloom and the place was teeming with couples and family groups. Aaron had tapped Harriet as his partner for the day, leaving me with George, who turned out to be a perfectly charming and witty companion. Mercifully, the two men made no suggestive remarks and the day turned into being one of the most enjoyable, light-hearted days of my life.

The four of us shared a wine and cheese treat at the outside patio at the mansion, enjoying the panorama of beauty spread out on the estate. We made for a chic foursome. Aaron and George were dressed almost identically, in beige shorts and polo shirts, Aaron in pink and George in blue. They wore sandals without socks, displaying their trim, well-muscled legs to advantage. Harriet wore light tan Bermuda shorts and a tank top, her strong tanned shoulders and arms exposed. I had on my favorite skater’s dress, a ruffled light blue affair cinched at the waist with a scooped bodice and cap sleeves.

“You’re making all the men in this place today jealous of me,” George said to me as one point.

“Me?”

“Yeah, look how they all examine us, young guys walking and shaking their heads ‘cause you’re with such an old man,” George said.

I blushed. Harriet patted my hand as it rested on the table.

“You’re adorable when you blush,” George said.

To end the day, Harriet invited the two for supper in her apartment. They brought the cocktails and the four of us had a perfectly delightful meal. The wine got to me, though, and I got a bit giddy and really “let my hair down,” as the saying goes. I found a CD of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake,” put it on Harriet’s player and began prancing around as if I were one of the graceful swans. George got up and tried to take the role of the Prince. He tried to dance with me and we both rather awkwardly fumbled about until we fell in each other’s arms into the sofa, laughing uncontrollably.

“Now that was fun,” George said, getting up and helping me onto my feet.

I tried to kiss him, but he warded me off, saying: “Watch it honey. Aaron will get jealous.”

With that all four of us had a good laugh and Aaron said, “Guess it’s time we go now. Thanks for a lovely day, ladies.”

Fortunately it was still relatively early in the evening when we finished cleaning up Harriet’s apartment, giving me time to sober up and get myself prepared for the next day’s entry into school. The interlude with Aaron and George had been a delightful one; yet, the possible horrors of the next day when I’d return to the school as “Miss Pearson” haunted me. I had no idea what to expect.

Chapter Fourteen: The Play’s the Thing
Harriet thought it best that we look only once at the various the news reports on television from the Sunday press conference.

“It’s best not to be obsessed with what the media is saying,” she advised.

The few reports I saw were somewhat sensational, but by and large presented a fair picture of the situation; fortunately, the principal had arranged for several renowned psychiatrists and experts to explain my transition as caused a natural condition – gender dysphoria. The reporters correctly described it as a syndrome over which a person has little choice to their belief that they belong in a gender other than the one in which they were born.

One station, however, headed its broadcast with this lead-in: “Would you want your teenager to be taught by a teacher who last year led classes as a man and this year as a woman? That’s what parents at one area high school have to decide as the new school year begins.”

It was the most biased of all reports, putting one parent on camera to say she was taking her daughter out of Farragut High because of its “Satanic practices in fostering sexual deviancy.” I was surprised because the parent was the mother of one of my best students during my semester of substitute teaching.

It was apparent, too, from that broadcast that there might be a demonstration at the school on its opening day, a fear that made it hard to sleep on Monday night. Harriet assured me, however, that the school had made arrangements to assure that I would safely enter the building Tuesday without trouble. I wasn’t so sure.

For the first day of school, I decided to wear a brightly colored full skirt that flowed down to mid-calf, topped off by a sleeveless cream-colored blouse with broad collar and a high neckline. I wore a simple silver necklace and a pair of small silver earrings. I had found a pair of comfortable black pumps with a short heel, realizing that I would be on my feet for much of the day. I wore only a natural colored lipstick and just a hint of eyeliner, hoping to portray the image of a serious schoolteacher.

I loved to let my hair flow freely and decided that I would follow that style in my teaching.

“You look quite harmless, dear,” Harriet said with a smile as we headed off in her car for school.

“That’s the image I want to show,” I said.

“I think you succeeded. No one can make you out as the devil incarnate as Channel Six did.”

“I’m too scared to be any kind of a devil.”

“I know you are, honey,” she said, patting my arm as she drove. “But you need not be frightened. You’ve got plenty of support. You’ll see.”

*****
There were perhaps fifteen pickets gathered at the street entrance to the teachers’ parking lot, some holding signs protesting my hiring. For some reason they all depicted me as Satan. Nearly all of the pickets were adults, with perhaps three or four students, none of whom I knew. They were being restricted to the sidewalk by several police officers along with Mr. Benson, the school security officer and several husky school aides.

Nearby were perhaps a hundred students, forming a counter picket group, all apparently supporting me. They carried hurriedly drawn signs saying “We Support Miss Pearson,” “LGBT Rights,” and the cleverest, “She’s a jolly good . . . lady.” At the front of the group were Jeremy Hudson, the student council president, Ahmed Johnson, the towering center on the basketball team, and Thomas from my last semester’s class. They shouted in what seemed like perfect harmony, “Miss Pearson, Miss Pearson, Miss Pearson.”

A view television crews stood by, filming the event.

I entered the school without incident, and the school day, to my surprise, went smoothly, except for the usual first-day-of-school glitches; my students, of course, were incoming freshmen and they were likely more frightened of being in the big school than I was. Many, I’m sure, were unaware that I was not who I was perceived to be: their female English teacher. I got some stares from older students as I walked the halls, but no one said anything to my face, though I could sense they were talking about me.

Carmen Mendoza stopped by between classes to wish me well, as did Thomas, who added: “If any of those kids give you trouble, Miss Pearson, you tell me. I’ll take care of them.”

“Thank you, Thomas, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I said to him with a smile.

*****
I was pleased that most of the teachers accepted me as a colleague; perhaps it was due to the fact that they had met me the previous semester and I guess I had proven to be a congenial co-worker. Most were aware of my friendships with Hank Duke, Jon Edwards and Harriet Simpson, all of whom were respected by the other teachers. Mrs. McGuire – whose classes I had handled that semester – and several others treated me coldly, keeping their distance from me. I later learned that Mrs. McGuire and the others held views that came from their religious views that saw transgenderism as violating some rule of their God.

By the second week of school it appeared my gender issues had ceased to be of interest. I found myself deeply involved in trying to keep my students interested in my English class, hoping to neither bore them or to permit unruly behavior in the classroom. In many ways, I found my classes this semester to be easier to handle, since the students were all new to the school and more willing to take direction. I was certain that would change as the year went on.

If anything, I may have been too diligent, trying to cram too much at once into their still developing minds; I found myself assigning too many essays and tests, all of which took time to grade and tired me out immensely. I soon realized, too, that I may have been assigning too much homework; I got several notes from parents seeking to excuse their son or daughter for failing to complete a homework assignment, claiming there wasn’t enough time available for the work to be completed.

“Miss Pearson, I don’t want to interfere with your teaching, but don’t you think you’re expecting too much from your students?” one mother wrote. “My daughter Ellen is a top student and worked two hours on this project and couldn’t finish last night. She also had assignments from Algebra and Social Studies. Thank you for your understanding. Helena Patterson, mother of Ellen.”

More than half the class was unable to complete that assignment, I learned.

“You’ve still got lots to learn, dear,” Harriet Simpson told me. “Just slow down and remember to have fun in class.”

It was good advice and I tried to follow it. I soon found that my students were less tense, more eager to learn and sometimes even fun.

*****
Carmen Mendoza joined the drama club which met after school and I saw her several times a week. She periodically told me of Randy’s progress in school, how good he was as a football quarterback and his other activities.

“He told me he wants to teach school, Miss Pearson,” Carmen said one day. “He’d like to be an English teacher and a coach.”

“He won’t get rich in this work, Carmen,” I said.

“He knows that, but I think he’s inspired by you,” the girl said.

“Don’t be silly, Carmen. He’s never seen me teach.”

“I know, but I’ve told him how dedicated you are and how the kids seem to like you.”

“Carmen, you tell him to follow his own dreams, whatever they are,” I said. “He shouldn’t be influenced by me or anyone else.”

“I think you’re important to him, Miss Pearson,” Carmen said. I think I caught her wink as she said this.

The conversation ended as Harriet called the group together to discuss the details of the play they were to perform later that semester. As I turned my attention to the drama club activities, I began to wonder if I could never get Randy, that handsome, appealing boy, out of my thoughts.

*****
While the teaching seemed to go smoothly, my personal life changed immensely. My friendship with Harriet continued, of course, but our time together grew more and more limited. In autumn, she had become friendly with a handsome widower, an engineering company executive of about her own age whom she met at a benefit reception for the arts community.

My Thursday and Saturday excursions with Harriet ended by Thanksgiving, leaving me with empty nights. Jon Edwards found a new lover, thus ending most of our outings. “I think Harold will be moving in with me,” Jon told me. “I’ve never been so in love.”

I wished them both well; they were dear friends and had been very important as I began my teaching career. Fortunately, I was able to enjoy occasional breaks with each of them in which we might share a coffee and some conversation.

At the urging of Jon, I took driving lessons. To be honest, I had always been afraid to drive a car; mom had always been pleased to drive me everywhere and I was often teased by other kids in high school for being such a momma’s boy. They were right, of course. Her car, a four-year-old Chevy Malibu was still sitting in the garage, not having been used since her illness ended her driving.

“You need to have that car driven, Julie,” Jon said, warning me that such inactivity was not good for the car.

I gave him the keys one Saturday and we went for a drive after stopping off at a gas station to fill it up and check the tires, all of which had gotten soft in the last two years. He made an appointment to have the car checked and to have the oil changed and then came over a few days later to take care of that chore.

“Now, you must learn to drive,” he insisted, as we sat in the grubby waiting room of the auto repair shop.

I told him that I didn’t see the need and that I found public transportation perfectly adequate.

“Julie, you need to be an independent woman, and a car will mean just that for you,” he said.

I knew he was correct, I was scared to operate a car.

“Look up there, on the bulletin board,” Jon directed me, pointing to a board in waiting room, advertising all sorts of services. One of the largest and most colorful was for “Friendly Driving School.” It advertised in bright yellow type on a dark blue background the words: “Instruction with Compassion.”

“I had a friend use that driving school and they’re great. That’s the place for you to learn, I’m sure.”

Without me agreeing, Jon picked up his cell phone, and made an appointment for me to begin instruction. A day later, he took me to get my learners’ permit, again using my mother’s car.

*****
Two months later, on a blustery, frigid November day with light snow falling that threatened to turn the roads to ice, I took my driver’s test; to my surprise and in spite of a chilling fear that I’d fail or crash during the test, I passed.

I was convinced I had failed as we drove back to the motor vehicle branch office as I finished the test. The examiner, obviously a longtime employee of the agency, was a man in his late forties, tall and still handsome whose once hard body was turning soft. He had a stern look during the test and had even corrected my mistakes twice, including assisting me in parallel parking.

“You passed, ma’am,” he said curtly at the end of the test.

“I passed, really?” I said, confused since I had felt I had done horribly.

“Yes, ma’am. You had a few rough spots, and you better practice parallel parking a bit more. But I liked how cautious you were and that’ll help you navigate OK, I’m sure.”

He finally smiled at me; then he found a card in his folder of papers, handing it to me. “If you’re ever interested in a little driving instruction on the side, just to help you get adjusted to the roads, feel free to call. Perhaps we could set something up,” he said, pressing the card into my hand. He held my hand a bit longer than I thought necessary.

“Thank you . . . ah . . . Mr. Galligan,” I said, looking at his card to learn his name.

“Pete. Call me Pete,” he said.

With that he turned to get ready for his next examinee, while I walked back to Jon, who had taken me in for the examination in mom’s old car. He was sitting in the waiting room and I could tell he watched the entire interchange between the examiner and me. He had a grin on his face and he said, “I’ll bet you passed,” even before I could tell him the result.

“Yes, can you believe it?”

“I told you that outfit would do the trick,” he said, grinning.

He was probably right, I realized. I dressed according to his direction that morning, putting on black cotton tights, a short plaid skirt and a tight fitting purple sweater. I wore flats and a cream-colored padded parka and tied my hair into pigtails. “I’ll look like a high school girl,” I protested.

“Let’s hope you’ll get a male examiner; you’ll pass easily,” he said, laughing.

“What if it’s a woman examiner? It’s probably a sure fail then,” I said.

“Not if she’s lesbian,” he said, laughing.

My legs, I was beginning to realize, were among my prettiest of features and Pete Galligan must have been overwhelmed sitting next to me in the car, observing my legs move to control the vehicle. I had also put on a faint scent of perfume to add to my femininity that morning. Even my pathetic helplessness behind the wheel must have been appealing to the man. Oh what weapons we women have over men!

*****
Jon Edwards had been right; the ability to drive helped get through many lonely periods during the school year. With Jon busy with his new lover and Harriet enthralled with hers, I rarely saw them outside of school. My friendship with the new teachers – Laura McPherson and Tamara Jackson – grew and we usually tried to get together once during most weekends, either to do a bit of shopping, to have pizza or to do a bit of innocent clubbing.

It was great being one of the girls during our outings; we often observed the young men about us and played a game about which one of us would be the most perfect mate for one guy or another. We were merciless in our criticisms of the young men, most whom we found too shy, too boastful, too fat or too wimpy for our own tastes. We also were the subject of the looks of men themselves.

“They’re obviously eyeing you, Julie,” Laura said, and Tamara agreed, “Right, she’s the prettiest of the three of us.”

“Don’t be silly. You two are lovely and sexy,” I’d argue.

“Hah,” Laura said.

“They only have eyes for you, Julie,” Tamara added.

In fact, when we were approached in the clubs, I was usually the first asked to dance; in most cases, I did accept the invite, largely because it usually opened up the table for the other two to get invitations. We had a blood pact that if we three arrived together, we would all leave together, never permitting one of us to get hooked up with a man for the night.

“Let’s seal that in a blood oath, like we did as kids,” Tamara suggested.

And we did, each make slight pin prick in a finger to draw blood and then lining our bloody fingers. I felt marvelous being in such a blood oath with other girls; oh, how I wished I had grown up as girl, participating in Brownies and Girl Scouts and having giggling girlfriend relationships all through my school years.

I did have several dates with Leighton Loomis, who asked me out first in mid-October. In truth, they weren’t really dates as you might think of dates. The first time, I joined him in a rally to support striking fast food workers in town; there I saw the shy boy I first met become a vociferous proponent for the cause, even giving an inspired short speech from the podium. After the rally, we went for pizza and beer and he talked with animation about the effort for low-wage workers. Our relationship was hardly romantic, which suited me fine. I still had my boy parts and I was not interested in getting too intimate just yet.

Except for my time with Leighton, I had few opportunities to meet men of my age who were either not married or engaged; there were none among the faculty at the school at least. Several times I found myself fending off uncomfortable advances by older men, mainly on the trains I took to and from work (even though I could drive, I still found the train just as fast and less frustrating than battling rush hour traffic). By then I decided to dress as simply and nonsexual as I could. Though I preferred to wear skirts, particularly light, flowing skirts, I took to wearing slacks to school every day; I wore little makeup, keeping my lipstick and facial tones as neutral as possible and often tied my hair into an unflattering bun.

I found I liked the solitude that came with a social life that was basically non-existent. For one thing, I kept busy with preparing for my teaching; just staying ahead of the curriculum was a chore, since it was my first complete year of teaching. In addition, I found the added chores of assisting Harriet in the Drama Club rehearsals time-consuming as well; at her suggestion, I had been studying several books on theatrical production and direction.

Meanwhile, the hormones continued to have their effect; my skin was becoming softer and fleshier. My never strong arms became mushier than ever and my breasts had grown so that they finally filled out the 36-A sized bra I wore. I looked at my nude body in the mirror almost daily, hoping to see some magical change that would give me the curves I so desired. In reality, I realized that my body looked totally feminine; except for my diminutive penis, which was hardly noticeable as it seemed camouflaged in the bush at my crotch. My major flaw was my tummy; it was not flat, but protruded a bit, marshmallow-like with flabby love handles. When I dressed up, I usually wore a corset to create a more feminine hour-glass shape.

When I complained to Hank Duke that I was having trouble reducing my tummy size, he gave me some simple exercises that I began to do daily in hopes of toning my stomach muscles and firming up my always flabby body. I also joined an aerobics class for women at the YWCA, which met on Monday and Thursday nights, and where I found myself getting easily exhausted from the simple exercises. I was horribly out of shape, it was apparent.

The hormones had other effects, bringing me moody periods during the month, more proof that I was indeed becoming a woman. In truth, I had never been happier in my life and I wished fervently that mother was here to enjoy my new life. I loved and admired her dearly; what cruel twist of fate had given her that awful disease and took her out of my life? I missed her. I think she would have been proud of her daughter.

*****
Of course, Randy was ever-present in my thoughts. Carmen Mendoza seemed always to have news about Randy when she attended Drama Club sessions. She and Ryan continued to be boyfriend-girlfriend and she announced that she had finally convinced Randy to regularly date her friend, Maria Elena; the two had gone to the Homecoming Dance, the Holiday Dance and were planning to be at the prom together in Spring. In fact, Randy – who had been named Homecoming King due to his captaincy of the football team – had chosen Maria Elena as his Homecoming Queen.

Carmen showed me a picture of the royal couple and I was astounded at the striking beauty of both of them. Randy stood erect in his dark red tuxedo (matching the school colors) smiling with an arm around the waist of a truly attractive young, dark-skinned woman with jet black hair, wearing a strapless blue gown.

“What a handsome couple!” I exclaimed as I looked at the picture.

“They make a great couple, Miss Pearson, but Randy still talks about you,” Carmen said.

“Oh, Carmen, I wished he’d look at reality and enjoy his high school years with such a lovely young woman as this,” I said, pointing to the girl in the photo.

“Me too. My friend Maria Elena is in love with him, but so far he’s been fairly distant with her, just taking her out when he needs a date,” Carmen said.

“I wish he’d forget me.”

“I’m not sure he ever will.”

Too make matters worse, Randy agreed to try out for the spring play that was to be held at his high school. Carmen informed me that he hoped I would be willing to coach him so that he might get the part.

“Tell him ‘no,’ Carmen, a flat ‘no.’”

She pressed me several more times to assist him, claiming he was serious about his acting future. As much as I would have liked to coach him – just to be with him would be delightful – I knew doing so could lead only to disaster. I held firm and refused to help him. My decision of course came with tears.

In April, when Randy’s high school performed the play, a musical “Damn Yankees,” I persuaded Harriet to attend one of the performances with me. Randy played the lead part of Joe Hardy, 22-year-old phenom who becomes one of the greatest hitters of all time. Randy performed the part marvelously, even handling the singing roles admirably.

“That boy is magnificent,” Harriet whispered to me before the play had even entered the second act.

“Yes, he is,” I said. I wanted to tell her I knew him, but thought the best of it.

His name was listed in the program as Randolph B. Hastings. His friend, Maria Elena Lopez, played Lola, the femme fatale role in the play. I watched him play the part with fascination; he was totally immersed in the role. He was rewarded with the longest and loudest applause of the evening, including a kiss on the cheek from Maria Elena to the delight of the audience.

“We must meet that boy to tell him how great he is,” Harriet said as we stood and applauded.

“Oh I don’t think we’ll be able to, Harriet,” I said, hoping to avoid meeting Randy in public and with my friend at my side.

“Mrs. Synkiewicz greeted us as we entered and I’m sure she’ll welcome the words of another play director,” Harriet said. Mrs. Synkiewicz directed the show for the high school and spotted Harriet and I as we entered, pleased that another director wished to see the production.

Once the crowd had left the school auditorium, Harriet dragged me backstage where throngs of parents and other students had gathered to greet the actors. There was loud applause each time one of the young actors emerged after changing out of their costumes.

Mrs. Synkiewicz spotted Harriet and approached us: “What did you think, Harriet?” she asked.

“Marvelous, Wanda, you did a magnificent job and that musical is not an easy one to do,” Harriet said.

“I had a great bunch of kids to work with,” the director said.

“Particularly the boy who played Joe Hardy,” Harriet said.

“Wasn’t he incredible? Would you like to meet him? I’m sure he’d love to hear such words from someone like you, Harriet.”

Harriet said she had hoped to meet the boy and tell him he might have a future in the theater. I demurred, stating I’d wait here since the place might be crowded. But the director would have none of it and insisted I go with them. I did but was so worried about meeting Randy; what would he say? The director led us to a side room where Randy was standing talking to adults who were likely family members. He was still in his costume and makeup.

