Maybe Butterscotch will be your favorite flavor, too!

It's a Hollywood romantic comedy from meet-cute (he was doing yard work covered in grass clippings, she's a spoiled rich girl who gets what she wants) to a madcap proposal with adventures on the way as Davey the boy becomes Kissy the girl that men are willing to fight over.

Davey knew he shouldn't have worn his mother's hat to do yardwork in, but being a redhead, he didn't need to get burned. And he certainly didn't need anymore butterscotch freckles...

 

Part 1 - Melrose

Chapter 1 - Yardwork

I always hated yard work. Sweaty all over, itching from grass clippings getting inside your clothes, working outside in hot weather or cold—what’s to like? I’m a ginger, so the day I went over to mow Dr. Herlihy’s huge lawn, I wore long pants and long sleeves, sunscreen, gloves, and a wide hat. The forecast for late June in the Hollywood Hills topped out at seventy-eight because of lingering June gloom.

I wouldn’t smother in the heat—save that for July and August—but the worst thing about the outfit I put together had to be the hat. My own baseball caps wouldn’t cut it, not enough neck or ear protection. Collar-length red hair (I hadn’t had a haircut since school pictures in October) would not stop the burning sun. But the hat!

One of Mom’s, of course, a wide-brimmed, paper-straw yellow confection with lace and a pink ribbon, it sat on my head that morning and mocked me. I had debated tearing off the ribbon and lace, but I couldn’t mutilate Mom’s hat. I’d just have to put up with it and hope none of my ruder friends saw me wearing it.

But a lot of them were out of the area for the summer, anyway. Off on vacations or making trips to college campuses.

Me and a few of the other stay-behinds would be gaming at Marty Busch’s later. I looked forward to it. We had a long-running role-playing game going and my main character, Eleanor of Caledonia, was going to be leveling up soon and eligible to claim her family title of Countess of Skye.

We were all nerds in the group, friends in high school, and already some of us had left the group to go to college. This might be the last summer enough of us could gather every week to game, eat nachos and make excuses for our inability to get dates.

I planned to attend junior college in the fall, probably LA City College, the main campus of which was less than two miles from home. It was straight down Vermont Avenue, which was only a block from my house and had a bus stop right there and a subway stop too. Yeah, LA has a subway.

Tuition was cheap, about $1000 a semester, Mom said she could afford that with help from my dad. I’d probably still have to have a job like lawn care or flipping burgers, but I could live with my mom to save money. It was so close, I could take the Metro, get a bus, ride a bike or even walk. I didn’t have a car or even a license but living in central LA meant I didn’t really need one.

The only thing about going to college was, I had no idea what I wanted to study. Certainly not lawn care. I paused in the shade of a cypress hedge and wiped sweat off my brow. I took the hat off to let my head cool a bit, then put the silly frou-frou thing back on.

Something clued me in that I was being watched. I scanned my surroundings and spotted a white Mercedes convertible cruising slowly down the street with a blonde in big sunglasses looking right at me. (Well, with the glasses, it was hard to tell what she was looking at, but she faced me directly.)

I debated waving, and ended up making some vague gesture with my hand. She immediately sped up and looked away. Nice car, I thought. Nice looking girl, too. Probably way out of my league. It was good that I had scared her off. Right. I went back to running an edger around the bricked-in bases of the podocarpus trees.

Ms Mercedes had been heading up the hill, toward where the real mansions could be found. Up where people had full-time gardeners, or contracted gardening services—not just some kid hired out of high school because his mom worked in their office.

I sighed and fantasized briefly that the blonde would come back and offer to take me somewhere for a nice cold drink. I’d like to get a better look at her, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t want the cold drink more.

Ten minutes later, while bagging some of the lawn waste, I looked up again. And there she was, about forty feet away on the sidewalk. Blonde hair fell around her shoulders in waves. Her big sunglasses hid her eyes, but her lips were red, and sparkling hoops hung from her ears. Flat multicolored stones made a necklace. Her blouse was simple, sleeveless, and bright yellow, like her hair.

Her waist was trim, and her arms bare except for a bracelet on her left wrist that matched her necklace. She wore pale blue shorts that somehow reminded me of an old movie. Her shoes were white leather but flat-heeled, and she had a clutch purse—also white leather—in one hand.