“Randy, I need to interrupt just for a moment,” Mrs. Synkiewicz said breaking into the group. “I’d like you to meet Harriet Simpson, who is the drama teacher at Farragut and a real pro in the theater. She’s widely respected. And the young lady is . . . ?”

“My assistant, Julie Pearson,” Harriet said.

Randy’s eyes focused in on me immediately, not even looking at Harriet who was supposed to be the person he should have been gushing over. His eyes registered complete surprise and then he smiled.

“Real nice meeting you,” he said woodenly, holding his hand out to Harriet while still looking at me.

“Randolph you were magnificent,” Harriet began. She continued with a fairly long critique, praising all parts of his performance. “You ought to be considering going further in the theater, young man, though I can hardly promise you’ll ever make lots of money, but it’s an exciting way to live,” she said finishing up.

As she talked, Randy turned to her, as if to listen, but periodically moved his eyes, focusing in on me.

“Thank you, Miss Simpson and what did you think of the play, Miss . . . ah . . . what did you say your name was?” the boy said.

“Pearson. Julie Pearson, and I thought the play – and particularly you – were amazing. I didn’t know you knew how to sing, dance and act, Randy,” I said, the words gushing out of my mouth.

“Oh you know my name?” the boy said, obviously catching my faux pas in using his nickname when as a stranger I should have only known him as “Randolph.”

I turned red and before I could answer, another rush of fans entered the room. We excused ourselves. I was shaking as we left the room.

*****
“The boy had talent,” Harriet said. “Did you know him, Julie?”

She asked the question after we were seated at a booth in Perkin’s restaurant for some pie and coffee after the event.

“Huh?” I said, faking as if I hadn’t heard the question.

“He seemed to look at you funny, Julie, and I know you’re far more likely to draw the eyes of a young man than I am, but he seemed like he knew you. Nonetheless, I’m glad you talked me into coming to the play. He was a real treat.”

“Oh,” I said, finally recovering my composure. “I think I remember him from the forensics contest I worked on last year. As I recall, he was a prize-winner there.”

“He’s got all the qualities of a star,” she added. “Maybe we could import him for the lead in our production of ‘Pajama Game.’ We seem to be having problems finding a good male lead in our school.”

“You can’t really do that, can you?” I asked, scared stiff that she was serious and I’d be seeing the boy almost every day. It would be an impossible situation, since we all get so deeply involved, even intimate, at times during the repeated rehearsals.

“It’s been done and Wanda, that’s Mrs. Synkiewicz, and I have worked together before. If she doesn’t have any plans for him, she’d probably go along with our request.”

I nodded, but quickly changed the subject. As we chatted in the booth, my mind wandered a bit, mainly realizing that I might have to find some boy in our own school who could do the part. It would be no good to have Randy close by every rehearsal. I imagined that if that were to occur, I would eventually break down and accost him in a locked janitor’s closet; or I might offer to drive him in my car to his home, likely stopping somewhere along a secluded parkway to cover him with kisses.

*****
A week later, on a quiet, rainy Saturday morning, Randy called me at home. Even though it was after ten o’clock, I was still in my nightie; all I had done was to tie my hair into a messy ponytail and brush my teeth before poking my head out to the front porch to pick up the Times newspaper and going to the kitchen to make coffee. I felt grubby and poured myself an orange juice and brought out some peach yogurt; before I could begin eating, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said, tentatively, wondering who would be calling so early.

“Ah . . . Miss Pearson?” The familiar voice came through faintly, almost too faint to hear.

“Randy? Is that you?” I said, knowing full well it was him. Immediately, I felt naked and worried that I must look like hell warmed over. I had an impulse to put him on hold while I cleaned myself up and looked presentable, even though I knew that was a foolish thought.

“Yes, Miss Pearson, it’s me and I just wanted to call to thank you for coming to see the play. Did you like it?”

His words now came in a breathless rush.

“Oh my, Randy . . . err . . . Mr. Hastings . . . both Miss Simpson and I loved it and you were just terrific. I didn’t know you could dance and sing. You’re quite a talent, young man.”

I hoped I said all this in an authoritative, adult voice and not in the voice of a hopeless, lovesick young lady. It was how I feel every time I think of the tousle-haired eager boy. He’s so absolutely adorable, and so strong, too.

“Thank you, Miss Pearson, but you can call me Randy. Mrs. Synkiewicz does.”

“We better keep it at Mr. Hastings,” I said flatly, hoping my voice sounded convincing enough.

“OK, Miss Pearson,” he said. I wondered if he was pouting now.

A moment of silence followed. It was awkward. I knew I should have said something, but I said nothing.

“Miss Pearson,” Randy said finally. “How did you think the whole production went? Was it convincing? Did we sound professional?”

“Well, you were terrific,” I started, but Randy interrupted.

“Forget me; I wondered how the play went. Some of the kids felt we didn’t do well and I value your opinion.”

When I assured him that both Harriet and I felt the cast and the performance as a whole was marvelous, he seemed genuinely relieved. Soon he talked enthusiastically about the hard work everyone had done in putting the play together, including some arguments, particularly between Mrs. Synkiewicz and the orchestra director.

“You’d be surprised of how some actors act like they’re superior to the kids working backstage and the musicians,” he said. “I hated that because I know lots of the musicians and they have to practice many hours to be good enough. I don’t like divisions between people.”

“That’s great, Randy,” I said, slowing gaining more admiration for this unusual boy and forgetting my resolve to address him more formally as Mr. Hastings.

We continued talking for nearly an hour; he said he was considering full ride athletic scholarships for football from a number of schools. “Maybe you could help me choose,” he suggested.

“Randy, I’m no counselor,” I said, begging off.

“Maybe you could hear me out,” he said, eventually.

I agreed I would. He said he had narrowed the choices down to three schools, including two football powers and one school – located less than two hours from the city – which was known more for its academics than football.

“Two of the schools said that they think their programs are so good that I’d likely be guaranteed to become a high draft pick for the NFL,” he said. “But I really am not certain I could make the NFL and besides I really want to do something worthwhile after I graduate and am interested in political science or sociology. And now, theater has intrigued me.”

Our conversation continued in this vain; my only role had been to ask him questions that I hoped would stimulate him to make the best decision. From all I had read, Randy was destined to be the consensus all-state quarterback in his senior year; he obviously had been attracting lots of attention of college football scouts.

“Wouldn’t you be giving up a chance at earning lots of money if you didn’t choose to go to one of the football powers?” I asked, playing the devil’s advocate. In truth I had hoped he’d choose the more academically qualified school, partly because the other two choices were both a thousand miles away.

“Well if I go to Alabama or Oklahoma, Miss Pearson, I’ll be too far away from you,” he said. He quickly followed that with a laugh, as if he were teasing.

“Now Randy, get that thought out of your head. You will have your pick of girls wherever you go. My God, you’re gorgeous and smart and sweet.”

“You really think so, Julie . . . er . . . I mean, Miss Pearson.”

“Of course I do, Randy, but even as much as I enjoy talking with you, you must not call me again. It’s just not appropriate. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Pearson, but . . .”

“No buts, Randy, if you think it’s vital that we talk about your schooling or something like that, you let Carmen know and let her arrange our talks, OK?”

“Yes, Miss Pearson,” he said, his voice hardly disguising his disappointment.

When our conversation ended, I realized I was breathing heavily. My small penis had grown hard and some moisture dampened my panties. How badly I loved that boy!

*****
In late May, as the end of my first full year of teaching neared, I was called into Principal Hammond’s office. She had the windows of her office opened as a late spring heat wave had made the un-air-conditioned school stuffy; I could hear the sweet sounds of a cardinal, which had obviously been perched somewhere in the trees nearby. The bird’s melodious tweets occasionally were drowned out by a passing bus or truck on the busy street about one hundred feet away.

“It’s a great feeling that summer may be near,” commented Mrs. Hammond.

“Yes, it is.”

“How have you liked your teaching this year, Julie?” she asked.

“It was hard, but I think I it went OK,” I said.

“Actually, you did well, and I’ll be recommending that you be considered to have passed your probation period.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”

“No, dear,” she said, smiling. “It’s thanks to you. You came into the year under extreme pressure and from all reports you did extremely well. We’ll be offering you another contract for next year and we hope you’ll accept.”

I wanted to squeal like a little girl, but was content with a discreet “thank you.”

Chapter Fifteen: A Total Woman
In late June, I traveled to a gender specialist in Western New York State, accompanied by my friend Jon, whose annual summer camp didn’t begin until after the July Fourth holiday. Though our friendship has always been chaste, I registered him as my sole contact for medical purposes and to be present in all my consultations with the doctors.

Harriet was devastated that she couldn’t make the trip – we’d be gone about ten days – since she had summer school classes scheduled.

Jon was a sweetie, always present to hold my hand when the pain during recovery became intense; I cried a bit when – after the operation – I realized my penis was gone. I didn’t realize I’d become sad about the loss of my appendage, which for most of my life I resented and hated.

“It’s only natural you’d be sad about that,” Jon said, consoling me. “After all, it was a part of you for twenty-five years.”

“I know and I really am deliriously happy, Jon, that anyone looking at my body will see only a woman’s body. I can’t explain my feelings, it’s so strange.”

Jon laughed. “It’s just your female hormones kicking in. Just like a woman?”

“You sexist pig,” I said, giggling in return.

My doctor said the operation was a success, but warned that I had to be dedicated to following the dilation routine to assure that my vagina would open up properly.

“Soon, I expect you’ll be enjoying orgasms just as any woman does,” she said.

“I’m so excited about that,” I said.

“I think I was able to get enough tissue from your male organs to assure you’d have good orgasms,” the doctor said, her face assuming a graver look. “Your penis, dear, was a bit tinier than most, making it difficult to obtain enough tissue, but I think we succeeded.”

“Doctor, thank you, for trying,” I said.

My penis had always been a source of humiliation for me as a boy and now I realized it might even have been a problem in making me the woman I wished to be. She gave me the name of a specialist to follow up with in our community; nonetheless, she hoped I’d be able to come back in six weeks to see her so that she could check up on my recovery.

When the ten days had ended, Jon drove me home; thankfully the pain had largely gone away, and I would only have to feel uncomfortable on the long ride. Jon assisted me into my home, and offered to stay the night with me to make certain I was able to get settled in. I protested, telling him that I knew his partner would be missing him.

“Tell you what, Julie, I’ll have Mel stop off for some Chinese and bring it over for supper,” he suggested.

I agreed and his partner arrived about an hour later with a bag full of white food boxes from my favorite Chinese restaurant. I kissed Mel on the cheek thanking him profusely for allowing Jon time to accompany me for the operation.

“I wanted to make sure you really became a woman, Julie,” Mel teased. “Otherwise, I’d be jealous of you, knowing Jon’s affection for you.”

“Don’t worry, Mel, I’m certainly not his type,” I replied, laughing aloud.

Mel was muscular, crew-cut and broad-shouldered, quite a contrast to both Jon and me. If Jon ever considered me as a man, I obviously would not measure up to his standards. Mel and I had one feature in common, Jon observed and that was that we were both sweet, generous persons. I could see that Mel, in spite of his muscular build, was certainly that.

They stayed with me for two nights, sharing the queen-sized bed in mother’s old room. I could hear their love-making both nights and looked forward when I’d be able to be similarly engaged.

*****
Harriet declared I was “all woman;” she and her new lover stopped over several times and with his nodding OK, she proceeded to come into my bedroom to examine my new vagina while he watched a baseball game on television. She assisted me in my dilation procedure and when it was ended said: “You’re one hot young lady, dear.”

I also got great support from my neighbors, with Marian Phillips insisting on preparing my dinners for the first week I was home until I insisted upon cooking for myself. Her husband, Paul, went shopping for me and drove me to my doctor’s appointments. Susie Nordquist, who was off from school, spent many summer afternoons with me, sometimes joined by Bobby McCloskey; we played Scrabble often to pass the time. Susie’s mother, Heidi, invited me over for a Saturday afternoon and visited me in the evenings and I found myself enjoying our “girl talk” sessions.

By the first week of August, I went on my first date with a man; Leighton Loomis took me to a romance movie and we had a few drinks afterward. I stuck to diet soda, while he enjoyed a pair of Captain Morgan drinks. We finally made love. He was my first male lover and my orgasms proved to be noisy and breath-taking and even though I had at least four in the short hour we were in bed, he was an indifferent partner. I found myself the aggressor and wondered after he left whether there was something lacking in my own sexuality that perhaps turned him off in bed.

Nonetheless, we continued to spend time together after the new school semester began, often going to art shows or museums; he also persuaded me to join him at rallies and other gatherings involving social justice issues; recently he had become interested in immigrant rights movement activities. I found him an interesting, compatible and caring companion, even though his love-making was somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

Once while I was coming to climax, I yelled out, “Oh Randy!” I know he heard me, since his humping of me at the moment seemed to pause, but he said nothing. It was true, all the time I was in the arms with Leighton, I was dreaming he was really Randy. How I could even think that at the time since Leighton’s skinny body was hardly like Randy’s lumberjack-like torso.

My friendship with Leighton Loomis, however, taught me one thing: I did not have to be all-dolled-up with heels, stockings, complete make-up and a lovely dress in order to be a woman. Because we attended so many of his liberal rallies, I found my more elaborate dressing habits to be out of place; soon I began wearing virtually no make-up, often wearing jeans or even sweats; rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it in a ponytail, even choosing pigtails a few times.

I could even have worn all male clothes and still not be taken for anything but a young woman.

“You’re cute in whatever you wear,” Leighton told me on one of the few occasions that he offered any compliments about my looks. It was the case that he often commended my “smarts” as he called them. I had on numerous occasions raised questions about his single-minded, leftwing beliefs, causing him to pause and reflect that maybe I was right about one issue or the other. In truth, I agreed with him on all the basic principles; I just felt he ought to not make such declarative statements without making certain they were accurate.

Going into my second full year of teaching would make the job easier, I thought. I soon found that not to be the case, even though I didn’t have to spend as much time doing lesson plans, since I could use most of what I had prepared the previous year. For some reason, I found myself feeling less confident in getting my students to become as enthusiastic for the classwork as I had felt they were in my first year. Maybe my expectations were higher, but whatever the reason I had to work hard to draw my students into speaking up in class and by the end of the day, I was exhausted.

On school nights, I often picked up my supper at a fast food place rather than worry about cooking for myself. After my makeshift dinners, I often found myself collapsing on the easy chair, the television on but for the most part unwatched. Sometimes I would fall into a short nap, usually awakened by a raucous TV advertisement. By then I might be refreshed enough to tackle my own “homework;” that is, correcting papers or devising curriculum for the next day.

My dreams of Randy were the bright spot in my day, often occurring at night as I laid my head down to sleep. I found my nightly dilation exercise helped bring me to orgasm as I pictured myself in the embrace of that marvelous boy. What ecstasy!

*****
During the Christmas Holiday, I was bridesmaid for Harriet Simpson’s marriage to Bart Templeton, the widower with whom she had fallen in love. Harriet was just radiant in a short, light blue cocktail dress she had chosen for their simple, but beautiful ceremony at the horticultural center. A bank of holiday decorations formed a fitting backdrop for the happy couple. I had never seen Harriet as soft-looking and feminine as she was that day; she clearly adored Bart, who seemed similarly affected. Bart was totally enthralled with his bride.

I wore a similar cocktail dress although mine was pink; it ended at mid-thigh and I wore a neutral colored stockings with sandals with three-inch heels. My halter-style dress provided a v-shaped bodice that offered a hint of my modest breasts; short capped sleeves exposed my slender arms.

“You look absolutely divine,” Harriet said upon seeing me.

“And you look radiant,” I said in reply.

We hugged, our lips not meeting since neither one of us wanted to undo our makeup.

I felt tears filling my eyes as they exchanged “I do’s.” I looked up at the groom’s best man, a tall, handsome young man named Barry Templeton, the new hubby’s eldest son; he smiled warmly and I believe I saw tears in his eyes as well. Like his father, Barry was a warm, openly friendly person and I found our “small talk” conversations to be comfortable and easy.

While the wedding itself was small, Harriet and Bart had scheduled a large reception at the local woman’s club that specialized in hosting wedding parties. Leighton accompanied me, and he looked just absolutely, and unexpectedly, handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt and discreet gray tie. He had even shaved and had his hair trimmed for the occasion. He looked like a different man, and he warned me that if he saw too much of what he called “hypocritical, capitalist bull shit” he might not be on his best behavior.

“You’re such a darling to do this; you know how much of a friend Harriet is to me and I sure your presence will make her happy,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean I’m happy to be in this monkey suit,” he grumbled. His words were accompanied by a smile, and I could tell he was feeling more at home in the suit than he cared to let on. While Leighton often liked to fashion himself as something of a revolutionary, sometimes looking more like Raskolnikov or Rasputin than a young schoolteacher, I knew he had enough common sense to act appropriately when he had to.

“You and Leighton make a lovely couple,” Jon Edwards said spying us on the dance floor as he danced nearby accompanied by Tamara Jackson, one of the newer young teachers. Jon had not brought his partner, but I knew it was more out of respect for Harriet and her wedding party. Harriet had invited many of the teachers in the school to the reception.

I smiled in reply as the two couples danced next to each other, “You and Tamara also are a handsome pair.”

Later, as is the custom in such events, Barry Templeton and I, as best man and bridesmaid, followed the wedding couple onto the dance floor that had emptied for the wedding dance – always a highlight of the evening. The band struck up the old waltz, “I Love You Truly,” and Barry and I easily flowed together and I felt as if I was floating over the waxed floor.

“That was beautiful, Julie,” Barry said as he lowered me almost to the floor in the bow as the music stopped.

I looked up into his eyes and then he did something that surprised me. He kissed me; it was a short peck, but I felt a warm tingle. He lifted me up and escorted me from the floor.

“Thank you, Barry. You’re quite a dancer,” I said.

“You were marvelous yourself,” he said, leading me back to Leighton.

Leighton merely took my arm, and pulled me back into the crowd, leaving Barry standing there alone. I spent the rest of the evening seeking to satisfy Leighton that my dance with Barry was nothing more than accepting my role as bridesmaid in a wedding ceremony. Leighton and I danced together often that night and I always clutched him tightly and affectionately. By closing time, I felt Leighton and I created a warmth the depths of which we had never before experienced. My brief fling with Barry on the dance floor soon was buried into the deep recesses of my subconscious.

I don’t know whether it was the champagne and few drinks we had, but Leighton was more passionate and amorous than ever that night after we left the reception. When he stopped the car in front of my home, he put his arm around me and drew me to him, kissing me hard. He drew me tightly toward him with more strength than he’d ever shown before. I found his mouth delicious and responded with similar intensity.

Suddenly, he ended the kiss, moving his head away from me. He looked at me closely, the light from the streetlamp illuminating his eager face. For a moment, he said nothing, but just looked at me, studying me closely. He smiled and I sensed warmth in his eyes that was fresh and sincere. Rarely had Leighton been so forthcoming with his passion, since I had usually had to initiate our love-making.

“You’re just so beautiful, Julie,” he said finally, his words halting. “I . . . ah . . . ah . . . don’t know what love is, Julie, but if love is what a feel know for you . . . ah . . . well . . . it’s . . .”

“Oh Leighton,” I cooed softly. I wanted him to express his love for me now so badly, but his words were now fading out.

I knew I had to put this poor shy boy out of his misery so I placed my fingers lightly on his mouth as if to silence him. I often wondered what clicked with him; I knew him to be a strong, successful teacher and forceful advocate for his causes while still remaining embarrassingly hesitant and unsure of himself in his personal relationships.

“Just kiss me again, darling,” I said, raising my face to his.

We embraced again, our kisses more intense that before and I felt his hand work its way under my dress, along my inner thigh and into my moist hole. We kissed and embraced the way for a long time, my breathing growing heavy, as I feared I may soon orgasm. Finally, he eased off, removed his wandering hand and moved away, again looking at me, his eyes moist. I had never seen Leighton so animated in his love-making, so aggressive; I had to admit to myself that I enjoyed being the slave to his emotions.

“Let’s get married,” he said, quickly and simply.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I maybe shouldn’t have asked,” he said, looking away. My simple “what” had turned off his excitement, his energy. I could feel that in that instant I had killed his spirit his energy.

“No. No. No. That’s OK. Did you just ask me to marry you?”

He nodded in the affirmative and then added, “But if you don’t want to that’s fine. I understand.”

Leighton released me and moved on the car seat away from me, as if I had suddenly turned into something slimy and revolting.

“It wasn’t that I don’t want you, Leighton,” I said, beginning to cry. “It’s just that it was such a surprise.”

“I’m not good-looking enough for you, is that it, Julie? Well I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Your looks have nothing to do with it,” I replied, quickly regretting my words that seemed to indicate he wasn’t good-looking. The fact was that while Leighton was slender and not particularly macho in physique he had a warm, welcoming demeanor that made him most attractive as you got to know him.

The young man’s commitment to being a good teacher, to serving his community and to acting upon his beliefs was particularly compelling for me. In spite of his awkward social behaviors, Leighton Loomis had a purpose in his life that I was certain would cause him to be a most interesting person with whom to enjoy the rest of my life. The problem was I wasn’t certain I was in love with him.

“Julie, you’re so lovely and warm that I’m sure you could have the pick of any man of your choice, and I’d always feel inadequate with you. Forget I asked.”

“Leighton, darling, I won’t forget you asked,” I said, hoping to reassure him. “It’s just that . . . ah . . .”

“What, you don’t love me?” he interrupted.

“No, Leighton, it’s just that I’m not ready yet, and besides, I’m not certain any man would have me, since I’m not a total woman.”

“You are to me.”

“If we married, we could never have children, Leighton, and I know you want a family,” I said.

“I know that, Julie, but we could adopt, you know.”

I looked at this sincere young man who seemed to be sure about everything in his life except his ability to realize that he is indeed worthy of any woman’s love and affection.

“Leighton, I would like to consider your proposal, dear, but I need time. Is that OK, honey?” I said leaning in to kiss him.

“I guess so,” he said. “I just didn’t go about this as I should have. I should have offered you an engagement ring and knelt before you to ask for your hand. I’m such a stoop.”

“You’re not stupid, Leighton. You’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met and I love you for it. It’s important to me to know that you meant it when you asked me to marry you and I won’t forget, it’s just that I’m not ready yet.”

“I don’t know Julie,” he said. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you to the door.”

Without letting me reply, he got out of the car, quickly walked around to my side and opened the door for me, as a real gentleman would. I got out into the cold evening. He took my arm, helping me navigate the walk which had become a bit slippery due to a dusting of light know. He led me up the walk, took my keys and unlocked the door. He held it open for me.

“Do you want to come in?” I offered.

“No thanks, it’s getting late,” he said, giving me a quick peck on my cheek and ushering me into the house. He turned and walked back to his car. Naturally, I cried; what else can a girl do in this situation?

*****
Dangling from its prominent spot on my vanity mirror was the dainty necklace with its thin gold chain and lovely peace symbol – the “gold” gift that Randy had presented to me three Christmas seasons earlier. I cherished his lovely gift and wore it only around the house, recognizing it as something deeply personal between Randy and myself. Perhaps it was an icon for our forbidden love – a love that would likely never be fully realized.

What would happen to this lovely gift from Randy should I marry Leighton? My new husband would wonder how I had gotten it, probably correctly thinking it came from a man friend.

Maybe I could send it back to Randy, with a sweet note explaining why I couldn’t keep it. I should have sent the necklace back immediately, or given it to Carmen to return. Perhaps that would force him to finally realize that our love for each other would never be realized. Yet, I kept it right at eye level as I sat at my vanity to fix my makeup day in and day out.

“Mrs. Leighton Loomis,” I said aloud that night as I put my hair up before climbing into bed. It did have a nice ring to it, didn’t it?

*****
I didn’t hear from Leighton for a week after that night, which was strange since in the previous few months he and I talked almost every day, if only for a few minutes. Our conversations always revolved around our experiences of the day in our classrooms; we were both beginning teachers and we enjoyed sharing each other’s problems, sometimes offering helpful suggestions. Leighton, too, always had some political comment to make, most of which I agreed with.

Rarely, however, did we talk love or have suggestive conversations. The truth was I just loved talking with Leighton; he was a good listener and I found I could tell him almost anything and I knew he’d keep it to himself.

Even though it was the holiday period, I still expected he’d call. I debated whether I should call him to tell him I had welcomed his proposal for marriage, perhaps explaining that I wasn’t ready for the big step. A girl doesn’t call a boyfriend, does she? No, of course not.

For me, the holiday week was a lonely one. If it wasn’t for Paul and Marian Phillips next door, I would have been totally alone on Christmas Day; that morning, I bumped into Paul while parking my car (mom’s old car) in the garage, having returned from one of the few wine shops that had been open. I thought I’d treat myself to a sparkling Burgundy. Paul wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and we began a short conversation, both of us shivering in the cold.

“You having a busy day, Julie? That boy of yours coming over?”

“No, just a quiet day around the house,” I replied, hoping not to have anything else said.

“That’s a shame. I suppose Leighton has family stuff to attend to,” the old man said.

“Nope, I think we’re done with,” I said. I couldn’t stop the tears that began to fill my eyes.

“You poor darling. Tell you what, why not come over about three o’clock today and join us?”

“I couldn’t. You’ll have your whole family there and all the grandkids. I’ll just be in the way, Paul. Thanks anyway. I got a good book to read.”

“Don’t be silly, Julie,” he insisted. “You must join us. You’ve already met most of the family and they all love you.”

Finally, I agreed I just might wander over for a few minutes to say “Merry Christmas.” I agreed to bake my special cherry cake – it had been mom’s special treat for the holidays – and Paul smiled: “I know the grandkids will love you for it.”

As it turned out, I had a perfectly magical Christmas; I found myself humming to the Christmas Carols I put on my stereo as I prepared the cake. Spending time with the Phillips family was refreshing; the house was chaos when I entered; Marian always kept the house squeaky neat and clean, but wrapping paper and toys were littered about the living room, surrounding the large natural Christmas tree Paul always erected. Family members had leaked off into side rooms; the Phillips had six children, all married, along with eight grandchildren, ranging in age from three to eighteen.

Before long I was called “Aunty Julie,” and was being pulled in all sorts of directions as first one child and then another begged me to play with them. There were some fights, of course, and I noticed one teenage girl named Maryann (obviously named for her grandmother with a slight spelling change) off in a corner, morosely playing with her tablet.

“Hi honey,” I said, sitting next to her. “I love that pink tablet of yours. Is it a gift?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

I looked closely at her and saw her eyes were all red; it appeared she had been crying.

“I’m sorry I bothered you, Maryann,” I said.

“It’s OK, Aunt Julie, it’s just that I just heard about something,” she said. I probably knew Maryann as well as any of the Phillips grandchildren and she had long called me “Aunt Julie.”

“Oh?”

“My boyfriend was seen with Phil at the mall on Saturday. He was supposed to take me to the mall that day but called and said he couldn’t. Oh, Aunt Julie, I’m so devastated.

“Who’s Phil?” I asked, wondering why the boyfriend being seen with another boy would bother the girl.

“Phil is Philomena. We call her Phil and she’s such a flirt; I can’t understand it. Tommy and I have been together for over three months, since school started. I even went to the homecoming dance with him.”

I squeezed onto the chair next to her and put my arm over her shoulder; she smelled fresh and clean, with only a touch of perfume. She wore little makeup; she was in the throes of losing her adolescent baby fat and had soft, tender features to accompany her pinkish complexion. Her breasts were tiny for her frame, the mark of a “late bloomer,” but the reality was that in a year or so she would be one strikingly pretty young lady. She would obviously take after her mother, Jean, the Phillips’ oldest, who had turned forty and had retained her a trim figure and a natural attractiveness.

I counseled her as best I could, mainly by listening to her story; I had little experience in these things as a teenager, of course, so I doubted if I had any advice for the grieving young lady.

Before we could finish, the three-year-old grabbed my hand and said, “Come, Anthy Jule, dress my new doll.”

“Can Maryann help you, too, Wendy?” I suggested.

“Thure,” the little girl said.

I grabbed Maryann’s hand and took her to a back bedroom where the girl had doll clothes scattered over a bed. Soon, the three of us were laughing and creating all sorts of weird dress combinations for the new doll.

I didn’t leave there until after nine o’clock, long after the family left; Marian and I cleaned up the mess left in the house, finished the dishes and then sat down in the kitchen to finish what was left of a bottle of merlot. Somehow, we got onto the topic of men, particularly those who cheat. She confided in me, however, that she was willing to forgive Paul when he ventured “off the reservation,” as the saying goes. He did it once, Marian said, several years after their last child had been born and both had turned forty.

“Once was enough for, I warned him,” the old woman said. “And, to my knowledge, he’s been a model husband. Well, almost model.”

“No one’s perfect,” I said, laughing.

“Look at the reward, darling,” Marian said, obviously referring to the warm, loving family that filled their home that day.

“You two must be so happy. How I’d love to have such a family, but it’ll obviously never happen.”

“Never say never, Julie.”

*****
I was alone the rest of the holiday week – including New Year’s Eve – when Leighton and I had tentatively planned to make one of the holiday dances that the city planned at various park pavilions. He never called, and I welcomed in the New Year sound asleep on the couch with the television on, a partial bowl of popcorn in my arms and a bottle of merlot, still half full and uncorked on the coffee table.

Heidi from across the street and I shared a few afternoon drinks on New Year’s Day, but other than that, I did not much of anything but work on my schoolwork, read and clean the house. I rarely dressed in the morning, slipping on sweats but bothered only to brush my hair and leave my face untouched by any makeup. I was a mess.

Harriet was off on her honeymoon. My two closest girlfriends were gone for most of the week; Laura had gone to visit her family in Ohio and Tamara was spending a week skiing in New Hampshire with her new boyfriend. Jon Edwards, of course, was busy with his partner, the two also heading for a skiing trip. I wondered whether I too should take up skiing, but the reality was that I was so unathletic and my legs were not very strong, I doubted whether I could master the sport. Besides, those hills looked pretty scary.

In a way, I welcomed the quiet; the months of teaching freshman high school students and working on the Drama Club performances had exhausted me. Yet, my life felt empty. I cried a bit, wondering if the life of a transgendered woman was to be one of loneliness and isolation. I found during the two weeks off I must have gained ten pounds, thanks to the snacking I couldn’t resist and the three glasses of wine I seemed to drink each day; perhaps I would find a man who liked a girl with ample love handles.

I must confess that I still thought often about Randy; his image came into my head at the strangest times, when I was shaving my legs or fixing my hair or doing any number of activities that would help express my feelings of femininity. I tried to stifle those troublesome – but still satisfying images – by directing my thinking elsewhere. Occasionally, I would direct my thinking toward Barry Templeton. The moments we had spent together at Harriet’s wedding had been enjoyable. He truly was an astounding young man and I’d be less than honest if I didn’t feel I might have desired getting more intimate with him. I doubted that would ever happen. But a girl can have her dreams, can’t she?

*****
To put an end to the boredom of my empty social life, I enrolled in an evening class once the second semester began. I really needed a master’s degree in English education if I ever hoped to advance in the profession; I took a creative writing course that required the completion of a fiction or non-fiction piece of at least 40,000 words by the tenth week of the thirteen week course. In addition, the instructor – who was a local reporter who had completed a number of history books on our area – was a slave to writing, even requiring us to create several 500 to 1,000-word columns during the course of the semester. “You won’t learn how to write unless you write and write and write,” he said over and over when a class member might complain of the workload.

I wrote of my personal journey from manhood to womanhood, for which I needed to do little research, of course. Before we began our long assignment, he took each of his students aside to discuss what topics we planned to write about.

“You were born a boy?” he looked at me after I told him my plans.

“Yes, sir,” I said, giving him a coy smile.

He was a handsome man in his mid-forties and a full head of dark hair, with some graying showing along the temples. I hate to admit it, but I researched him and learned he was divorced.

“I can’t believe it, Miss Pearson. You’re so incredibly feminine and most pretty, I must say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brooks,” I said.

“I look forward to the project, but I must warn you that if you’re serious about writing on your own experiences you should be totally honest and you may find yourself exposing something that might embarrass you.”

“I think I’m ready for that,” I said, not totally believing my words. “Maybe my experiences will help others who faced the same problems I had.”

“Do any others in the class know of your transition, Miss Pearson?”

“I don’t think so, since I prefer to be totally accepted as a woman. I don’t think I’m weird or anything,” I said.

“I don’t think you are either, and you may call me James, Miss Pearson,” he said, giving me a sweet smile.

“I’m Julie to you, James,” I said, shamelessly flirting with the man.

“You interest me, Julie,” he said. “Keep me posted with your progress. If you have a problem or get stuck, feel free to call me anytime on my cell.”

He gave me his card; I looked at it and thought I’d toy with him a bit.

“Shall I save it here?” I said, pretending to place down my bosom.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but it’s a nice thought,” he said.

Leaving the room, I chastised myself for being such an obvious flirt. Was I so lonely I was ready to entice a middle-aged man into my life?

*****
I confessed my infatuation for the professor to my neighbor, Heidi Nordquist, over coffee one Saturday morning; she smiled as I related the situation and my mixed emotions over whether I should make an effort to nurture the friendship with the man. After all, I was lonely – and hungry – for companionship, particularly sexual encounters with a man. I had found my morning and evening enjoyments with dilation not particularly stimulating. I needed affection along with sexual gratification.

“Just keep your relations with the man on a professional level,” Heidi suggested. “He might make an exciting bed partner, darling, but if you’re not careful you’ll soon end up as his sexual slave. Believe me. I’ve been there, done that.”

Heidi told me that after her divorce ten years ago over the loss of what was to be a lifelong love affair she entered into a series of relationships that made her feel like a whore. “I was devastated by the divorce,” she said.

The woman was a husky blonde with an ever-smiling face; you’d hardly know from talking with her that she ever had an unhappy moment in her life. I always marveled at the woman for retaining a youthful vibrancy while working a difficult job and raising a family.

“I’m letting any new love come into my life naturally. I’m not going to seek it out,” she said.

“Guess that’s right,” I said. “I’ll let Professor Brooks correct my writing. That’s all.”

Though he followed up with several suggestive words to me, I pointedly refused to pick up the clue. He must have felt I was clueless or just plain rude, but I hoped that would cool his desires toward me. He even suggested “coffee or a drink” after one class, a suggestion I begged off by saying I was tired; and that was true, of course, since the class followed a day of teaching freshmen high schoolers. I was pleased with myself for not offering some lame excuse such as being “obligated for another appointment.”

He finally took the hint. I was not totally pleased, however, for my actions; I still wonder sometimes what might have developed had I nurtured the friendship.

*****
It wasn’t until mid-February that Leighton finally called. His voice was hesitant, apologizing at first for not calling, but giving the excuse that he was “very busy.”

I was tempted to use the phrase used typically by nagging women – both mothers and wives – who would query pointedly: “Too busy to take one minute to call your (mother) (wife)?” I said nothing and it seemed like five minutes went by before either of us talked.

“How are you doing, Leighton? How are your classes this year?” I began.

We talked for several minutes about our classes and the conversation warmed up; Leighton, of course, told me of his work with the workers group that was holding periodic demonstrations for the employees of fast food operations. I told him that I had been getting active in our Teachers Union, having been urged to do so by Jon Edwards and Leighton seemed pleased with that.

“Well, nice chatting with you,” he said. Without a further word, he hung up.

He never called again.

As the semester continued on, I learned that there would be three weddings – all to be celebrated in June.

Jon Edwards and his partner took advantage of a court decision permitting gay marriage to hold their affair at the non-denominational church; since Jon was taking the role as the wife in the marriage he chose his married sister to be Matron of Honor and asked me to be a bridesmaid. I cheerfully accepted, showering him with kisses.

It was a great ceremony, well-attended; many of his students and former students were there, some bringing along spouses and in a few cases young children. The love of the two men for each other filled the church, along with a stream of flowers that we used to decorate the sanctuary. The bride wore a light tan summer suit with a ruffled light blue shirt and dark violet scarf around his deck.

“You’re a beautiful bride,” I told Jon as we stood at the back of the church, ready to walk down the aisle.

“I had to be to compete with the beauty of my wedding party. My sister Linda and you are just so lovely today. Thank you for doing this.”

Linda and I wore discreet dresses, both ending at about mid-thigh; they had a high, tight collars and were sleeveless; both had an empire waist. Linda’s dress was salmon-colored and mine was a dark pink, tending toward violet.

Two weekends later, Tamara Jackson married her friend in a full-blown ceremony at the First Avenue Baptist Church; the ceremony was a long one, complete with the rhythmical gospel singing typical of African-American churches. She was marrying a Caucasian man – who was just tall enough to stand several inches above Tamara. I chose to sit on the bride’s side among Tamara’s family and friends, one of the few whites in those pews.

On the other hand, there were few sitting in the pews on the groom’s side; Tamara told me her husband’s family had not been pleased with the mixed marriage, but that her husband assured her that Tamara’s natural charm would eventually win them over. One thing was certain: their love for one another seemed solid. I cried during the ceremony, as did Laura McPherson sitting by my side in the pew.

Coach Hank Duke also was married that day to a young teacher. I begged off, citing Tamara’s wedding, but sent a silver-plated sugar bowl chosen by the bridal service. One of those who were able to attend told me later: “The bride was almost a spitting image of you, Julie, only not as pretty.”

Marriage seemed to be in the air that month, except for me.

*****
Randy surprised me with a call during the Spring Break of my second year of teaching; I was lounging about in shorts and a tanktop, wearing no bra, stockings or shoes, with my hair tied in pigtails. It was an unbelievably warm day for spring in our area (it had been known to snow on this date in past years), but I welcomed the freedom that comes without the need to wear lots of clothes. I didn’t wear a bra that day, a tribute to the fact that my breasts were firm and remained round and lush without support. I knew that would begin changing as I aged.

That morning I worked lazily and sporadically in my garden, loosening up the ground for eventual planting of the annuals like impatiens, petunias and marigolds. I loved the color the annuals provided, even though I knew I was about a month too early for the planting since frost would still be possible.

Outside of some play rehearsals scheduled for the Spring Break period, I was essentially alone. Most of my friends were otherwise occupied with their families or out-of-town for vacation jaunts. As usual, I welcomed the quiet time, even though I often felt alone; that can be depressing. Laura McPherson, my teaching colleague, had become my most frequent companion and she and I were planning to get together that evening to have dinner and perhaps see a movie.

“The perfect evening for two old maid schoolteachers,” Laura said, exhibiting the deprecating humor she often used. She made that comment as the two of us chatted on the last day of school before the break while discussing plans for the week.

“We certainly fit the stereotype,” I agreed, laughing with her.

“Maybe I do. I’m such a horse, anyway, but I can’t imagine why you don’t have a lineup at your door begging for a date,” Laura said.

To be sure, Laura McPherson was a large young woman; she was six feet tall and athletic, having played center on the women’s basketball teams both in high school and college. She played regularly in a municipal women’s team and kept herself fit. While she had a plain, broad face, I often felt that if she paid more attention to her makeup, she could be a truly pretty woman.

“I just don’t run across that many guys, you know. They’re either married or far too old or gay,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” Laura said. “It’s been over a year for me with a guy I knew in college, another ballplayer, but he soon found a cutie – someone like yourself – and off he goes.”

“It’s been a long time for me, too,” I admitted.

“Since Leighton? Ever hear from him anymore?”

“No, and I heard he got married to some fast food worker he met during his many rallies,” I said, remembering the shy young man, who turned fierce when confronted with a cause he supported.

“The hell with men, anyway. They’re all no good, except for one thing and is that worth it?”

“Right now, we don’t have to answer that,” I giggled. “There’s no guy around for either of us to test that question.”

My mind became a jumble of thoughts about that conversation as a hoed the garden, seeking to break up the soil after the cold winter; the frost left the ground only a week before. Naturally my thoughts turned to Randy; I wondered what his decision was to be about college. It had been sometime since we chatted about his decision; he needed a full ride scholarship in football to afford attending anything more ambitious than a local community college. I wondered whether he would choose football powers like Alabama or Oklahoma, both of which were expected to offer him such a scholarship, or something like Rutgers which was nearby and offered a strong social work education along with a scholarship on their rather ordinary (and losing) football team.

My cell phone rang; it sat on the picnic bench near to wear I was digging.

“Miss Pearson?” the voice asked, its sound distorted due to the passage of an airliner descending over my home headed for a landing at the nearby airport.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Randy. Is this Julie, ah, I mean you, Miss Pearson?”

“Hi Randy, yes, it’s me. I couldn’t hear for a minute when a plane went roaring by,” I explained.

“I wanted to let you know I chose Wisconsin,” he said bluntly.

“Wisconsin? That’s new. I thought you were looking at other schools.”