She put one hand up to shade her eyes and called out to me. “Are you—,” she began, but changed her mind. Instead, she asked, “What’s your name?”

I was really beginning to regret wearing Mom’s hat. Maybe she thought I was a girl. How embarrassing. I answered, “Davey,” and then wanted to just shoot myself. Why hadn’t I said Dave or David? Davey was some kid’s name. Okay, I’m not very tall—in fact, this girl wearing flats was at least a couple inches taller, but I was nearly eighteen, a grown man.

She smiled at me, and I smiled back. “You’re out of high school, aren’t you?”

I still smiled, nodding. “Sure,” I said. I’d graduated in early June.

“You’re not one of Dr. Herlihy’s kids or—or grandkids, are you?” She glanced up at the doctor’s house then back to me.

“Uh, no,” I said. “My mom works in his office down on Wilshire.”

She nodded. “I see.” She peered at me closely. “Your freckles are the color of butterscotch,” she said.

Well, I knew that. Some wit or half-wit in the school annual staff had put down ‘Butterscotch’ for my school nickname, but none of my friends called me that. They would certainly have shortened it to Butt, so thank God for small favors that it hadn’t occurred to them.

“How much longer before you’re done?” She waved vaguely at the lawn, moving closer.

Huh? Why would she want to know? I squinted, judging how much work remained. “Maybe an hour, half-hour? I’ll be done by eleven at the latest.” It’s always good to get an early start on this kind of outside work in the summer.

She came up close enough to stick out her hand. “I’m Marjorie, Marjorie Lords—not the actress.” She showed dimples and perfect teeth.

The actress reference went over my head, but I stuck out my hand and she shook it firmly. “I’m -uh- Davey Kissee.” Davey again, ow!

“Kissy?” she asked.

“Uh- no, it’s ki-ZEE.”

“Oh.” She showed her dimples again. “Kissee, the one who has been kissed.” She said it kiss-EE.

“Uh?” I didn’t want to correct her a second time.

She stepped still closer and kissed me. On the cheek, but still. I almost fainted.

She pointed at herself. “Kisser.” Then at me. “Kissee.” She laughed, a musical gurgle that sounded so sexy.

“That’s…” I wanted to say, that’s not what it means, it’s a place in Scotland, but I found myself grinning stupidly.

She turned and walked away, heading toward her car, which I now saw was parked at the curb. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she called to me. “You can go out with me for a bite to eat then, can’t you?”

“Uh-yeah!” I agreed. I watched her get in her car, wave at me, and drive away. I waved back, just a little late.

“Wow,” I said. A tall, beautiful woman who was probably several years older than me had just asked me for a date. After kissing me and making a joke. “Wow?” I repeated. It was hard not to question my luck.

Then I got busy, determined to finish the yard work before Marjorie showed back up. I was done in less than half an hour, ending up by piling bags of refuse into the correct dumpster. Now that I had the time, I dug my phone out of my pocket and texted Marty Busch.

dude i don’t think i’m making it to game tonite
wassup?
got a date
liar roflmao
dude this older chick asked me out
now I know youre lying
truth
no, whats really happening
i got a date
with a real person
yes damit
wtf dude — davey we need your cleric
you can play her for me
aw shit u serious
please
….
i got a date man
ok ok
thx
your characters are always chicks - you sure youre dating a chick tonite
f u
lolz
l8r

Canceling going to our regular Thursday night game could be premature. Marjorie might not be planning more than just sharing a Coke, but if things developed the way I hoped, I wouldn’t have time to beg off later.

And since Mom knew—or thought—that I’d be heading directly to Marty’s after the yard work, she wouldn’t be expecting me home until late. Besides, I recalled her saying something about her and her girlfriends catching some movie in Westwood.

Maybe I should run home and ditch this stupid hat, I asked myself. We lived four blocks south and twice that many west, almost due south of Griffith Park. Too far, those were long blocks, the round trip might be more than half an hour, and if Marjorie came to pick me up while I was gone, I might miss her.

Why did she ask me out? Had that really happened? I’m not ugly or anything but face it, I’m a short, skinny gamer geek just out of high school. She must be six or seven years older, way richer—she drives a Mercedes—and she’s hot. I’m not, and I know it.