“I was, but I just didn’t like the atmosphere at Tuscaloosa and Norman,” he said. “They’re football nuts down there. It just didn’t seem right to me.”

“But why Wisconsin? That’s way out there and it’s always so cold there,” I said, having only a vague idea about the area, other than what I saw on television news about snow storms or crazy killers like Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gein.

“For one thing, they have a dynamite football program out there, but most importantly, I like their Sociology Department, especially their Poverty Institute. They said if it worked out, I could have an internship in that Institute.”

Sounds like it’s right up your alley,” I said. “I’m pleased for you, Randy.”

“Miss Pearson,” he began.

“You may call me Julie. It’s during vacation now,” I said, following it with a brief giggle.

“Julie. I turn eighteen on June nineteenth.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“You remembered? How cool?”

“I’ve never forgotten you, Randy,” I said, immediately sorry I uttered those words, knowing that would only encourage him to pursue our friendship further.

“I will never forget you, Julie, and I expect we can meet after my birthday,” he said.

I refused to acknowledge his suggestion. Instead, I said, “It sounds as if you made a good choice, Randy, and I wish the best for you at Wisconsin. Good bye, Randy.”

I shut the phone down before I could hear his response; it was a cruel thing to do, but it was for the best, wasn’t it?

*****
I dearly wanted a future with Randy; yet, I knew it was futile. Even though our age difference would be overcome through the years, there was the matter of me: I was not your typical young woman, was I? Certainly I would photograph well as the pretty girlfriend of a star athlete – much like the stunning types that are shown on television screens after her “man” scores a key touchdown – but in the shadow of his prospective notoriety it would be learned that I came into this world as a boy. What would that do to Randy’s image in the eyes of his fans, not to say his relationships with his players? I could hear the taunts from opposing players wondering if the “star” was a real man who had to resort to dating a phony girl like me.

No, Randy and I could not become a couple, especially now that he was headed to stardom out there somewhere in the frigid heartland of America.

It was only logical then that I plunge myself deeply into other endeavors, which I did as the semester went on to the finish. I got more and more into my theater work in assisting Harriet Simpson. Our spring musical, “Damn Yankees,” proved to be more difficult to stage than either of us had imagined. I took on the chore of trying to give Jolene Mason, the junior student with a truly divine voice, the confidence in herself so that her natural shyness would not weaken the part of Meg in the musical.

“You’ve got to give that girl more pizzazz, or else we’ll have to settle for the Bukowski girl who can’t sing worth a damn,” Harriet pleaded with me.

“I’ll figure out something,” I assured her, even though young Miss Mason demonstrated a self-consciousness that seemed impossible to penetrate. The girl was afraid her friends would laugh at her on the stage; besides “I’m so fat,” the girl said.

The truth was the girl was not fat at all; she had a round face and looked no more than thirteen or fourteen; she had not developed the size breasts that might be warranted on a girl her age and size. Still she was a cute, comely girl whom Harriet and I both felt would be dynamite in the part. I knew the trick was to get her mind off herself and into the character of Meg.

“I’m going to tell you something about me,” I told Jolene finally.

She was shocked to learn I had been born male; I told her how terrified I was at first to portray myself in public as a woman. Jolene listened in awe as I told her about my holiday trips to Point Pleasant. I left out any mention of Randy, of course, though I mentioned how many young men – older ones as well – had shown an interest in me as a young woman. They didn’t see the shy young man who was underneath those clothes. I told her that on the trip I quickly became Julie Pearson and that my boy self, Jason, existed not at all on that day.

“Think of yourself as Meg when you get on stage and as often as you can act during your daily life as if you’re Meg. Learn Meg’s character and make it you! All the audience will see is Meg then, not Jolene Mason. When you’re on stage, Jolene Mason is home sleeping; you’re there as Meg. If they see Meg as a pretty woman or an ugly woman, they’ll be seeing Meg, not Jolene, but only if you’re a convincing Meg. You can do it. Just forget Jolene Mason, OK?”

“Think of myself only as Meg? That’s all?” the girl asked, not convinced.

“Yes, dear, when you’re here rehearsing and when you’re in the play, you’re Meg. Now, tell me who you think Meg is,” I demanded. I said all of these things in a firm, uncompromising voice, even though I was not convinced it would change her much.

Jolene hadn’t understood Meg at all, I realized. She knew her lines perfectly and said them without hesitation; yet, I could tell she knew nothing about the character. Together we talked about the part and I even got her to understand that she would be free to create her own “Meg,” as long as it kept within the parameters of the play.

Jolene soon mastered the part and I was pleased to see that she garnered perhaps the loudest applause of any actor on stage on opening night, even surpassing Jimmy Hudson who played Joe Hardy, the lead. I wondered as I stood in the wings that night playing traffic cop to insure none of the actors missed their cues whether the story of my life might be of value to anyone who suffers from a feeling of inadequacy. After the performance, Jolene charged past everyone to search me out to hug me.

“Thank you, Miss Pearson, I couldn’t do it without you,” she said.

“You did it, Meg, you did. Not me.”

Our hug was long and warm. We both cried buckets. Neither of us cared what others thought.

*****
Even though I was exhausted after our opening night performance, I was persuaded by Harriet to join her and her new husband to join them for an after-the-show snack. “No,” I tried to beg off, but Harriet pleaded, “Come join us. Barry will be there as well. He’s waiting in the lobby with Bart.”

“Barry saw the play?” I questioned.

“Yes. He was eager to see how we’d done.”

“I guess I can. I’m so keyed up right now I don’t think I could go to sleep quickly anyway,” I said. I’m sure I agreed more likely due to my realization that I’d be seeing Barry again.

“Good, he’ll be pleased to see you,” Harriet said, smiling.

I couldn’t hide the blush that warmed my face.

The four of us went to La Provence, a wine and snack bar that specialized in late night servings. It was a comfortable place with intimate seating arrangements composed of fashionable light chairs and tables, permitting closeness. Even the place was crowded, the sound level of conversations was low, covered faintly by light jazz in the background. Dim lighting warmed the atmosphere.

The only vacant setting included two side chairs flanking a love seat; whether by happenstance or by design, Barry and I ended up together in the love seat. I protested, noting that it was less than six months since the wedding and certainly the newly-weds should have the love seat. “Don’t be silly, dear, that was meant more for young people,” Harriet quipped.

Like the gentleman he seemed to be, Barry held my hand in assisting me onto the seat, and I found it impossible not to sit so closely that our thighs rubbed together, sending exciting vibes through my system. We stayed only for one drink and a dessert but in that short while I learned Barry was working as athletic director for a nonprofit organization serving unprivileged teens.

“Yes, he’s got a masters in social work,” his father said. “He could have gone into law or business and make more money.”

“But, dad, you know that’s not me,” Barry protested.

“I know and you must live your own life, but you’ll never earn much to support a family in comfort,” his father said.

“No Bart, not tonight. We all know your feelings,” Harriet said.

Her husband nodded and added quickly, “I’m sorry I brought it up, but Barry is so talented.”

“I think that’s perfectly marvelous that he wants to help those kids,” I said impulsively.

“You do?” Barry said, looking at me and smiling.

“Well, yes, I think it’s cool you’re working with the kids,” I added. “But, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business.”

“I value your opinion, Julie,” Barry said, taking my hand in one of his and patting it gently with the other.

The evening ended far too quickly, and we parted without ceremony or even an invitation for a future get-together. Barry did say, however, “Really enjoyed getting to know you, Julie.”

Dare I dream of a future with this handsome, intelligent and caring young man? I wondered whether Harriet had informed him of my life story and if she had, did he ever care to be in my future?

*****
I agreed to be alternate building representative for the Teachers Union at Farragut; as such I would assist Jon who was the building representative. I would also be his replacement should he be absent for any grievance meetings with the principal or superintendent.

“But I don’t know anything about unions,” I protested.

“Our school’s committee thinks you’ll do just fine, Julie,” Jon said. “You’ve been a regular at union meetings for one thing and I know you care about others. Most of the teachers respect you, even those who originally weren’t too happy about hiring a girl like you.”

He told me that I could easily learn the ropes on the job, that he would give me materials to study and that he would be at my side in the beginning. “I won’t let you dive into the water without a life jacket, Julie,” he said with a smile.

As it turned out, the job was more time-consuming than I thought it would be; I did a bit of reading to fully understand state law as it applied to teachers and to understand our contract. Other than that I learned much of the work involved using common sense to resolve problems; it also required lots of listening to others, whether it was a management authority or an aggrieved teacher whose issue may or may not be covered under the contract.

I could tell, however, that Mrs. Hammond, the principal, was not happy I took the role on. I knew that she resented the union, mainly because she felt she cared about her teachers and that there should be no reason to question her actions. I wondered, too, if she was disappointed in me since she had championed my hiring in the first place and had stuck her neck out doing so. She must have felt I was being ungrateful.

“I want to tell her that I respect her and am eternally grateful to her for supporting me,” I confessed to Jon.

“She’s really a great principal, perhaps the best in the District, but it doesn’t mean she won’t miss something or that one of her decisions may have been in error. Just respect her, keep your emotions down and stick to the facts,” he answered.

To be sure, after several meetings with her, I found her easy to work with over problems and our relationship warmed up again. Often we ended up talking about personal matters such as her family and my personal plans. Fortunately she never queried me about my love life, which at the time was nil.

One thing my union work did was to give me less time to think about Randy, even at bedtime when my exhaustion was so complete I fell into bed and went immediately to sleep, only to be awakened with the awful alarm clock banging into my ear. I must say, too, I was becoming more and more careless about my appearance, often doing little more that tying my hair in a bun as I rushed off to the train to get to Farragut. I did, however, favor long, loose fitting skirts and I usually wore flats for comfort; my blouses typically were sleeveless (I loved exposing my arms: how’s that for vanity?) and I either went with bare legs or with pink or light blue ankle socks, giving me a schoolgirl look. In cold weather, I favored tights or leotards – usually navy blue or black.

“You always dress in the cutest way, Miss Pearson,” Molly Watson, one of the students in my only senior English literature class, told me one day.

“Thank you, Molly, and coming from you that’s a compliment,” I said. Molly always dressed more carefully than most girls, largely because she had been a model until her junior year. Her compliment to me on that particular day was a bit puzzling, since I considered the outfit I was wearing to be quite ordinary and almost dowdy.

“You’re just naturally pretty, and I’m envious,” the student said, obviously realizing that I apparently took little time dressing and making myself up in the morning.

“That’s better than giving an apple to the teacher,” I replied, winking at her.

“Oh Miss Pearson, I wasn’t saying that just to get a better grade. I meant it.”

Just then the warning bell rang and Molly bolted from the room for her next class. Thankfully she didn’t see me blush.

*****
“This is my own ‘Emancipation Proclamation,’” Randy said proudly when he called, as I knew he would, on June nineteenth.

I knew full well the meaning of the date that marked Juneteenth Day, an important celebration in the African-American community connected to Lincoln’s famed Emancipation Proclamation; in Randy’s case, it meant he was eighteen, an adult in most ways and purely ready to date anyone of his choice, even a transgendered woman some eight years his senior. The question was: Would it be wise for either of us to be dating?

“I must see you this summer, Julie,” he said, dispensing with his usual deferential address of Miss Pearson.

“Do you think that’s wise, Randy? Once you get out to Wisconsin and become a big football hero you’ll be expected to have a cute coed at your arm, not an aging phony woman like myself,” I warned him.

“You’re no phony, Julie,” he said. “I know you’re a total woman now.”

“Not quite, Randy. I’ll never be able to bear children.”

“Oh Julie, don’t lecture me like this,” he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. “I’m not asking you to marry me, just to meet me before I have to go off to begin football at Wisconsin in August.”

We talked a while, with Randy showing interest in my theater work; I told him about how I worked with Jolene to help her feel confident about performing her role in “Damn Yankees.” He responded telling me how pleased he was to see me watching him perform in the school play at his school. He said he loved performing and was hoping to do some acting when he got to Wisconsin. He barely mentioned his budding football career. (An article in a local paper said that Randy had been wise to choose Wisconsin, a school that regularly sent players on to the NFL as high draft choices.)

“You’re a natural-born actor, Randy,” I said.

“Maybe so, but I’m sincere about how much I care for you, Julie.”

“Now, let’s not jump the gun,” I said.

“I can be patient.”

We agreed to meet at the Tenement Museum in the Lower East Side on the following Sunday at noon; he suggested we give our meeting an educational appearance in case anyone questioned the differences in our ages. “I don’t think anyone will, Julie, since you still look like you belong as a student in high school rather than a teacher.”

Randy, I knew, had a true interest in the lives of immigrants; his understanding of sociology had also brought him potential scholarship opportunities, though none as complete as football did.

*****
I arranged for us to join a tour of the six-story tenement building at 997 Orchard St. early Sunday afternoon. It was a hot day and I didn’t know if the building would be air-conditioned or if we’d have to suffer the heat just as the immigrants did in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, so I dressed in a light airy, knee-length skirt and a crème-colored sleeveless blouse. I tied my hair in a ponytail, which I tucked through the back of the pink baseball cap I wore. I hope I looked cool and comfortable, since I knew the ride in the subway would be a stuffy one.

“You look so cute, Miss Pearson,” Randy said as we met outside the museum, using the more formal address as we had agreed.

“Just trying to stay cool, Randy,” I said, hoping my voice remained neutral and hadn’t betrayed my excitement at seeing him again. I wanted to return the compliment, since I was blown away at the sight of him: what I felt like saying was: “Randy, you’re gorgeous.” And he was just that!

Instead I recovered and said simply, “It’s good to see you Randy and you look marvelous.”

“Thank you, Miss Pearson,” he said, retaining a formality that I could sense he forced upon himself.

Randy had truly gained a couple of inches in height in the last year; he had also bulked up, his chest expanding the fashionable white polo shirt with its discreet red symbol of the Wisconsin Badger football team on the left side of his chest. His blonde hair was long enough to flow to his neckline, and he kept it neatly brushed. As I looked about the crowd of folks who had assembled to join the tour, I noticed he got plenty of looks, particularly from other women. I was certain, too, that most of them assumed I was his girlfriend. For some reason, I liked the idea.

The tour itself was fascinating. As we viewed the Jewish family’s garment workshop (typical of the turn of the 20th Century), the cramped apartment occupied by an Italian-American family in the Great Depression and quarters of the German family of the post Civil War times, Randy and I were pressed together, our bodies touching. As we listened closely to the tour guide, Randy grabbed my hand; I didn’t resist his hold, and nestled a bit closer to him. I sensed becoming almost breathless as we stood together, my mind hardly able to take in the words of the young woman relating the stories of the life of the early immigrant families.

We were still holding hands as we finished the tour and stepped out onto the street. I withdrew my hand and said, “Can you imagine living like that?”

He smiled, “I could, if it was with you.”

“Oh Randy, shame,” I said, unable to resist a laugh. The truth was that I had the same thought several times during the 90-minute tour.

I accepted Randy’s suggestion that we find a quiet place to enjoy a cool drink, as if “quiet” was available in New York City on a warm Sunday afternoon. Yet, the very busy-ness of the city offers a marvelous anonymity that afforded couples freedom to talk freely and openly to one another. We purchased cold soda and popcorn from a street vendor and found a bench in a small park. Randy was the ever solicitous gentleman as he assisted me in sitting down, holding my hand as he juggled the sodas and popcorn.

“You’re treating me like an old grandma,” I said, a thought that caused me inexplicably to laugh.

“Hardly, Julie, I’m treating you as my lady,” he smiled.

By then, Randy had dropped any pretext at addressing me as “Miss Pearson,” and I was Julie again. I liked the change and knew I had never stopped loving the boy, not from our first awkward kiss nearly three years earlier on the beach at Point Pleasant.

For a while, we dodged the question of an enduring romantic relationship, talking mainly about our futures; actually, we talked lots about mine. Randy always proved to be a great listener as I told how much I loved teaching, relating to him stories about some of my students, about young people I had counseled into what had hoped would be better lives and about the Drama Club work.

“Don’t you ever want to do anything but teach? Like having a husband and children?” he asked.

“In my dreams, I’d like to do both, but, Randy, let’s be realistic, I’ll never be able to give birth to a child,” I said. The mere thought that I could never be a mother – a natural mother – saddened me; what woman doesn’t want to be a mother, to hold her own flesh and blood tightly against her breast and to raise that child into adulthood?

Randy put his drink and popcorn bag down, reached over and took my cup and placed it next to his so that both of our hands were free. He gently took both of my hands and held them together in his hands. My hands felt so tiny in his large hands. We looked at each other for what seemed minutes and then he leaned in and kissed me, nothing overly passionate, but warm and reassuring. He let go of my hands and soon placed an arm around my shoulders and I relaxed against him so that my left ear rested upon his chest. I heard his heart pounding.

“My, you two make a lovely picture,” I heard someone say.

I looked up to see an older man aiming an obviously high-priced Nikon camera in our direction.

“What are you doing?” Randy asked the man sharply.

“You two make such a pretty couple together, I’d like to take your picture, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. “If you don’t, that’s fine. I’ll be on my way then.”

“We’d prefer you didn’t,” I said, hoping to take command of the scene.

“That’s OK, miss. I regularly take pictures of people on the streets, but only with their permission,” he said. He explained he was a published, fairly prominent photographer who specialized in black-and-white street scenes; he gave us his card and I immediately recognized his name.

“Thank you for asking permission, sir,” Randy said. “But my friend here is a high school teacher and if some of her students ever saw this I’m sure they’d make it difficult for her.”

The photographer smiled at us. “Thank you and the two of you have a sweet day.” With that he left.

“See Julie, he said we made a lovely couple,” Randy said.

“Yes, but it’s impossible Randy and you know that,” I said. “Look you’re young and . . .”

“Don’t keep throwing that ‘you’re young’ stuff at me,” he said. “I’ve had lots to deal with in my life and I think I have an idea of what I’m doing.”

“I know you have, Randy,” I admitted. Randy told me how he was raised by a single mother, along with his two younger brothers; he told me how he had been charged with baby-sitting his brothers and often making supper and keeping the household up. In addition, the family lived in a tiny apartment in a poor neighborhood with poverty all around. It had been a mystery to me how this young man had been able to raise above all that.

“No, Randy, I was not about to comment on your age. My point is that you’re about to begin college and that all signs point to you being a top football player, maybe even the star on a major team with an NFL future. You’re bound to meet lots of women – real women – who will fit in with your life style. I’ll always be an albatross about your neck, an older woman who is not a woman at all.”

“You’re a woman, Julie,” he said.

“Not 100%,” I said.

“You’re woman enough for me,” he said. While we had yet to consummate our relationship, he had felt my body, sensed my feminine reactions to his caresses and had learned enough about the impact of sexual reassignment surgery to know that I was a woman.

“But, Randy, think about it, when Wisconsin plays in the Rose Bowl and you’re leading them as quarterback, the television cameras will search out your girlfriend in the stands. Do you want them to focus on a woman eight years older than you and one whom they would describe as being born a boy? Or would you like them to focus in on a young, lovely sorority girl from smalltown Wisconsin?”

“Screw ‘em. Let ‘em think what they want,” he said. “I’d be proud to have you as my girlfriend and future wife.”

“Randy, that’s so sweet, but be realistic,” I said.

*****
We continued to see each other several times a week that summer, usually choosing an educational spot for our excuses to meet. Twice we saw off-Broadway plays and once we went to an experimental theater in the Village, ending our evenings over coffee and desserts where we analyzed the performances, the direction and the writing. Both of us took drama serious.

After each of these events, we found opportunities to cuddle and feel close, often only a secluded park bench. Usually it wasn’t practical to drive, but on those few times I took my car our affectionate moments became more intense and we kissed, caressed and touch each other all over, both of us enduring our own orgasms. Randy discovered my female parts with his fingers and provided the stimulation needed to bring me to orgasm over and over.

We both remained virgins that summer.

Sadly our get-togethers ended in early August when Randy had to leave for Madison to begin training camp for the team and to enroll in the University.

Chapter Seventeen: Tears

The nearly one thousand miles of separation did little to stifle either of us in our yearning to touch and caress the other. We missed each other terribly, but Randy found time to call me daily, usually later at night when his long training camp exercises and other university activities ended. By then, I was usually in my nightgown and took the cell phone into the bed with me. As we talked, I played with myself; I felt shamed in doing so even though I expect Randy might be doing the same.

It became a nightly routine; if something would come up that would cause either of us to be busy, we’d always at least text message the other to inform them. Such nights were few and far between.

“Randy, you must find yourself another girl, someone more suited for you,” I pleaded with him over and over, realizing that our affair could only end in disaster for each of us.

“There’s no one more suited for me,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, repeating my reasoning that I was too old for him and that I would never be able to bear his child.

“Really, Julie, you’ve always treated me as someone who is a total man, not just a football player. Even though I come from the wrong side of the tracks, you’ve always made me feel like I am somebody. I have dreams and I want to do some good in the world and you understand that. Besides, you’re so damn sexy.”

“That’s because you are who you are, Randy, a very intelligent, compassionate man who is also a real hunk.”

With that, we’d both start laughing and soon break into expressions of love for each other.

“I need you Julie. I’m sure you can get a teaching job in Madison or nearby,” he urged several times.

“No Randy, I’m happy here. Just find yourself a good, pretty Wisconsin girl. There’s got to be a few of those out there.”

Wisconsin’s senior quarterback who had taken the team to the Rose Bowl the previous year was injured in the third preseason game, apparently lost to the team for the season. The coach experimented with a junior (who had been second string quarterback) and while he was talented he had a penchant for throwing interceptions.

Randy was thrown into to start the fifth game of the season – a key Big Ten battle against Michigan State – and surprised everyone by leading the team to victory, thanks to his throwing two touchdown passes and rushing in to score a third. Randy became the team’s starting quarterback, soon being heralded as a potential Tom Brady or Peyton Manning.

Many of the Wisconsin games were on national television and for the first time in my life I began watching football games; I asked Paul Phillips to join me in watching, since I needed to learn the game. Even as a boy, I never played the game; it just seemed too rough. Paul, of course, knew of my interest in Randy, as did his wife, Marian, who often joined us.

“You’re ruining your nails, dear,” Marian told me over and over.

“Oh, but I’m so scared he’ll get hurt,” I said, always forgetting that I had been chewing my fingernails mercilessly as I watched him fade back to pass.

The most horrible moment of my life – after the death of my mother – was when Randy got hurt in the second quarter of the Ohio State game. The game was played at night as a nationwide ABC game of the week and millions saw as Randy was nailed hard from behind as he tossed a pass. I screamed as I saw my beloved’s head bounce back, as if it could be severed from his body by the violent hit.

I cried and cried as he lay motionless on the ground before being quickly surrounded by doctors and training staff and other players, shielding the sight from the television cameras. An ambulance appeared on the field and after several minutes I saw he was strapped to a rigid board and lifted gently into the ambulance.

As he was slid into the vehicle, I saw along with millions other that he gave a “thumbs up.” I breathed a sigh of relief; at least he was alive.

Shortly after that, I got a call from Jon Edwards. He was watching the game, too, and wondered whether I needed company. He knew of my feelings for Randy. I said that I’d be OK and that Paul Phillips was watching the game with me. Jon and I talked for a while with him reassuring me that likely Randy would not be seriously hurt.

“They take great precautions these days to protect the kids,” he said.

“I know, but he should quit football,” I said firmly.

*****
“Randy asked me to call to tell you he’s OK,” the caller said.

I got the phone call about an hour after the game ended, a game that Wisconsin lost due to a late interception thrown by the player who took over for Randy when he was injured. The caller introduced himself as Pete O’Donnell, whom I knew as No. 87, a tight end on the team.

“Randy said I should call you ‘cause he knew you’d be worried sick about him,” Peter said.

“Oh, I’m so happy you call, but does he have a concussion?”

“Not that they’ve discovered, but he’ll be staying overnight at the hospital here in Columbus just to be sure,” he said.

“I hope he’ll quit playing now,” I said.

Peter laughed and before he could say anything, I reacted: “Peter, it’s no laughing matter. He could get killed out there.”

“I’m sorry,” the young man replied. “It’s just that Randy’s such a determined player I doubt if one hit is going to stop him from playing. Besides, we need him.”

“You know, he’s got a brain, too,” I argued. “He could help society if he can use it for something else than football.”

“I know he does, Miss Pearson. He’s my roommate and I know how hard he studies. I’m sure he’ll do fine with both football and academics.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“You know Randy talks about you a lot, and I know he adores and respects you,” Peter said. “I can tell you’re a loving, caring person.”

“I care deeply about him,” I said.

“And if you’re as pretty as the picture he has of you on his desk, you’re lovely, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way, he’s told me all about you, even about your difference in age and I think he’s lucky to have you as a friend, ma’am.”

“Thank you again, and you may call me Julie, please. He’s such a gem of a young man, and you sound the same.”

Randy called me the next morning, just before he was to be released from the hospital and was to join the team plane that would return to Madison in the afternoon.

“I’m fine,” he said. “And I’ll be able to play next week, too.”

“I wished you wouldn’t. You were knocked flat there. I saw it and cried and cried, Randy. You have to stop playing that game.”

“Now don’t be silly, Julie. I need to play to keep my scholarship. Please understand.”

I knew Randy well enough to realize his mind was made up, and I didn’t want to keep nagging him about playing. Our conversation was cut short when a doctor entered his room. We passed each other audio kisses and hung up. I was relieved and worried.

*****
“I’ve told my mother all about you, Julie,” Randy said in a call a week later, after he had recovered from the football hit.

“Everything about me?” I asked.

“Well, not about that.” Obviously he referred to my transgendered status.

“What did she think about our age difference?”

“She’ll understand eventually,” he said, dodging the direct question.

“Randy, dear, let’s not think about stuff like that right now,” I said. “You’ve got to heal. I wish you’d think about giving up that terrible game. You’re so defenseless about there.”

“No,” he said.

“Randy!”

“Look I have the best offensive line in the country protecting me. There was just a breakdown in assignments that caused that guy to get through and hit me from behind.”

“Please, Randy.”

“Look we can still be Big Ten champs and go on to the Rose Bowl. The NFL scouts are in the stands every game.”

I knew there was no arguing with him and changed the subject quickly, telling him about the play Harriet and I were directing for the school. Harriet had been giving me more and more responsibility in the production, telling me that she was considering retirement and indicating I’d likely be in line for the job. That would mean extra pay, plus I’d have two fewer classes to teach.

“You want to continue teaching, Julie?” Randy asked.

“Of course, it’s a natural for me, dear.”

“But what if we get married after I graduate and I have a big fat pro contract? You won’t have to work. All you’ll have to do is be around and look pretty.”

“Now, Randy, you know I want to teach and besides, who said anything about marriage,” I said firmly.

“But, Julie . . .”

“No buts, Randy. You’ve only just turned eighteen and after a few more months in school I’m sure you’ll be wooed off your feet by one of those milk-fed blonde beauties out there.”

“There’s only you, Julie,” he insisted.

Despite his fervent claims of eternal love for me, I still believed that our end would come soon. Once he tells his mother and teammates about his older girlfriend – and that she didn’t begin life as a she – he’ll realize that our love for each other was doomed from the start. It was just not to be. I had to stop it and stop it now.

*****
Randy played in Wisconsin’s next game in spite of his injury. The physicians cleared him, stating he did not suffer a concussion after all; yet, they admitted to Randy that they would be watching him closely since the fact that he blacked out after the hit was a sign that he might be vulnerable to more injuries with more such violent collisions. His coach designed plays for the next game that kept him in the pocket, in most cases well-protected by the massive linemen. He was sacked only once and that play was not violent.

“I wish he’d let me loose to run more,” Randy complained on a phone call he made after the game to Julie.

I knew he loved to run out of the pocket, since he was almost as good a running back as he was a passer, posing a double-threat to opponents.

“Randy, he’s worried about your health,” I told him.

“I know, but it’s no fun this way,” he argued.

“Well, I’m happy your coach is worried about your health first,” I said.

At the end of the call, I told him I loved him, hating myself for telling him my feelings. I knew I had to end this affair, but whenever I heard his voice, I fell in love all over. Would I never have the courage to end it?

*****
The football season continued and Randy kept playing. I was able to watch only one more game when the team was on national television. They won every remaining game, but the one loss kept them from the championship. It came in the game when Randy was hurt. The team missed out on the Rose Bowl, but did play in a lesser bowl in Florida on New Years Day.

Randy finally came home for a visit in early January, staying nearly ten days before he had to return to the second semester; we were together every night, and he often relaxed in my living room while I graded papers or did other schoolwork.

“We’re just like an old married couple,” he said.

“Now Randy, let’s not talk about that yet,” I said, upset with myself for encouraging our relationship to continue.

“We’re so perfect together, Julie.”

We both lost our virginity during his visit; for me it was the most exciting, exhausting sexual experience of my life. I had several violent, noisy orgasms and Randy soon became a compassionate lover. He was right that we were “perfect together,” even in bed. Perhaps we fit together so well was due to our mutual inexperience, but nonetheless we both found great satisfaction in each other.

“You’re so soft and cuddly, Julie,” he said as we caressed in bed.

“And you darling are my knight, my marvelous, manly knight,” I cooed, my hands moving along his sculptured smooth thighs, the sinews taut and firm. As we embraced, my arms wrapped around his hard back and wide shoulders.

“I can resist holding you, darling,” he said. He kneaded my soft fleshy thighs as his hands moved slowly to my vagina. “You’re so sweet to taste.”

He had developed hair under his arm and a heavy bush from which hung a moderate-sized penis that seemed to be always throbbing and hard to my touch. I loved to bury my head into the bush to smell his masculine odor and take his part into my mouth. He, too, seemed to love to rest his lips into my more modest bush with its fine, almost blondish hair, and then to make their way into my moist vagina.

At times too, his lips and tongue ravished my smallish breasts that had become totally those of a young woman with growing nipples and areolas, thanks to the hormones and my own natural body; even as a slender boy I had developed a fleshy chest, perhaps due to the genes from my mother whose breasts always appeared to be too large for her slim frame.

“Am I getting too fat, Randy?” I asked him in a period of after-love. I had gained some weight, most of it in my tummy, largely because I had been so busy I hadn’t taken time to prepare proper meals, often grabbing fast food meals.

“Not for me,” he said.

“Then I am getting fat. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, of course, not.”

“Are you just being nice?” I accused him.

“I like being nice, but I meant it, Julie. What’s getting into you?” He sounded truly offended.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

I suddenly realized I had been unreasonable to have even asked him in the first place. And then to turn the tables on him! What was I expecting? Even if he did think I was getting fat, he knew better than to say it. It must be that time of month, I thought, knowing that even if I didn’t ovulate as a normal woman I still experienced emotional ups and downs on the same twenty-eight day cycle.

On our last day together before his return to Wisconsin, Randy and I went took the train out to Point Pleasure. He suggested it: “It’ll bring back memories of how we met,” he said.

It was a bleak, frigid January day, reminiscent of the Christmas Eve we spent together three years earlier. I bundled up in my parka with a pink wool cap, a combination Randy thought “looked cute.”

We ventured to the same diner where we had enjoyed eating with Carmen and Ryan; only a few customers were in the diner and we found a quiet booth where we both sat on one side, close together. Halfway through the meal, Randy reach into a breast pocket underneath his sweater and pulled out a founded sheaf of papers.

“These are application forms to teach in Madison schools,” he said. “I heard they have lots of retirements coming up for next year and maybe you ought to try for a job in their system. Schools in Madison have a good reputation.”

“Randy, no. I got a career here and I love my school now.”

“But you’re so far from me.”

“Oh, Randy, maybe that’s the way we should keep it, dear. Just to be sure,” I said.

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, taking the papers.

“I love you Julie. Please come to Madison. I got three more years there. What have you got to keep you here?”

“Lots. I own a house here and have a good job.”

I know I should have stayed firm and told him I would not consider a move to Wisconsin. But, I reasoned, it was our last day together for a while and I hated to hurt his feelings.

“All I promise now is that I will consider it, Randy,” I said.

“Please. I love you Julie,” he said.

*****
Randy came home for a visit during spring break during the last week of March. In the weeks since January, we continued our almost nightly phone calls, only now they were being conducted over the internet, often using Skype when his roommate was absent so that we could see each other. On those occasions, I made it a practice to dress a bit like a slut (something I would never do outside of the privacy of my home). I put on makeup and fixed my hair, too.

Even our oral calls to one another got hot and steamy, a far cry from my earlier insistence that our calls remain clear of sexual overtones.

“Take off everything, Julie. I need to see your lovely body,” he pleaded some nights.

I refused him, though I would strip down to my bra and panties. Even that embarrassed me since I had been gaining weight and it showed in the growing layer of fat on my tummy. If anything, it seemed the added flesh only seemed to excite the young man; I could hear his heavy breathing and eventual sigh of relief as he reached his point of release. Though I refused his invitation to watch him play with his member, I was able to see his rhythmic movements, his growing intense looks as he reached his climax; I too became excited and experienced orgasms during our “conversations.”

“I’m sorry, Julie, I shouldn’t have done that,” Randy said every time after we ended our online sexual experiences.

“Don’t be, Randy, ‘cause I encouraged it. I’m just as guilty,” I said sincerely.

We’d usually ended our conversations soon after that, both of us exhausted from the stimulation of our mutual orgasms. Even our closing expressions of love to each other seemed empty and insincere after the nocturnal, long-distance sexual encounters. I felt disgusted by my own behavior, even though I knew I felt extreme ecstasies during them.

A strange thing happened two weeks before Randy was scheduled to return home for spring break. I had decided to make our long-distance video visit wearing only a flimsy piece of lingerie; it was actually a baby doll styled nightgown and I wore it without either a bra or panties. My breasts – their nipples made hard by stimulation from the material – stood out prominently and I knew if I let the nightgown ride up I would expose my light colored bush. All it would take for me would be to spread my legs to display my more intimate parts.

I’m not sure what inspired me that night to expose myself so suggestively; I know I seemed more excited than ever when I finished correcting papers and waited for the scheduled hour when Randy and I could hold our cyberspace visit.

“Put a robe on or something to cover yourself Julie,” Randy commanded as we began our conversation that night.

“What? I thought you’d like seeing me like this, dear.”

“No, you’re indecent. Cover yourself up or else I’m leaving this call now,” he said. His voice was firm and commanding. I could almost imagine it was the tone of voice he must use to tell an offensive lineman to improve his blocking.

“OK, I’ll be right back,” I said, quickly finding a terry cloth robe that hid any hint of suggestiveness from my image.

“Are you mad at me, Randy?” I asked when returning to the conversations.

“No, how could I be mad at you?” His voice became gentle, kindly.

“I don’t know, but you sounded so fierce.”

“It’s just that these video cam meetings seem cheap to me,” Randy said.

“You’re right. I was beginning to feel that way, too,” I said.

The conversation then became awkward as we both tried to find topics to talk about; our past interest in each other’s daily affairs seemed to be waning. I had become bored with his talk about how he got along with his coaches or what player was turning out to be the best on the team. I no longer cared about his class work, even though Randy’s interest in poverty seemed to be growing as the school year progressed.

“I gotta go now,” Randy said, ending the video meeting in less than ten minutes.

“You have to?” I said. Even to me, my words sounded like a “whine,” like the words of a lovesick girl being spurned by a boy she admires.

“Yes, I have got to study. Bye, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I said.

Randy turned off the connection abruptly. I cried that night. I don’t think he meant the last words he said to me that night.

*****
I knew even before Randy returned home for spring break that our love affair was over. We never video-cammed after that night and we talked only three times in the following two weeks. He refused my offer to pick him up at the airport, stating instead he’d take the Port Authority bus from the airport and then the train to his mother’s apartment in Queens.

We didn’t see each other until his second day home when I met him at a coffee shop after my school day ended; he insisted we find a quiet spot where we could talk with some privacy and I felt my hopes soar that perhaps my premonition that our love was over was wrong. He greeted be with a hug, but it was a perfunctory hug that could be one shared by mere acquaintances.

“Julie, there’s no good way to say this,” he said after we had gotten our lattes and had settled in.

“Say what?” I asked, though I sensed I knew what was coming, and it was not an expression of love for me.

“It’s over,” he said simply.

I looked at him, saying nothing. I didn’t want to hear the words, even though I knew from that first perfunctory hug that was what he was going to say.

“You were right, Julie. We can’t make this work.”

I nodded. Of course, Randy was correct; I had been saying from the beginning that we could not be married and really couldn’t be lovers. The age was wasn’t the problem, I knew. It was my transgender self; he would never perceive me as a complete woman.

“Have you found someone else?” I asked, feeling the rejected lover.

“No, though there’s this one girl . . . but it’s not serious,” he said.

“I bet she’s pretty,” I said bitterly, tears beginning to form in my eyes.

“Yes, but not as pretty as you, Julie,” Randy said.

“I’m sure she’s lovely, Randy and I hope you two will be happy and have lots of happy children,” I said. At the moment, I hoped it sounded as sarcastic as I wanted it to. I stood up, picked up my purse, left my still full cup of latte and strode purposely out of the coffee shop, looking neither right nor left. I was hurt and angry. I told myself not to start crying, but it didn’t work. I was already in full-blown tears by the time I walked out the door and into the chill of late March. I heard Randy call after me: “Julie, please, Julie . . .” I ignored him.

*****
I sat in my car for a long time; I don’t even know how long. Eventually, I stopped crying and began to consider the situation, realizing how unreasonable I had been to Randy. After all, hadn’t Randy done what I had recommended all along: to forget me and to find a girl more suitable for his life? I should be happy for him; he was such a caring and marvelous young man. He had always treated me with the utmost courtesy, even after finding out about my gender complications.

I cursed myself for treating him so rudely and running out on him at the coffee shop. He didn’t deserve being treated him like an insensitive Lothario. I don’t remember a moment of the drive home that late afternoon. My mind was in a fog. Once I got into the house, I found myself at loose ends, too keyed up to relax or read and not sure what to do with myself. My mind wandered to how Randy and I met the first time, how his obvious attraction to me thrilled me and made me feel worthwhile for the first time in my life. In the first twenty-three years of my life as a male, I had felt empty, lost and unwelcome to others, except mother, of course. I remembered our first meeting on the train to Point Pleasure when Randy mistook me for a teenage girl and called me “so cute.” I was excited at that moment to be totally accepted as a “cute girl.”

I had to get Randy out of my mind, I knew. I decided to bake a devil’s food cake; I would do it from scratch, which would mean a lot of extra work, but I knew that the effort would take my mind off Randy. It didn’t dawn on me that I had no one with whom to share the cake, and quickly reasoned that it didn’t matter now if I got fat. I no longer had to present myself in a way that would make Randy proud to escort me.

I was doomed to a life as a spinster schoolteacher – and chubby one at that. I began to conclude it wouldn’t be such a bad life; I already had made lots of friends among the other women teachers, among my neighbors and even with a few gay men.

Halfway through the baking process, I decided that I really didn’t want to get fat after all; I invited Heidi Nordquist and her two teenagers as well as the Phillips over for cake and ice cream that evening; it was a warm night and we could sit out on my back screened porch, enjoying the cake and neighborhood camaraderie. They were all happy for the invite, with Paul bringing over some red wine to share.

“What’s the occasion?” Heidi asked. I feared she maybe could notice that I been crying, since I knew my eyes were likely still red.

“Oh. I just felt like baking and I don’t dare eat all this cake myself,” I answered, dodging the question.

“It’s more than that,” she persisted.

“No, Heidi, I just hope you like the cake.”

As we settled down on the porch, Paul told a story about how he almost blew his chances to marry Marian some sixty years earlier, which soon had us all laughing hysterically. Marian kept telling him to “shut up,” and that “no one would want to hear that ancient history.”

The teenagers – particularly Susan Nordquist – found the story intriguing and commented at the end: “It must have been cool to be alive then, Mr. Phillips.”

“It wasn’t all peaches and cream, Susan,” Paul said. “Remember, I was drafted and spent nearly two years in the South Pacific in the army.”

“Yes, I didn’t hear from him for months,” Marian said. “We weren’t married yet and I was working in a defense factory. I missed him so much and worried if he’d survive out there.”

“But we loved each other and she waited for me, though I worried every day that some four-effer would steal her away while I was in the jungles out there,” Paul said.

“What’s a four-effer?” asked Michael Nordquist, who was fifteen.

“That stands for a draft classification of 4-F, meaning a man who was rejected for physical reasons from being drafted. They stayed at home while we fought,” Paul explained.

“I would never desert you, Paul. He was really handsome in khaki, though you’d hardly know it now,” Marian said.

“You’re such a sweetie, dear,” Paul said, leaning in to give his wife a peck on her wrinkled cheek.

“You two lovebirds, stop that,” Heidi kidded.