After collecting my pay from the housekeeper, I found some shade under a sycamore near the street and sat on the grass. I pulled back my long sleeves, examining my arms to see if I had picked up any burn, but no. I checked the legs out too, same pale-orangey skin with lots of slightly darker freckles. Butterscotch-color was as good a description as any.

I dug some grass out of my socks, pulled them up, and rolled my pants legs back down. It sucks being a Californian who can’t tan.

Marjorie certainly wasn’t interested in me for my demonstration of any fashion sense. Was she just a cougar on the prowl for young meat? I’d better stop thinking like that, I told myself, or I won’t be able to stand up without embarrassment.

She’d be awfully young to be called a cougar. Usually, that meant a woman who was at least in her thirties. She might be older than she looked, but I didn’t think so. This was LA, the Mecca of plastic surgery, and everyone could recognize the signs that someone had had work done. Her neck was super smooth, the same for the backs of her hands. No, that face is the one she grew into.

---

She watched me with sideways glances as she drove. “I like your hat,” she said with dimples. “It suits you. Not many guys would have the nerve to wear it.”

 

Part 1 - Melrose

Chapter 2 - Traffic

Her car pulled up so quietly that I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been watching. Not a sound. Does Mercedes make an electric convertible? Not even in my world of speculation—I literally had no idea.

She smiled at me from the driver’s seat. “Get in, Kissy,” she said, laughing at me. “Do you like salads?”

I hopped up from where I sat on the grass and opened the passenger door. “Sure, I guess,” I said. Closer to the car, I could hear a bit of engine noise, so it wasn’t an electric, just—just an incredibly expensive car with a quiet motor.

Awestruck, I slipped into the seat and she motioned I should buckle up. I did so before closing the door. The leather interior was as soft as a well-worn cliché and there were real wood accents in the panels of the dashboard.

“You look like you eat salads,” she remarked as we pulled away from the curb.

I blinked. No reply even occurred to me.

She watched me with sideways glances as she drove. “I like your hat,” she said with dimples. “Not many guys would have the nerve to wear it.”

The stupid hat. I’d almost forgotten about it. “Ah, it’s my Mom’s hat. I needed something to wear… to keep… the sun… off.” I sort of trailed off there, realizing that I was threatening to reach a depth of stupidity I had seldom managed before.

“Because you’re a vampire?” she asked with a straight face.

I probably spluttered and she laughed.

“You’re a redhead,” she let me off the hook. “My mom’s a ginger, too. Can’t stand the sun. Starts peeling in like, ten minutes.” She took three turns, accelerating, and we were on Los Feliz going about five miles an hour over the speed limit.

She held her right arm out to me. “I burn too if I’m not careful. But I got this great lotion when I was in Norway.” Her skin was the color of dulce de leche, soft caramel, almost butterscotch. “I can get a tan now, it’s great. I don’t know what the stuff is made of, reindeer schmaltz maybe.”

She laughed so I laughed too. “We’ll get you some and maybe you can enjoy more sun, huh?”

“Huh?” I said. She spoke to me as if we had known each other for a long time, as if we were buds. It confused me.

She took the left onto Western at speed, the car didn’t lean a millimeter, and we sped past the lane that led back toward Mom’s apartment. I didn’t even glance that way, keeping my eyes on this fascinating woman.

“Something I haven’t asked yet,” she mentioned. “How old are you, Kissy?”

Apparently, I had a new nickname. It wasn’t the first time I had heard it, but on her lips, I kind of liked it. “Huh?” I answered her question with all the intelligence I could manage.

“Your age,” she laughed. “You said you're out of high school, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m eighteen, well….” I hesitated. “That is, I will be on July seventeenth.”

“Eighteen on the seventeenth,” she said. “I’ll remember that,” she promised, showing her dimples again.

If I got much harder, I thought, I’d never be able to get out of the car.

“With your cute face, I suddenly realized you might be younger than I thought,” she admitted.

I had a cute face? Well, I had gotten mistaken for a middle schooler as recently as the week before I graduated.

I wasn’t keeping up my end of the conversation but she didn’t seem to mind. I couldn’t ask her how old she was but maybe something that gave a hint. “Are you in college?” I ventured.

“Not now,” she said. “Got my degree and I’m just coasting.”

College graduate, okay. She’s at least twenty-one. “What’s, uh, what’s your degree in?”

“Psychology,” she said. “I got my M.A. But I’ve no desire to do anything with it. I sure don’t want to go to the hassle of getting a doctorate.”

I boggled quietly. Her age estimate went up at least two more years.

“Do you have any hobbies?” she asked.

I waggled a hand. “Gaming. Reading. Nothing strenuous.”

She laughed. “Video games? SciFi?”

I shrugged. “Video games, sure, but I do a lot of tabletop RPGs, uh, role-playing?” She nodded. “And I’ll read anything. Cereal boxes, government brochures, manwa which are like Korean comic books.”

She gave me a careful look. “You read Korean?”

“No, just look at the pictures and write my own story in my head.”

She laughed again. “I used to be into cosplay myself. I went to Con as Beetlejuice, like ten years ago.”

By Con I took her to mean Comic-Con International in San Diego. Even if I could afford to go, scoring tickets was kind of a lottery prize, so I had never been. Cosplay was ike role-play and I imagined her in the striped suit and white face paint. “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice,” I said. She liked that.

We waited at a light and two morons in a classic GTO pulled alongside. The driver revved his muscle car, looking down at me and mouthing something. I deciphered his meaning over the engine noise. “Do you girls want to get some pizza?” he was asking.

I moved my hat between him and my face. “Talk to the hat,” Marjorie said, laughing. I kind of laughed too. When the light changed, the Mercedes left the Pontiac behind effortlessly and I put the hat back on my head. Despite it being an open car and our speed, there was almost no wind and we could talk to each other without shouting.

“Was he flirting with you?” she asked.

“I guess he was trying,” I admitted.

“He thought you were a girl?”

“Um.”

She laughed again. “It’s the hat,” she said. “I did too when I first saw you but then I noticed your pants and shoes. But it was the hat that got my attention.”

“Huh?”

More dimples. “I wanted to meet the boy who could wear a hat like that.”

I shook my head, appalled for many reasons, not the least of which was that now the damned hat had done me a favor.

“It suits you,” she said.

“No, it doesn’t,” I protested.

“Well, I like to see you wearing it.”

“It’s my Mom’s hat.”

“Maybe we’ll get you something similar of your own.”

“Ack,” I said quietly.

The GTO caught up with us at another light but Marjorie made a right turn on red which the moron in the muscle car couldn’t do because of being in the wrong lane.

I recognized where we were, Melrose Avenue, the premier shopping district for downtown LA.

“We’re in the right place to find both a hat and a salad,” said Marjorie, sounding satisfied.

It’s hard to cringe while buckled into a bucket seat but I think I managed.

Traffic does not move on Melrose, it saunters. We were down to less than twelve miles an hour as an average with lots of stops and starts. I wondered if she were watching for a parking space but she seemed unconcerned.

“Do you have anywhere you have to be?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I was going to go over to a friend’s house to game but I canceled. Mom won’t expect me home till late.”

She smiled. “So we have all afternoon to get acquainted. Evening, too.” Her voice rang with anticipation… and promise.

Oh-em-gee.

She helped calm me down by asking, “So you live with your folks?”

“Just my mom,” I said. “My dad has a newer wife in the Philippines.” I paused, thinking. “I’ve got half-sisters and step-sisters I’ve never met.”

“Oh,” she said. “My parents are divorced too. I’ve lived with my dad and his girlfriend—girlfriends—since I started college. Mom is down in La Jolla with her favorite intern.”

“Intern?”

“You know? Medical doctor with training wheels?”

Okay. Maybe cougar-ocity ran in the family.

“That’s annoying,” she said with emphasis.

“What—what?” I glanced around for a traffic problem.

“Sylvio Frescanotti. Dr. Frescanotti. He looks like a young Alan Alda and Mom can’t keep her hands off him.” She looked sideways at me again. “Of course, I’ve got my own weakness for pretty...boys.”

Pretty? No one had ever called me pretty except as an insult. I blushed as only a redhead can.