We all laughed, but I suddenly felt the urge to cry. I held back my tears until everyone left and then I retired to my bed and lay face down and cried my heart out. I knew I’d never be able to experience a scene such as I just saw: being in love for years and years with the same man.

*****
I cried myself to sleep, never bothering to take off the shorts and tank top I wore that night. I woke halfway through the night and went into the bathroom to relieve myself. I still felt stuffed from the cake, ice cream and wine.

“My God, you look like death warmed over,” I said aloud after seeing my reflection in the harsh white fluorescent light. My eyes were crusted with dried tears and the color red screamed out at me.

I cleaned myself up as well as I could, brushed my teeth and stripped down to my panties. Because the room was hot and I hadn’t turned on the air conditioner, I decided to sleep without a gown, leaving me nude, except for the panties. I looked at myself in the mirror, realizing how much of a woman I had become. My smallish breasts (I had never had breast enhancement implanted) stood up firm and pronounced; my body was soft and white and my slender arms seemed to be growing fleshy.

I was a woman.

Chapter Eighteen: An Unusual Budding Romance
The following morning, I awoke; my dreams had been troubled and I didn’t feel particularly alert. It was a sunny summer Sunday morning, already warming. I had not turned on the air conditioner and already was feeling clammy. Everything in my room seemed to stink, a sour, sick smell, an odor that seemed to match my mood.

As I wandered aimlessly, purposelessly into the bathroom to shower and prepare myself for the day, I was in despair. I had nothing planned for the day, since I fully expected I’d spend it with Randy. It was to be his last full day at home before returning to Wisconsin and I had felt he’d want to spend it with me. But, that was not to be, I realized.

As the warm water flushed the dried sweat and sourness from my body, my mind also began to clear. Why had I ended our relationship acting like a petty, vindictive woman, employing a bit of sarcasm? Randy and I had built a perfectly beautiful, warm friendship and I had chosen to end it in a nasty fashion, especially since he was now the one acting responsibly and reasonably just as I had advised all along. The truth was I was hurt; I had fallen in love with the marvelous young man, even if I knew it was a love that could never be fulfilled.

After my shower, I took time only to brush my teeth and tie my hair back into a ponytail before rushing to my iPhone. I had to apologize to Randy, I knew, and I had to do it soon; I couldn’t stand him thinking about me one moment longer as such a mean-spirited woman. I wanted him to go back to Madison looking forward to a career and a happy life, whether it be in football or in sociology and with a woman he loved. I loved him so much and he deserved my support, not my attitude.

“Dear Randy . . .” I began texting.

I stopped and went back, deleting the “Dear.” I continued:

“Randy, please forgive me for my awful outburst yesterday. You deserved better from me. I value you as a friend and wish you the best. Feel free to contact me if you wish. Your friend forever, Julie.”

I studied the words for a minute, wondering whether I should say anything else. No, I thought, that was enough. It said exactly what I wanted to say and would give him an opening to reply, if he wished. I sent the message.

Less than five minutes later, the iPhone dinged, signifying I got a message.

“Julie: no need to apol. TY for msg and good wishes. Your friend, Randy.”

I guess I should have felt pleased with his reply; yet, I felt uneasy. His message seemed to be a final “goodbye,” just like writing “The End” to a long novel about two now-separated lovers.

*****
Randy went on that year to lead Wisconsin to a Big Ten championship and a bowl victory. Even though he was only a sophomore, he was already being touted for the prized Heisman Trophy, given each year to the top college football player in the country. He came in third in the balloting that year, but barring injuries he was expected to be the winner the following year.

I never heard from Randy during that period, but made it a point to follow Wisconsin football whenever I could; since the team was doing so well it was often on national television. I watched each game, cringing when an opposing lineman might be aiming at sacking my beloved Randy. Several times, the cameras focused on Randy’s mother – a woman about forty who was heavily made up – with the announcer stating how Randy had been brought up with his two younger sisters by a single, unmarried mother in a cramped apartment in a poor section of Queens.

What troubled me, however, was the lovely young blonde woman sitting next to Randy’s mother; she appeared to be part his mother’s group. Could she be his girlfriend, I wondered? In one game, Randy was hit pretty hard and had been laid flat, remaining down for several minutes while coaches and trainers ran out to tend to him. The television camera trained on Randy’s mother and the blonde woman during that time. The blonde – who looked very much like a young coed – had a horrified look on her face, raising her hands to her mouth and finally turning away, as if she could not stand to watch.

That was his girlfriend, I was certain. I didn’t think she was as pretty as I was. My, I thought to myself, wasn’t that being a bit self-centered?

*****
My life continued without Randy; we emailed each other several times a year, usually around Christmas and Labor Day. Always he said he’d never forget the two weekends we spent together at Point Pleasure and how he treasured those moments. Several times, he lamented that it was unfortunate that circumstances made it impossible for us to be together.

Sports Illustrated did a long feature on Randy in September of his junior year, even placing him on the cover showing him coaching a group of young boys on a playground. They headlined the story, “A Star on the Field and in the Community,” and the story related his volunteer work with impoverished youth in Madison. They told of the six weeks he spent during the summer in the gun-infested neighborhoods of Milwaukee, preparing kids for school as well as sports.

Perhaps it was the famed Sports Illustrated curse (so often the athlete featured on its cover went into a slump afterward), but Wisconsin’s football fortunes that year failed to live up to expectations, making it only to a minor bowl. Randy’s success on the field was counterbalanced by a team defense that gave up too many touchdowns for even the Badgers’ offensive might to overcome.

Randy rarely mentioned football in his few emails and usually told of his interest in social work and his hopes that the he’d be able to do some acting during the spring semester, when football practicing would be less intrusive.

“Randy wants to continue having you as a friend,” Carmen Montoya told me when the two of us met for lunch around Christmas time.

Carmen had trimmed down from the cherubic teen she had been, becoming an extremely attractive young woman with dark eyes, warm olive skin and neatly formed black hair.

“I know he does, Carmen, but I hate to encourage him too much,” I said.

“He understands that, but he still likes you. You were his first love, Julie.”

“And he was mine, too,” I said. “I was hardly as experienced as you kids are.”

She smiled. “My mom is concerned that I might be turning into a slut,” she said.

“Well, she’s wrong, Carmen. You’re a respectable young lady and your mom should be proud of you.”

Carmen explained that she and Ryan (the boy I she was dating when I first met Randy the three teens on my trips to Point Pleasure) had broken up a year earlier. Carmen worked every weekend at the Spanish Center recreation program with children while carrying a full load at the local community college.

“I’ve been out with three different boys since Ryan and I think that’s why mom thinks I’m a slut,” she laughed.

“Depends upon what you do with those three boys,” I said with a giggle.

“It’s all pretty innocent, Julie, but I must admit I’m not a virgin,” she said.

“You don’t have to admit anything, Carmen. That’s your business.”

We chitchatted for a while longer and as I was about to get up to leave, Carmen reached over and grabbed my hand.

“Julie, I need to tell you something. Stay a minute more. Please.”

“Of course,” I said, sitting back in my chair.

“Randy’s been talking to me lots on the phone over the last few weeks, and we’re getting kind of friendly,” she began.

“That’s OK. You’ve known him a long time and Ryan’s out of your life now,” I said.

“Well, it’s more than that,” she said, dropping her head down so that she was no longer looking at me.

She paused for a moment, apparently at a loss as to how to continue her comment.

“You’re in love with him,” I said, making it easy on the lovely young lady before me.

Carmen raised her head, looking squarely at me now: “Yes, Julie, and I think he is in love with me, too. You must hate me, Julie.”

“No, I could never hate you or Randy,” I said quickly.

“It would be alright if you did hate us, Julie.”

“No honey, I told Randy many times that we were not right for each other and that for him to be in love with me would be to cheat him out of a happy future. You two are perfect for each other.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

Randy would be home for about ten days after Wisconsin’s appearance in a Bowl Game that season and Carmen said the two of them would likely be constantly together.

“Would you like to join us sometime while he’s home, Julie?” Carmen asked.

“No, it’s best I don’t interfere. You two enjoy.”

“He’d love to see you,” she pressed.

I still resisted, but Carmen said she knew Randy might at least call while he’s home. Again, I asked her to tell him it would be best if he didn’t try to call, but that if he called, I’d talk to him. I wanted to remain friends with Carmen, but was wary about rekindling any closer connection with Randy. As much as I wanted the two young people to be happy together, I was still disappointed at losing the only man I had ever truly loved.

*****
I was both relieved and disappointed that Randy did not call during his visit back to his home. I knew I was doing the right thing by suggesting to Carmen that he not call me; yet, I hoped against all hope that I could hear his voice again and that somehow our age difference and my own gender issues would be all washed away.

“He was so busy while he was home, Julie,” Carmen told me after Randy returned to Wisconsin and Carmen and I met at our favorite coffee shop.

“I figured he would be, after his spectacular play in that bowl game,” I said.

“I hardly saw him either, because of the interviews he did with so many reporters. I guess he’s back on the Heisman list for next season,” Carmen said.

I looked across at the young woman, whose eyes sparkled, showing a charm that was infectious. She exuded obvious intelligence and I reflected upon how marvelous it was that Randy might eventually be rewarded with having her as a life partner.

“He’s certainly doing well for himself,” I ventured.

“Yes, he is and I don’t think it’s gone to his head, either,” Carmen said.

She announced that she was planning to spend spring break in Madison later in the year.

“I’ve applied for some scholarships so that I might be able to attend my final two years out there, too,” she announced.

Because of her sterling grades and her impoverished background she likely had a good chance of being able to finish up at Wisconsin. I imagined that Randy and Carmen someday would be portrayed in a photograph (appearing on sport pages and gossip sections) at their fancy wedding, the caption reading:

“Randy Hastings and his new wife, Carmen, leave St. Patrick’s church in New York City after their Saturday wedding ceremony. Hastings recently signed a multimillion dollar pro football contract . . .”

If you looked closely at the picture, you might see a pretty young woman in the crowd assembled outside of the church. She would be holding a dainty handkerchief to her eyes, as if she were crying. The young woman would be me.

*****
I settled into a life of teaching and coaching drama students; it busied me for hours and hours. To fill my empty weekends, I volunteered to work the meal programs for the homeless at a church, working the Sunday noon lunch hours, serving up the food. I felt I should dress fairly decently for the chore, reasoning that the folks who went through the line deserved to be respected. No doubt they received little respect in their lives, and I felt that we who served them should greet them in something other than jeans and old sweatshirts.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t dress like a slut or wear lots of makeup. Mainly I wore slacks and a colorful blouse; I always wore my hair in a ponytail so that I could cover it easily with the obligatory cap we all wore for sanitary reasons. In warmer weather, when the church’s antiquated air conditioning system failed to keep up with the heat generated from the smelly, unwashed bodies that often filled the room, I wore a knee-length, airy skirt and a sleeveless blouse.

“I used to come here for the food, but now that you’re here the food is secondary. You’re so pretty,” commented a tiny, ageless man known only as Scooter.

“Oh Scooter, you say that to all the girls, you old flirt,” I said with a smile as I placed several slices of turkey on his tray.

“No just to you, Miss Julie,” said a tall black man who had a handsome, middle-aged face with bright eyes. He was known as Howard and usually accompanied Scooter, providing a contrast in height.

“You sure brighten up this place,” one of the volunteers told me as we were cleaning up.

“Is that all right?” I asked.

The volunteer was Michael O’Connor, a handsome, middle-aged man, who soon became my escort each Saturday and Sunday as we left. I had been accosted once in leaving the place and Michael intervened to save me from the advances made by one of the homeless men.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk you to your car,” he volunteered one day.

Several times, he offered to buy me a drink or coffee afterward and I accepted. He turned out to be a recent widower, probably twenty-five years older than myself, who was terribly lonely after the untimely early death of his wife. The truth was I enjoyed his company; he was warm, friendly and easy to talk to, with our topics ranging from the unfortunate national job situation that brought so many homeless folks to our shelter to the sorry fortunes of the New York Mets.

Two weeks later, Michael and I were seated at the same table in the coffee house. We had just finished our four hours at the free meal site; it had been a particularly grueling four hours since even though the stock market was skyrocketing and the economy was supposedly doing better, the crowds of homeless seemed to be growing at the same time. One of the men had come in drunk, having somehow been missed by the two security guards at the door who usually turn away those who appear drunk or to be potential troublemakers. The drunk had tried to touch my breasts after having declared loudly: “Look at that flat-chested bitch. I like to massage them. To make ‘em grow.”

“You shouldn’t have to take all that abuse, Julie,” Michael said when we stopped later at the coffeehouse.

“He was harmless, Michael, but thanks for being there and pushing him away,” I said.

“It’s so nice that a pretty young lady like yourself works at the center. Most of us are so old; you really brighten up the place a lot and I think our guests really enjoy seeing you.”

Naturally I blushed. I do that so easily.

“Thank you, Michael. That was sweet of you to say, but I truly enjoy doing this. My weekends ae usually pretty lonely otherwise.”

“I thought lonely weekends were just for old guys like me without wives,” he said, smiling, “But you’re so young and pretty, I’d have thought you’d have a full dance card.”

I giggled at the reference to “dance card.” I had often wondered how much fun it would have been a Century ago when young ladies wore the dance cards around their wrists at formal dances with the names of male dancers listed in the order of the dances.

“My dance card is pretty blank right now,” I confessed. “I had a boyfriend but he’s out of my life now and there are no eligible bachelors in the school where I teach.”

“I’m sure you’ll have another boyfriend in no time, Julie,” he said, rising to get the both of us refills to our coffee.

Returning to the table, Michael put down the coffees and looked at me closely.

“Do you see the stares we always get when we come in here, Julie? Does that bother you?” he asked.

“A little, but let people look.”

“Yeah, I guess that people are thinking I’m an old geezer with a young lady on my arm,” he said. “They must think we’re dating.”

“Let ‘em think what they want, Michael. I kinda like the illusion.”

He laughed. “That’s cool. How would you like to maybe . . . ah . . . make it more than an illusion and have a real date sometime?”

“Michael, no offense at you since you’re a perfectly marvelous, good-looking man and you’re fun to be with but really, I’m not ready for a real date yet,” I said.

“That’s OK, Julie. I’m really too old to even think about dating someone as young and pretty as you, but I do so enjoy your company. I still miss my wife and I guess I always will, so I’m not expressing any desire to have a date mean anything more than friendship. We don’t even have to have sex or anything.”

“No, Michael, it’s not your age, it’s just me.”

“Just you? I don’t understand,” he said, obviously perplexed at my answer.

“I’d rather not explain, if you don’t mind.” I felt bad, but I didn’t feel I was ready to tell him of my transition.

“That’s OK. I shouldn’t have asked,” he said, truly chagrined at his request.

Michael was a genuine and generous man, I could see, and I felt horrid that he might be thinking that I had rejected his offer because I found him offensive or too old. I tried to reassure him that his charm and basic decency would make him a marvelous catch for any woman. I could also see myself even falling in love with him, though at the moment I doubted it. My heart would always be with Randy, I felt.

He quickly turned the conversation to the Mets failures of the season, a discussion I welcomed. Why we were enamored with the Mets – a team with a recent record of losses – puzzled both of us, we agreed. It seemed everyone in the area were Yankee fans and I remember being laughed at often by my Yankee friends.

“Perhaps we welcome perversity,” Michael kidded.

I laughed. “That must be it,” I agreed.

“That’s nice that you like baseball,” he said. “My wife never did and that pained me since we got along well on so many other things.”

“I don’t know why since I never was much for sports,” I said. “I still throw a ball like a girl, I guess.”

“I didn’t take you as woman who would be any good at throwing a ball, Julie,” he said. “You really are so . . . oh . . . how should I say it . . . maybe the word is petite . . . no . . . no . . . I think dainty describes it better.”

He was right of course; my arms in particular were thin and my wrists so tiny that I could wrap my thumb and index finger of one hand around them.

“I suppose I should start working out or something,” I volunteered. It was an idea I had toyed with, since I knew it would probably be good for me to get more exercise.

“Perhaps, but I don’t think you should ever be one of those muscle women.”

“I doubt that would ever happen.”

“Would you like to go to a Mets game with me sometime, Julie?” he asked suddenly.

I was about to answer “no,” but instead I didn’t speak at first.

“Well, that’s OK,” he said, immediately taking my hesitancy in answering as a rejection.

I smiled at him and replied in a soft, sweet voice, “I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said enthusiastically. “How about next Sunday? We can ask Maxine to change our shifts at the meal program from lunch to breakfast and go to the game after that.”

Afterwards, I worried about accepting his invitation. Even though I felt he was sincere about not having romantic intentions, I worried that I might become more involved with him and he’d eventually want sex with me. Then what would I do? He was a church-going Catholic and when I would tell him about my gender change he might look upon me as a terrible sinner. I knew that I’d eventually have to tell him about my background.

And then, I wondered if I was betraying Randy. What a strange thought!

Chapter Nineteen: Male Behaviors
The following Sunday, Michael and I went to the Mets game; the team was hopelessly buried in the bottom rungs of the league and the crowds were embarrassingly sparse for a delightful, sunny afternoon. I put on sun screen before leaving for the game, knowing full well that we would likely be sitting in the sun in Citi Field, which has virtually no canopy to protect the fans.

After our work was finished at the meal site, we went to the nearest subway station to board the train to the park; we had no trouble finding seats together on the train thanks obviously to the fact that few fans were going to the game.

“I’ve never had a more enjoyable day at the ball park,” Michael said as we left after the game, both of us happy to stay until the last out in another hapless loss by the home team.

“Nor I, Michael,” I said.

At my insistence, we agreed to go “dutch” with each of us paying our share of the drinks, food and ticket prices. True to the gentleman he was, Michael however insisted upon treating me as a lady; he went to purchase all the refreshments, let me choose whether I wanted the aisle seat and making certain the seat was clean.

“For a girl . . . oh . . . I meant to say young woman . . . you really know your baseball,” Michael said; he was truly impressed.

“It’s the only sport I ever really liked, even though I was never any good playing it,” I explained. “My mother was always a fan and so we followed the games together.”

“You never played on any of those girls softball teams?”

“No, those girls were too good for me,” I said. It was a truthful statement, even though as a boy I was never athletic enough to compete with the girls on those teams.

We had a fun day, enjoying each other’s company even at the moments when we differed over certain bits of baseball strategy, particularly the third base coach’s decision to send Danny Murphy to home plate, only to be called “out” on a close play.

I screamed that it was a “stupid” decision, upset since the score would have tied the game (at the time, the Mets were still close). “No, he was right to try the way the Mets are hitting he’d probably be stranded at third any way.”

I argued my case, even getting a male fan sitting behind us to agree with me; soon it almost developed into a brawl between Michael and the fan, before I intervened.

“Hey quit it, guys. This game doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. He was out, so what?” I said.

Soon the three of us were laughing and the man behind us offered to buy us a beer, which I declined with the excuse that I had to “watch my figure.”

Michael and I continued our platonic relationship as the summer ended and autumn began; in most cases it meant getting together to do something after our Sunday luncheon chores were ended. We went to museums in the area, saw a movie or found a classical music event; most of the time, we shared dinner together. He talked about his work and his family and I soon told him about my onetime relationship with Randy, leaving out the fact of course that my former boyfriend was eight years younger than me and that he met me on my first public excursion as a woman.

“We both have lost our first true loves,” Michael said after hearing my story.

By October, I began to sense that our relationship was getting close and budding into a true romance; Michael talked less and less about his wife and often wondered about our lives in the years ahead.

“I would hope we could be friends forever, Julie,” he said after a day in which we had worked the meal site, gone to a chamber music concert and finished up at a noisy pizza parlor.

With that he took my hands in his and looked at me, awaiting a response. I felt he was pleading with me to accept him as the man in my life. My feelings were reinforced with the kiss he gave me that night as we parted. It was long and full of passion.

I cried that night; I knew I would have to tell him about me – everything.

*****
Would Michael forgive me for deceiving him for so long once he learned that I was once a boy? Would he even be open to having a woman in his life who wasn’t born female? I doubted it; from what I knew of Michael’s life it appeared he had only a routine middle class, somewhat sheltered life. He had married his high school sweetheart and the couple had two sons (now adults). He continued to live in his detached house in the eastern extremes of Queens and each day took the train to downtown Manhattan where he worked as vice president of a medium sized accounting firm.

In spite of his prosaic life style, Michael proved to be an imaginative, fun companion. He surprised me by his love of classical music and serious theater.

“You must make sure I get to see the next play you direct at your high school,” he told me.