Suddenly, Marjorie pulled into a space beside a white-painted curb. Valet parking I realized, seeing the lollipop-shaped sign. She hit the button to close the top as two guys stepped up to open our doors.

The guy on my side offered a hand to help me out and he stood so close I had to take it to have room to stand. I kept my head down to hide my face. “Thank, you,” I said quietly.

“No problem, miss,” he said.

Marjorie grabbed my right hand in her left when she caught up to me on the sidewalk. She laughed. “Kissy, you should see your face.”

“It’s embarrassing,” I complained.

“Wait, wait,” she said pulling me to a halt. She tilted the hat out of the way then bent her face the two or three inches necessary and kissed me on the lips.

Soft, sweet, velvety lips on mine. I couldn’t breathe.

She pulled back and looked down into my eyes. “You’re the one who has been kissed. Feel better?” she asked.

She grinned. “He called you ‘miss,’ I didn’t want to confuse him.”

“You’re confusing me,” I said.

 

Part 1 - Melrose

Chapter 3 - Salad

We moved along the sidewalk, hand in hand. Marjorie still wearing her blue walking shorts, flat-heeled shoes and bright yellow blouse. And me in my yardwork costume of long pants, long sleeves and big girly-looking hat. I wanted to leave the hat in the car but somehow she talked me out of it.

I think she kissed me again.

“Hungry?” she asked, moving away and forcing me to follow.

“Um,” I said, non-committal because I had not been able to get my head around what seemed to be happening. The valet had treated me like a girl but was that because he’d thought I was a girl or because he thought I was—what was the word?—presenting as a girl? Did that make a difference?

And getting kissed—that did seem to make a difference. If I wasn’t vibrating like a tuning fork, at least I wasn’t half-scared out of my wits any more. I wondered if I smelled sweaty; if not from the yardwork then from my near panic at my situation. It probably wouldn’t look good if I tried to smell my armpit. Bad enough what I was wearing, a pink-and-yellow-crowned sparrow in a flock of parrots.

Melrose Avenue is a freaky place, anyway. There’s almost one of every kind of shop you could think of and people from every country on Earth, and elsewhere. There are some who put the fascist back in fashionista, and then some who appear to be sleepwalking…. But there wasn’t anyone wearing a getup anything like mine.

“Let’s eat here,” Marjorie said, steering me out of the flow and through a gate in a railing around a bunch of small tables. The place was called Bistro du Jardin according to the sign and it came complete with a snooty host who put us on a list for an outside table under the name ‘Kissy.’ And yes, Marjorie and the host both pronounced it that way.

We stood in a little waiting area and I felt even more out of place. Some of these people wore enough bling to finance a South American revolution and all of them were more fashionable than me. Heck, even Marjorie was dressed down for this crowd.

I realized I was looking at a posted menu when Marjorie pulled me away. “Don’t read that,” she said. “I know what we’re having.”

I nodded, feeling a bit relieved. The bill of fare appeared to be in French and there were no listed prices. My high school Spanish and smattering of household French (Mom’s parents were French-Canadian), not to mention my wallet, were not up to navigating that menu.

While we waited, Marjorie pulled a phone out of her tiny purse and began texting. “I’m just making some appointments for us this afternoon. Hmm?”

“Appointments?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, multi-tasking away as she poked virtual buttons on her high-end machine. “You’re not dressed for an evening of clubbing.” She glanced at me over the phone. “The hat is nice but you’ll have to have more than that to wear.”

My mouth opened but nothing came out. The image her last remark conjured was arresting, or at least, arrestable. I’d been hoping to get rid of the hat but that would be worse. Much, much worse.

The host arrived to lead us to a table right on the edge of the railed-in area with the sidewalk traffic beside us and other oddly matched couples at neighboring tables. A burly man who looked like Brutus from the Popeye cartoons come to life quirked a burly eyebrow at me when he saw my face under the damn hat.

I’m certain I blushed. The man’s companion, a skinny brunette with a long neck and a too-round face mouthed something as she sneered at me. My own eyebrows went up when I realized I could read her lips like I had the goof in the GTO. “Bitch,” she’d said.

What the hell? Had I fallen down a rabbit hole? And as a superpower, reading lips was basically worse than useless. I’d been able to do it for years, but it usually only meant I learned embarrassing things I shouldn’t have had the burden of knowing.