“Of course, I’ll make sure you’re there,” I said. “The kids work so hard to get it right. You must see them.”

The truth was I had become proud of the dramas that my students staged over the last year; they were greeted with wide praise from those who attended and many of the praises came from others besides the proud parents and grandparents who attended. The play reviewer for the online local news site, harborlights.net, said our spring play, “Death of a Salesman,” was performed “with a sensitive maturity that belies the fact that all the performers were Farragut High School students.”

“I’m sure their teacher had something to do with their successes on stage,” Michael offered.

“I try, but it’s the kids who do it themselves,” I said.

“I think you’re too modest, Julie,” he said, smiling.

“You’ll have to judge for yourself when we do “Raisin in the Sun” in early November.”

The more I was with Michael the more and more comfortable I was with the realization that I was imagining a future life with a man already in his fifties, while I had still to reach thirty. Yet, would my confession to Michael about my transition put an end to any prospect for such a future?

*****
I had become so busy in the weeks leading up to the “Raisan” performance in November that I had to pass on our Sunday excursions, as well as to beg off on a couple of invitations Michael had made to see a movie or go to a concert.

“You’re not avoiding me are you, Julie?” Michael asked after my third rejection of a date.

“Hardly, Michael. I love our outings together and you’re so nice to me.”

“It just seems . . .”

“Oh Michael, you just don’t understand how busy these days can be.”

To mollify him, I agreed to meet him for supper at a Thai restaurant on the first Friday of November with the understanding that we would not go anywhere afterward, since I had to prepare for a Saturday rehearsal. “I’ll just have five days before opening night,” I explained.

The restaurant was incredibly crowded, but we were able to elbow into a small table. The din of conversations was intermingled with the clatter of pots and shouts from the staff in a foreign language I presumed was Thai, forcing us to huddle together to share conversation. It was obvious, too, that whatever we said would be unheard by any nearby person over the noise of the place.

“My son, Buddy, and his wife are hosting Thanksgiving dinner for the family this year,” he began.

“It’s nice you’ll have a nice family get-together that day,” I said.

“I’d like you to join me and to meet my family, Julie. Please say you will.”

I was thunderstruck. What was I to say?

“To meet your family?” I asked, mumbling the words.

“Yes, to meet the family, Julie. They won’t bite. I’ve told them all about you and they want to meet you.”

“Did you tell them how young I am?”

“Yes, and how pretty you are, too!”

“Michael, I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I said.

“Ready for what? I’m not proposing marriage,” he said, obviously reading my mind.

“You’re not?”

“Well, not yet,” he said, ending the comment with a short laugh; I followed with a nervous giggle.

“Who’ll all be there?”

“My son, Buddy and his wife, Thelma, and their four-year-old daughter, and my son, Emmett, and his wife, Beth, and their two boys, plus my brother Henry and his wife and my mother,” he said.

“You’re mother, too?”

“Yes, and mom can be lots of fun but she often speaks her mind, I must warn you about her,” he admitted.

“Oh my, Michael, I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

To his credit, Michael did not press that point and I agreed to let him know in a day or two. It was obvious I’d have to tell Michael everything and do it soon.

*****
As flattered as I was with Michael’s apparent interest in me, I could not get Randy out of my mind. I had vowed not to look into the sports pages for information on the fortunes of the young man whose prowess on the football field was drawing heavy media attention. I couldn’t help myself, even as I tried to restrict my eyes to the Mets box score I found my eyes straying to the daily roundup of pro football team activities. Invariably there was a report that speculated on Randy’s ability to handle the demands of pro football.

“I hate myself for still caring about Randy,” I confessed to Laura McPherson, my teacher friend, as we shared lunch time together at Farragut.

“It’s only natural, Julie. He’s quite a young man, you know,” she said to try to reassure me.

She and I had become close friends, both ready to confess our feelings to each other. From outward appearances, she and I were exact opposites of each other. She was a large young woman with a continual battle to keep her weight down while I was both shorter and more petite. Yet, we shared much in common, both having troubled love lives and facing feelings of inadequacy. I of course never was without the feeling that I was a flawed person due to my transgendered situation while she was consumed with the lack of self-esteem brought about by being overweight. Since graduating from college, she had confessed to being almost “dateless,” exasperated by her mother’s growing concern that Laura would never be in a position to give her grandchildren.

Actually, Laura was a pretty woman; she wore tasteful clothes that flattered her curves. Furthermore, she was a cheerful, pleasant and generous. Her lack of a lover, I’m sure, was due more to the lack of working around eligible young men and a reluctance to begin any online man search. While I seemed to be a bit more fortunate in having male friends, I still felt the same concern as she did. Would we both go through life without a husband, or at least a live-in lover? Thus, it was that we shared our joys and fears and frustrations with each other. She was a great friend as well as a soulmate.

I told her about my growing relationship with Michael as well as my continuing infatuation with Randy. “I feel so badly that I can’t get my mind off of Randy, particularly now that he’s about to be married to a perfectly wonderful girl,” I confessed.

“I suppose you feel guilty about that?” she asked.

“I guess so. Partly ‘cause I feel like I’m betraying Michael and also because I should let go of Randy. I really want to wish both he and Carmen the best in life. Really I do, but I just can’t seem to help myself.”

“Time will overcome all this, Julie,” she said.

*****
On the second Sunday of November, I met Michael late in the afternoon for a few drinks and supper at a popular Italian restaurant; it broke our usual routine of going out right after our lunch time work at the meal site, since I wanted to hurry home to watch Randy play. He had been drafted by the Minnesota Vikings and was due to make his first start at quarterback, replacing an aging player whose onetime skills had dimmed. The once-proud Vikings had been reduced to several years of losing records and obviously felt that they had nothing to lose by playing a rookie; I feared Randy would get hurt, since the team’s offensive line had become notorious for failing to protect their quarterbacks from sacks.

I felt profound relief when the game ended with Randy still healthy; he had dodged the huge players of the Detroit Lions – and any crippling injury from rough tackles – thanks to his quick feet. Even though Randy’s skills failed to bring victory, he tossed three touchdown passes and ran for a score himself and was acknowledged as a coming star. The cameras from the national television crews focused three times on the young woman they said was his “fiancée,” Carmen.

Entering the restaurant I knew that I would tell Michael that day about my gender status. He was pressing me for an answer to his invitation to join his family’s Thanksgiving celebration and I knew I could not accept it without telling him.

The fact that I was born a boy and had transitioned was known by my fellow teachers and some of the students; for the most part, most persons thought little about it and accepted me as a woman. It was a comforting feeling to be accepted. Yet, Michael was not aware of my change and I knew I must tell him.

“Michael, before I accept your invitation to Thanksgiving, I need to tell you something about myself. It may make you want to take back your invitation,” I began as we lingered over coffee after finishing our meal.

“You didn’t rob a bank did you?” he asked, smiling.

“Nothing like that, Michael.”

“Well? What then?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, Michael,” I began, but quickly got to the blunt truth. “You see, I was born as a boy named Jason, but I always felt I was a girl and I began living fulltime as a woman about five years ago.”

“You what?” He appeared to be totally perplexed.

“I am legally and now physically a woman, Michael, though I was born with male genitalia. That’s all been changed so that I’m a woman in every way.”

“Oh migosh. Are you like a drag queen or something?”

“No,” I laughed. “I’m a woman. My name is legally Julie and all my identification is female.”

“This is confusing, Julie,” he said, looking at me closely in the dim light of the restaurant. “You’re so feminine, so soft and dainty that I can’t picture you as a boy.”

“In truth I was never much of a boy. I just knew from a young age that I should have been born a girl,” I said honestly.

“Oh, but you’re a woman in every way possible? If you disrobed, would you look like a woman, you know, down there?”

“Yes, Michael, I’d look as much like a woman as your late wife did. About the only thing I can’t do is to bear children.”

He smiled at me. “Well, I’m told old to be a new father anyway,” he said.

Michael looked at me more closely, not saying anything; I wondered whether he had truly understood what I had told him.

“What is it, Michael? Are you bothered by me . . . and . . . ah . . . my change?”

“Of course, but that’s not it? I remember now. You’re that teacher from Farragut High, aren’t you? The one who was in the news a while ago?”

“Yes, that teacher,” I said, adding a bit of sharpness to my voice.

“No, no, no, don’t get me wrong, I just was surprised. It really doesn’t change anything, Julie. You’re still a lovely woman.”

I was surprised that Michael did not act overly shocked at my revelation. If anything, he seemed to be comfortable in receiving the information. I knew Michael to be a level-headed person, always open to hearing another person’s point of view. He never seemed to place judgment upon the men and women who came in for the free meals, accepting them as human beings; perhaps that explained his almost studious approach to my words.

“So you’re not a drag queen? What are they called, ‘transvestites?’” he probed.

“Not really, I don’t do it for sexual gratification or to show off or just because I like to wear women’s clothes,” I said. “I just feel I am a woman. Being a woman is the real me. Michael I hope that makes sense to you.”

“It just seems strange,” he said.

I must have spent the next fifteen minutes outlining what I had to go through to become the woman I am now, explaining the psychological examination, the hormone treatment and finally my sexual reassignment surgery. I referred him to several online websites where he could check into the medical and psychiatric background of transgendered women.

“Thank you for telling me this, Julie,” he said when I had finished.

“I felt you had a right to know, Michael. I never thought that our friendship would have gotten as involved as it seems to have or else I would have told you sooner.”

“Me either. Julie I must admit I was falling in love with you,” he said. “I wanted to have you meet my family, my kids and grandkids and my mother. They’ve been urging me to go out and meet another woman, but you’re the first woman I’ve had feelings for since my wife died.”

“Michael, I must admit I too have wondered about why I have become so fond of you and surprised that I have found myself falling in love with you,” I said sincerely.

“He smiled. “We aren’t exactly the same age, are we?”

“No, but as I got to know you better, that didn’t seem to matter much, Michael.”

I looked around at the restaurant that was now filling with customers; several groups of people were awaiting tables to clear.

“I think they’d like to use this table, Michael,” I suggested, realizing we had lingered far too long after finishing our meal.

He agreed and we got up to leave. He left an overly generous tip – it was a trait of his to overtip and I loved him for it – and we proceeded out the door and into the frigid evening air. He walked me to my car, a walk that suddenly felt awkward. I wasn’t certain what to say, and he was silent as well. His mood grew somber and I wondered if he still wanted me to accompany him to his family’s Thanksgiving dinner. But, he said nothing, content to do his gentlemanly duty of holding my car door open for me, but without his usual kiss or hug.

“Good night, Julie,” he said simply, closing the door on me, turning around and walking back to his own car.

I wanted to cry; I turned the key in the ignition and the motor fired. I shivered in the cold car, wishing that Michael would come back and hug me until I turned warm with desire. He didn’t, of course. I was certain my lovely affair with this perfectly marvelous older man was ended. I was just too strange a creature for him, I knew.

*****
To his credit, Michael asked me to join him for a drink on the following Wednesday night, offering to pick me up at my house and then taking me to a quiet lounge, named “Lovers’ Nest,” obviously designed to serve romantic couples. It was a place that featured soft music, numerous lounge groupings so that couples could sit together with some modicum of privacy. While the drinks were overpriced, they had many exotic concoctions to choose from.

“Julie, this is all too strange for me,” he said once we had settled into a love seat and had been served by an elegantly dressed waitress in a discreet cocktail dress.

“What is?” I asked, even though I suspected he was referring to my gender situation.

“You being a boy. I can’t accept that, even though I’ve never seen you as anything but a lovely young woman.”

“I understand,” I said, and the truth was I did understand. He came from a strong Catholic background and still was a serious practitioner of the faith.

“Do you really, Julie?”

“Yes, I do, and I thank you for your honesty. I would imagine your kids and mom might not be too pleased to hear the truth about me.”

“Particularly mom,” he said. “You know how religious she is.”

“You’ve told me about her and I know you’re close to your family, Michael. So there’ll be no Thanksgiving dinner for me?”

“We better not,” Michael said.

I nodded.

“And I won’t be at the meal program anymore,” he said. “I think it’s best we not see each other.”

“Don’t quit the meal program,” I protested. “I’ll stay away. They need you there.”

“No, you keep going there if you wish,” he said. “You really brighten the place up Julie. Besides, I will be taking over the meal site at another parish where the program has fallen into trouble.”

“OK, if that’s how you want it, Michael. I’ll plan on keep working at the site and you do what you want to.”

“It’s best this way, Julie. Really Julie, please don’t take this as any shortcoming of yourself; you’re a lovely, warm, bright young woman and any man would be proud to have you, but you’re just not right for me.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Michael, if any man would be proud to have me, why are you scared to introduce me to your family? Of course, you’re afraid, ‘cause you think I’m not a real woman. Well, I’ll tell you I’m as much a woman as any girl in this restaurant.”

“Julie, it’s not that,” he said, averting my eyes.

“Don’t kid me. You just used me as a plaything,” I said.

“No, Julie, I truly adored you and we had so much in common,” he pleaded.

“Forget it, Michael,” I said, rising from my seat. “Here’s my share of the bill. I’m going.”

I reached into my purse and fumbled around for my wallet, before finding it and withdrawing a ten-dollar bill. I threw it on the table, and turned to go. Michael got up and grabbed my arm, but I just shook him off.

“Julie, I’ll take you home,” he said.

“No, thanks, I’ll find a taxi.”

I ran out of the restaurant, more angry than sad. It was over, I knew. I never saw Michael again after that night in Lover’s Nest. How ironic is that name for the site of a brush-off?

*****
Life without Michael, I soon learned, could still be fulfilling and enjoyable. Certainly, my life was not boring, particularly as I found the production of a play each semester to be demanding and full of surprises. That, coupled with my daily feeling that I had to be the best teacher possible to save the children I was teaching from falling into lives of despair. Most of the students at Farragut came from low-income families and the majority was Hispanic or African-American; frankly they had very little interest in Emily Dickinson or Chaucer or basic grammar.

Nonetheless, I had learned early on to work at making the classes relevant; apparently, it worked since I had gained confidence in being able to create order in the classroom – no small task – while maintaining some feeling of joy. Of course, I wasn’t perfect and found myself failing far too many students.

One of those I failed was D’Andre Washington, who came to our class in the beginning of the freshman year; he was sullen and resentful, refusing to do much more than sit in the back of the room, slouching or putting his head down on his desk.

Somehow I must have struck a nerve on D’Andre with a poem by Langston Hughes:

“I was so sick last night I
Didn't hardly know my mind.
So sick last night I
Didn't know my mind.
I drunk some bad licker that
Almost made me blind.''

“Sounds like my mom’s boyfriend,” he said.

“And my dad,” another student said.

“Yeah, if they ain’t drunk, they’re stoned,” D’Andre said. The class laughed.

I suggested that they each write a short poem, about anything they liked. To assist them, I gave them a short instruction, telling them that they didn’t need to rhyme, but that they had to try to create a rhythm in their words.

“Like rap, Miss Pearson?” D’Andre said.

“Yes, like rap,” I agreed.

D’Andre’s poem the next day was the most expressive of those submitted, and as he read it to the class – with more of a rap rhythm than I would have liked – I found myself almost moved to tears. It was the work of a sensitive, caring boy who dearly missed the warm affection of a mother whom I suspected had largely abandoned him to satisfy some lout of a man.

During the Thanksgiving vacation, D’Andre was shot during an apparent gang fight. He died three hours later in the hospital emergency room. For the remainder of the school year, I posted D’Andre’s picture in our classroom. One of the more artistic students, a girl, copied the words of one of his poems, entitled “Hope in the Streets,” in a neat hand and I posted it next to his picture in an honored place on the bulletin board.

*****
The students, the Drama Club and my work at the meal site: my life was full. I was a happy woman. My social life was largely nothing, consisting of occasional outings with the other young teacher in the school, Laura McPherson, and with Jon Edwards. Laura and I made a regular commitment to watch Minnesota Vikings games, even if it meant finding a sports bar that beamed the game when it wasn’t being shown locally.

She knew, of course, of my love for Randy.

“You’re a strange woman,” Laura said one Sunday as we watched the second half of a Vikings game at “Sports Alive,” a bar resplendent with dozens of television screens. (We usually had to miss the first half of the games due to my meal site work.)

“Why is that?”

“You love him, I know that,” she explained. “Yet, you know you can’t have him.”

“I know, Laura, but he’s such a darling boy, and his wife, Carmen, is such a sweet person,” I said. “They deserve only the best. They’re having a baby. Carmen called me and said it’s going to be a girl and wondered if I’d mind if they named it Julie. They said I had helped them find each other. They’re so much in love.”

“You’re sweet,” she said.

I leaned over and kissed her; it was an affectionate, but chaste kiss. We were girlfriends and had shared some time in bed together. I loved cuddling into her ample body and she loved to caress my daintier one. Our sex was tepid, but warm and comforting.

Chapter 20: New Expectations

Laura and I soon began spending weekends together, partly to occupy our free time and also because we had become comfortable together.

“Why don’t you stay the night with me?” I asked on the first Saturday in December when she and I returned to my place after a day of bumming around together in several antique shops. “Perhaps you’d like to join me at the meal site on Sunday then.”

We slept together, enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies as well as to explore and discover new sexual pleasures; we kissed and caressed, suckled on breasts and tasted our musty, moist orifices voraciously. And how excitedly we orgasmed, screaming and yelling so loud that I worried about our neighbors overhearing our sounds of passion. Yet, as much as we both relished these Saturday night sessions, we both felt an emptiness; we both needed a man to be sharing our beds.

“I will miss you, Julie,” Laura said on the last weekend we spent together before she would head home to be with her family on the Christmas holiday season.

“Me too, Laura. You’ve become so much a part of my life now,” I confessed.

“We need each other,” Laura said, kissing me with a moist, juicy passion as we lay together on Sunday morning, having just awakened from our night of love-making and sleep.

We cuddled together for a few minutes, and then we both got up to shower together and prepare to head out to the meal site where we’d both work for several hours before parting to our respective homes. As suspected, Laura too had become a favorite among the homeless and needy men and women who crowded the meal site each Sunday. She proved to be a good sport, seemingly enjoying the good natured flirting that occurred from men who were pleased to see and chat with another young women. And, Laura was adept at diplomatically warding off the more sinister advances that came from a few of the men.

On the last day of school before vacation, we agreed we’d both face quiet, possibly boring two weeks away from each other. There certainly would be no young men in our lives. I drove Laura to LaGuardia to catch her plane and we both kissed as I stopped to drop her off at the gate. Our kiss had to be quick because I knew I’d be holding impatient drivers if we lingered over it too long. We both had tears in our eyes.

*****
“We’d love to have you join us for Christmas dinner, Julie,” Harriet said during the lunch period on the last day of school before the holiday vacation period. We sat at one of the smaller tables in the busy cafeteria, being forced to lean close to each other in order to carry on a conversation in the din of student laughter, yells and chatter.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Harriet. It’s a time to enjoy your new family. I’ll just be intruding,” I replied.

“Don’t be silly. You’re like one of the family anyway,” she said.

“That’s kind of you, Harriet, but I best not interfere. Besides, I’ll probably hook up with my neighbors again.”

“Have they invited you, yet?”

“I expect they might,” I said. The truth was, however, that Paul and Marian Phillips had thus far not mentioned anything about joining their family for this year.

“They haven’t, have they? Do you even know if they’re having a family Christmas this year, Julie?” she asked.

Harriet knew that I would likely have a lonely vacation period, since I had no immediate family and my closest friends would be either out-of-town or occupied with their own families. I certainly didn’t want to be invited out of pity. Eventually I accepted; it’s hard to resist Harriet’s insistence, as I had learned through the years. Besides, I expected that Barry would be there. It would be nice to see him again.

“Good, that’s settled then. I’ll ask Barry to pick you up, dear, so that you don’t have to drive,” she volunteered.

“Oh that’s not necessary. I don’t want to have Barry go out of his way to pick me up. I can drive.”

“He’ll love the idea, Julie. Besides, some light snow is predicted that day and I know how afraid you are about driving when it’s slippery.”

I smiled. Harriet was well-aware of my fear behind the wheel, even on dry roads. She usually drove whenever the two of us got together, probably because of her impatience with my overly cautious driving. I fastidiously drove under the speed limit, usually causing a backup of frustrated drivers behind me.

“That would be nice of him,” I finally agreed.

*****
I like nothing better than to express my total femininity whenever I can. It’s hard to find lovely and dainty finery when frigid days require often drab layers of warm clothing. I wanted so badly to impress upon Barry how complete a woman I was. He was well aware of my gender change, but thus far had made no reference to it. I loved him for it; whether he believed it or not, he treated me as the young lady I was. I hoped, too, that he truly accepted me as a woman and that he was not being kind merely to please dear Harriet.

We had only two days off before Christmas Day and I spent the twenty-third bustling through stores at the mall for gifts for Harriet and her new family as well as a new holiday outfit for myself. Needless to say, it was a breathless time as shoppers hustled to and fro for their last-minute purchases.

I found a tie for Bart at a price I thought was outlandish, but I felt its subtle blue tone would suit him perfectly. I also spent too much for perfume for Harriet, choosing a scent I knew she fell in love with while the two of us shopped several months earlier. I found a maroon turtle neck sweater that I hoped Barry would like, guessing he wore a “large.” I provided gift certificates for other family members.

It was nearly four o’clock by the time I got to Fashion Bug to see what I could find for myself. The atmosphere in the store could only be described as tired, as sales items seemed to be scattered haphazardly on shelves and the clerks were groggy with fatigue. I shared with them the same tired feeling, but the minute I began looking at clothes my spirits improved. Just like a woman, I guess.

“What may I help you with, ma’am?” a well-dressed woman asked as I sorted through a rack of skirts.

“Oh, I need something for a Christmas dinner, something rather pretty and yet warm,” I said.

“Fine, let’s see what we can find for you. My name is Sharon,” she said introducing herself. She was probably in her mid-thirties and she was about my height and had a slender figure.

“It’s supposed to be cold this week and I suppose I should wear slacks, but I hate them. I feel so much better in skirts or dresses.”

“You have a lovely figure, my dear. What are you a four?” she asked.

“Sometimes I need a six. I got a tummy problem,” I said smiling.

“Don’t we all, dear?” Sharon said, laughing a bit.

In line with the holidays, I ended up buying a light gray tunic with red and green trim and a discreet stripe that tracked diagonally. The tunic came down to just above my knees and I bought navy blue tights designed to keep my legs warm. The tunic flared nicely below the waist, and I was fully aware it would accent my legs that everyone commented resembled those of a fashion model.

“Is that too sexy for a family get-together?” I asked.

“Not really,” Sharon said. “You have lovely legs and it’s a shame not to show them, dear.”

To be sure, I loved the look and it truly felt marvelous. I wondered, however, how Barry would like it. Would it look too suggestive to him?

*****
On Christmas Eve, Paul Phillips called and invited me to join his family for their Christmas Day celebration, just as he had the previous year. He seemed truly disappointed when I said I was invited to join Harriet’s new family.

“Of course, you must go there, Julie, but I know the kids will miss you,” Paul said after I gave him my regrets. He also apologized for asking me so tardily, but explained there had been uncertainty whether to host it this year.

“And I’ll miss seeing them again, Paul,” I said, remembering the fun I had with two of his granddaughters, the teen-aged Maryann and the young Wendy.

“Maybe you can stop over before you go to Harriet’s. We’re starting about one o’clock.”

Both Maryann and Wendy rushed to hug me when I got to the Phillip’s home about one-thirty on Christmas Day, almost knocking me over in the excitement. Both were dressed in Christmas finery, with five-year-old Wendy in her white baby-doll dress with green trim charging me exuberantly, and sixteen-year-old Maryann grabbing me in an intense hug.

Fortunately I had handed over the cherry cake to Paul as I came into the front door, or it would have been crushed before the hugging began. I had hurriedly baked it as a gift for the family; it was a duplicate of the cake the Phillips clan had enjoyed at the previous Christmas.

“I’m so happy you came over, Julie. I wanna talk to you,” Maryann said as she hugged me.

“Come on Maryann, don’t hog Julie from all of the rest of the family,” her mother, said breaking us apart and giving me a warm hug.

“You look so cute, dear,” Jean said. She was the oldest of the Phillips four children and the mother of both Maryann and Wendy.

“Not too sexy, is it?” I asked.

“No, it’s got a high neck line and what’s wrong with showing your legs, dear?” Jean said. “I only wished mine were as lovely as yours.”

After greeting the rest of the family, Maryann steered me off and led me to an upstairs room that Paul and Marian Phillips used as an office. “This used to be mom’s bedroom, along with Aunt Debbie,” Maryann explained.

In the past year, the teenager had grown taller and had lost the baby fat that she had carried with her the previous Christmas. She had obviously matured and she filled out a dark red cocktail dress; she was developing a trim waist with burgeoning breasts and long, athletic legs. She wore modest sandals with coffee-colored hose.

“You’re quite lovely Maryann, and you look so happy, too. Not like last year,” I said.

The girl laughed. “I was pretty grouchy last year, wasn’t I?”

“I guess you were, but you soon warmed up once we began playing with Wendy,” I said, fondly remembering how well we had connected.

“I’ve gotten over that boy now and I’m no longer mad at Phil,” she said, explaining how she had progressed since last year. She had broken from her boyfriend just before last Christmas after he had been seen with her best girlfriend, Philomena, whom everyone called “Phil.”

“You must have a new boyfriend now, Maryann. You seem so happy,” I volunteered.

“Not really, Julie, but I’ve got a whole lot of friends, both boys and girls,” she said. “I’ve gotten interested in immigration now and I’m working with a Latino group. I’m learning so much.”

“Hey, that’s cool. You’ve got plenty of time for getting serious with a guy,” I said. This sixteen-year-old girl seems to have her head on straight, I thought.

“How about you, Julie?” Maryann asked.

“Not right now, dear, but I’m quite happy,” I said.

Wendy bounded in, carrying a new doll. “Look what Santa brought me,” the youngster said, holding it up to show to Julie.

“She’s a pretty doll. What’s her name?” I asked.

“Julie,” she said, an impish smile filling her face.

“She named it after you,” Maryann explained.

“Why me, Wendy?”

“’Cause the dolly is so pretty, just like you,” the child said.

I couldn’t resist hugging the tyke.

I soon made my apologies to the Phillips and their family and left to get ready to be picked up by Barry.

*****
Upon her marriage to Bart Templeton, Harriet moved into the Templeton family’s home, a century-old three-story monster of a house in an aging neighborhood once populated by near-wealthy, professional families. The houses were all large and drafty and many had been remodeled tastefully while others like the Templeton’s home retained the well-worn woodwork, ornate moldings and kitchens of one hundred years ago.

It had been an ideal home to raise the Templeton’s four children, giving them ample space to play and run about and for Bart to keep a home office. Since his wife’s death several years earlier, Bart had lived alone in the huge house, having closed off several bedrooms to save on heating costs.

"Maybe, we should set up our own home, Harriet,” Bart had suggested during their engagement.

“Oh, Bart, I don’t know. Your kids love the house so much and the grandkids, too,” she had protested.

“You don’t mind living with all of our family’s memories?” he asked.

“No, I don’t, since I know they’re happy memories for you. But if you’d feel better moving out, I’m OK with that, too.”

“For now, I’d like to stay there,” he said.

Harriet had told me about the conversation before their wedding, having wondered whether she was wise to move into a house where there were so many memories of Bart’s first wife. I had advised her to give it a try; I had told her that Bart seemed a perfectly reasonable and generous man and one who would give full consideration to Harriet’s desires. Thus far in their marriage, it seemed, Bart was proving to be just exactly the sweet man he had been before the ceremony.

Having picked me up as planned, Bart’s son, Barry, led me out of the cold and into the warm, festive house where I was greeted with the din of laughter and blurs of human beings of all ages scattered about the foyer, living room and dining room of the first floor. A large pine tree, decorated heavily with old-fashioned lights and ornaments dominated the front window of the living room. The tree reached to the high ceiling.

As went entered the room, the talking and laughter stopped. I felt a sudden tinge of fear, certain that everyone in the room was staring at me. I’m sure I was blushing as Barry helped me off with my parka; I hoped the family would believe my red face came from the freezing temperatures.

Barry had warned me on the drive over that I would likely be scrutinized by the family. “I’m the only one in the family who isn’t married, and they look at all my girlfriends as my future wife.”

“Oh, my, Barry, we hardly know each other,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed. “It’s the furthest thing from my mind. I’m just picking you up ‘cause Harriet said you don’t like driving in this weather.”

“Oh?” I said. For some reason, his words hurt me, even though I should be grateful for his kindness in picking me up. I should have no expectation of expecting anything more from him; yet, Barry certainly was a handsome, desirable young man.

“Julie, I’m sorry. That sounded bad, as if I wouldn’t be proud to have a pretty girl like you as my girlfriend.”

“No, no, no. That’s OK. Thank you for driving me. You’re kind.”

I felt exposed as I stood there, probably looking like a timid schoolgirl, suddenly concerned that I had dressed too suggestively in such a short-skirted dress.

Thankfully, Bart Templeton rushed to my side. “Hi folks,” he loudly addressed his family. “I think most of you remember Julie from our wedding. She was the bridesmaid.”

Bart put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the house, individually reintroducing me to Barry’s one brother, Bradley and his wife, and to his two sisters, Elaine and Emma and their husbands. Barry explained that the boys were given names starting with “B” in honor of Bart and the girls given names beginning with “E” for their mother, Ellen. Some nine grandchildren ranging in age from two to sixteen were scattered about the house.

Chaos reigned in the house through the gift-giving and the buffet dinner that followed; while beer and wine were available in the kitchen, few of the family partook of the alcoholic beverages, with the exception of Emma’s husband, Justin, who seemed to make it a personal goal to drain a bottle of merlot on his own.

*****
As I watched the family members – mainly the children – open their gifts, I sat quietly on a comfortable side chair with Barry next to my side, seated upon an ottoman. Though Harriet had stressed that I need not bring any gift, I was glad that I did, as I distributed the gifts I had purchased just two days earlier. They all seemed pleased with my choices, particularly Barry who immediately donned the turtle-necked sweater I had given him. I grew warm and contented as I enjoyed this family celebration. It was so great to be welcomed into a family just as I had been by the Phillips next door.

Months earlier, and just a few weeks after the wedding ceremony, Harriet told me that she had informed Bart and his children of my background even before the event. At first, I was angry with her, but she reasoned, “Look, Julie, your background is not necessarily a state secret and someone in the family might bring it up. I thought it best to hit the truth head-on.”

It was true that my return to teaching after my transition was known, thanks to the publicity at the time; yet, I knew most people forgot that brief moment of my notoriety and that I had been fully accepted as a woman. In the end I agreed that Harriet was probably right and the proof in her wisdom had been shown in how completely the family had accepted me as Julie, Harriet’s best girlfriend and a logical choice to be bridesmaid. “All of Bart’s kids understood the situation, once I explained it to them,” Harriet told me.

The only members of the family that treated me with any degree of coldness were Emma’s husband Justin and their eldest son, Edward, who was a surly fifteen-year-old. Fortunately, both of them had thus far avoided me at the wedding events and at the Christmas gathering. I noticed, however, that Justin who had been hitting the wine pretty heavily was getting noisier as the celebration continued and had gotten into a loud argument with Bradley, Barry’s older brother, over whether gays should be allowed to marry. Emma tried in vain to quiet her husband as the scene grew more and more unpleasant as Justin’s voice raised in volume. I found it uncomfortable to listen to the blustering of the red-faced Justin.

“I going to the bathroom,” I whispered to Barry and got up from the chair. I had to step around several of the kids who were sprawled on the floor, trying to do so as to not draw attention.

“And where are you going, Miss or Mister Julie?” Justin thundered, pointing at me. “Who would ever want to marry a pervert like you?”

I turned in shock, almost stumbling over four-year-old Katherine, one of Bradley’s children, who was beginning to cry, watching her father facing the rage of the bombastic Justin.

“Now, Justin, that’s enough,” Bart intervened. “Julie is a guest in this house and she should be treated as such.”

Emily got up to confront her husband, but he rose from his chair, pushing her aside. “Look someone in this family has got to stand up for what’s right. A thing like that is polluting this family,” Justin said, now standing. He was a burly man and well over six feet tall and towered over the room.

“But . . .” I tried to say something to fight back, but instead broke into tears.

“Now, Julie, dear, we’ll handle him,” I heard Barry say. He was standing at my side, holding me as I sobbed. I laid my head into his chest and he pulled me close to him.

“If you think that thing is a woman Barry, that makes you a pervert,” Justin yelled.

“Look you idiot, I’m no pervert and you know it and I’d be pleased to have Julie as my wife if she thought I was worthy of her,” Barry yelled back.

With that, Barry turned his head down to kiss me. It was a long, passionate kiss and I soon settled into his embrace as I heard applause in the room.

When we broke apart, I looked to see Emma lead her husband Justin and son Eddie out of the room. Bart and Harriet both apologized for Justin’s behavior, but I replied they had nothing for which to apologize.

“It was just the wine talking,” I said.

“No, it’s Justin, but Emma loves him and so he’s part of the family,” Bart said. “He’s truly very good with the family otherwise except for his screwy opinions.”

“Maybe, he might even learn to understand me,” I said.

“If you’re ever to be part of the family, he’ll soon learn to like you Julie, I’m sure,” said Elaine, Bart’s other daughter. “And we agree with Barry. You’d make a great wife for him.”

“Now, sis, don’t jump the gun here,” Barry said. “Julie and I hardly know each other.”

“But you said you’d be pleased to marry her, didn’t you?” Elaine queried, smiling and winking at Julie.

“I would be, but we should get to know each other first, Em,” Barry said.

“Barry’s right, we don’t really know each other, but I like what I’ve seen so far,” I said, smiling.

Barry turned to address Elaine: “You know I said that to defend Julie and to shut Justin up.”

I was momentarily shocked. “So you wouldn’t want to marry me? I’m not good enough for you? I’m a freak, is that it?” I said, using a teasing tone.

“No . . . no . . . no. I didn’t say you’re a freak and ‘yes’ I’d love to have a girl as pretty as you as my wife.”

“Come on you, two,” Harriet intervened. “We all know Julie for the sweet young woman she is and we all love them both, don’t we?”

I looked about; the entire family was focused in on our conversation. Then, I turned my eyes toward Barry and smiled. The whole scene was unreal: here I was in the arms of a man I barely knew and we were being thrust into marriage. It was hilarious, I thought, and suddenly couldn’t resist laughing, causing Barry to begin to laugh as well.

*****
The snow had begun to fall as Barry drove me home; the roads had become slippery, forcing Barry to concentrate on his driving. I thought about how marvelous it had been for Barry to stand up to Justin and express his appreciation of me in front of his whole family. Of course, I realized, he wasn’t proposing to me; that would have been ridiculous. Yet, was it possible that he was thinking of me as a potential wife? But, hadn’t I given up hope that a man would want me?

Maybe Barry was just playing with me until a woman without my background would come into his life. He certainly must have had many girls in the past; he was great-looking guy who was kind and intelligent. A girl could hardly ask for anything more. We had a long goodnight kiss in his warm car, but he resisted my invitation to come in for a drink. I began to feel that he had offered to drive me to and from the family event merely to please his stepmother

He surprised me as he led me to my front door and assisted in unlocking the door. He said, “May I call you again? I’d love to see more of you, Julie,”

“Yes, Barry, I’d love that,” I said.

“You know, we need to get to know each other better, don’t we?”

I couldn’t resist impulse to kiss him again. I stood on my toes to kiss him; our kiss was warm and full of passion. Without further words, Barry released me, and held open the door for me to enter the house. He turned to return to his car. I closed the door on him, and ran quickly to the front window, peering out to watch him continue down the walk toward his car as snowflakes wafted down. It was a lovely picture. Could a girl ever be happier?

*****
It turned out to be the sweetest holiday season of my life; Barry and I were together virtually every day that he was free of work responsibilities. We enjoyed our time together, often at my place where we would jointly make dinner, share some wine and finish up in my bed. He soon learned that I now was just like any other woman and that I grew moist and orgasmed noisily and passionately.
And what a man he was! Slow and gentle in his love-making, understanding of a woman’s need for affection first and his own joy in his ejaculation second.

“I know it’s too soon, Julie, but is it OK to ask you to begin considering marriage?” he asked one night as they lay there, holding each other tightly, exhausted from our love-making.

“I thought of it so often this week, Barry, but are you sure, really sure? I’m not a total woman,” I said, tears filling my eyes.

He felt my body move with my sobbing, and began gently caressed me; it was so comforting.

“You are all woman to me, Julie darling,” he said finally.

“But I’ll never give you children, dear, please think of that, think of how disappointed your father will be not to have more grandchildren.”

“Oh my dearest Julie,” he said soothingly. “All he cares is if we’re happy. He loves both of us, I know, and besides we can adopt or we can even arrange to have a surrogate birth.”

“Maybe,” was all I said, and we soon fell asleep in each other’s arms.

*****
During the week, I got an excited call from Carmen, “Julie, Randy and I’d like to drop by with little Julie if you have time. You’ve just got to see her.”

“Oh I’d love to see her and you and Randy,” I gushed.

I had known the Vikings were to play the Giants at the Meadowlands during the holidays and I wondered if Carmen might have taken the opportunity to come to New York to join him and also visit with family.

Two nights later, they showed up at the door with little Julie. I had alerted Barry and suggested he might like to join us and see my namesake as well as to meet Randy and Carmen. I told Barry a little about how I knew Carmen and Randy as students, but left out the details of how close Randy and I had once been. Barry was eager to join us, perhaps lured more by the chance to meet a real live NFL football hero in person than see the player’s wife and child.

Little Julie charmed us all; she would obviously grow up to be a beauty. The girl carried a combination of Randy’s blue eyes and blond hair and Carmen’s dark, warm skin. The child was in the toddler stage where she was curious about everything, causing the young parents to be ever alert. Pictures were taken and there were lots of laughs and “oohs” and “aahs” over little Julie’s antics.

When it was time to leave, there were hugs all around. I worried about how I’d feel when it came time to hug Randy, realizing there would be no way to avoid him, but when we were in each other’s arms I was pleased to find that I felt no emotional stirring, no desire to kiss him and to run my hands over his strong muscular body.

Randy whispered in my ear as we hugged, “Wish you and Barry all the happiness in the world.”

“And you and Carmen and little Julie, too,” I said as we parted.

My true love, Barry, stood at my side, his arm around me.

****
Laura McPherson was actually beaming as she joined me for lunch on the first day in school after the holiday vacation season; there was a sparkle in her eyes that I had rarely seen in the several years we had been friends and co-teachers at Farragut. While she always enjoyed teaching and had grown fond of the kids in her classes, she had not thrived in her personal life. I had been her only constant companion and friend; while I had enjoyed occasional male companionship, she, however, had none. She found some comfort in listening to my own off-and-on relationships, perhaps living through my joys and disappointments. I was always happy to confide in her, knowing her sincere concern for my own welfare.

“You look like you had a great holiday, Laura?” I asked after the two of us had settled in our seats at a table reserved for staff. We sat next to each so that we could converse over the lunchroom noise.

“And you look pretty happy yourself, Julie,” she answered with a smile. “Quite a change from when I last saw you.”

“Yeah, we were both kind of down at the mouth, weren’t we? What brought about your smiling face? I know you weren’t particularly looking forward to spending the holidays with your family, as much as you love them.”

Laura nodded, her dimpled face radiant in the bright fluorescent lights of the room. It was obvious she was looking forward to tell about her apparent good fortune.

“You met a guy?” I asked, guessing that her bright smiles came from that.

“I guess you’d say that,” Laura answered.

“Tell me.”

Laura talked so eagerly and fast that Julie had to ask her to slow down as she related that one of the boys in her hometown, a mountain of a kid who played offensive tackle on the high school team and later went on to the State University where he starred, ran into her at the local supermarket and asked her out on a date.

“We went out almost every night after that and we saw the New Year in together,” she gushed.

“I’m so happy for you.”

“It seems he liked me while we were in high school, but he was a year ahead of me and was dating another girl so he never asked me out. I guess that relationship ended after he graduated. And guess what? He’s starting a job in a few weeks right here . . . well in New Jersey, that is. I think we clicked. I can hardly wait ‘til he gets here.”

“That’s great,” I added.

“And what’s your news? Did you hear from Michael again?”

“No, that’s over for sure, but you know I mentioned that Harriet’s husband has a son, Barry?”

“Yes, you said he seemed nice,” Laura said, smiling. “You mean he . . . ?”

“Yes, we’re just perfect together.”

“That’s so sweet,” Laura said.

“Do you think maybe a double wedding might be in the offing?” I said, giggling.

“Isn’t it a bit soon for that, Julie?”

“Well we girls can dream, can’t we?”

The End