Marjorie ordered for us, something that sounded like ‘salad of comfy turkey’ but probably wasn’t. She also ordered two glasses of wine.

“I’m underage,” I whispered after the waiter had left.

“Not here, you’re not,” she said, reaching across the table to take my hands in hers. “Let’s roll your sleeves up.” She did so quickly, pinning them at my elbows with large golden safety pins she produced from somewhere. “You have such lovely skin,” she remarked.

“Marjorie,” I began but I really had nowhere to go with that. She was tickling the palm of my hand with her nails and I couldn’t think. I was in danger of sitting there opening and closing my mouth with nothing coming out, like a fish on a Sunday morning talk show.

She smiled at me, dimples flashing, then pulled the flat stone bracelet from her left wrist and slipped it over mine. “You need this,” she said.

I gave her a wobbly nod. The bracelet wasn’t uber-girly or anything like that. It was made up of flat-cut multicolor polished stones linked together by gold chains. It looked nice actually and probably had cost more than Mom’s car payment. I didn’t know whether to say thanks, so I did.

The wine came, a delicate pink color in short, stemmed glasses. I took a sip and decided I had never tasted anything like it. The only wine I had had before was a half-glass of red with a meal of spaghetti and meat balls at home with my mom. That had been fruity and insistent, this was delicately sweet, almost like some sort of citrus flower and maybe a bit of vanilla spice.

“Good,” I decided, saying it out loud.

Marjorie laughed. “Glad you approve. It’s a California rosé that’s great with a light meal.” She took a larger sip than I had done and seemed to savor it before swallowing. “Not too sweet, I like that,” she commented.

I nodded again, though I would have liked a glass of water after a morning of thirsty work. You have to ask for water in California restaurants—when the waiter brought the food I’d make the request. “Is this how you live?” I asked Marjorie. “Driving around in your beautiful car and eating in fancy restaurants?”

She laughed again. “Pretty much,” she admitted. “I had a job, with the Bureau of Prisons believe it or not. But I quit and I’m kind of between interests right now.”

Prisons? I found it hard to believe, but she did have a degree in Psych. “What did you do and why did you quit?” I asked because it really was an interesting question.

“Intake interviews,” she explained. “It was boring and horrifying at the same time.” She shook her head. “The lives of some of those people were so far outside my experience that they frightened me, I guess.”

“Didn’t you study this sort of thing in school?”

“Reading about whether twins raised apart develop the same neuroses is a lot different than talking to a woman about why she slipped a knife into the armpit of her sleeping husband.”

That reply kind of shut down conversation for a bit. I made a noise that might have been a startled giggle. It wasn’t at all funny but what kind of appropriate response could there be? I took another sip of wine. Speaking of different life experiences, Marjorie’s were nothing like mine.

The food came, a large bowl of chopped salad decorated with pieces of glistening dark meat turkey. I asked for a glass of water and the waiter replied, “Of course, miss. Would you like a slice of lemon in that?”

“She would,” said Marjorie. “And I’d like a glass, too.” The waiter beamed at us and set off immediately.

I stared at Marjorie, reflecting that my life was getting weirder by the minute. “You called me she,” I pointed out.

She grinned. “He called you ‘miss,’ I didn’t want to confuse him.”

“You’re confusing me,” I said. “With this hat and the bracelet, I guess he didn’t know I’m not a girl. But you do.”

“Mmm,” she said around a morsel of turkey, ignoring me. “This is delicious.”

I took a bite. She was right. The veggies were crisp and sharply flavored, the turkey tender, moist and unlike almost anything else I’d ever had in my mouth, the dressing a light coating of sweet and sour in perfect proportion. Despite my worry about the gender confusion, my next question was about the food. “How do they make this? The turkey….”

“It’s confit,” she said, though I heard the word as ‘comfy’ at first. “It’s made by preserving meat in oil.”

That made no sense to me either, but I didn’t watch a lot of Food Network shows.

Before I could get more explanation, a flamboyantly dressed dark-skinned man made a beeline for Marjorie from where he was being seated at another table. “Dearest!” he greeted her then grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a juicy air-kiss. “So you’re back from your retreat to the wilds of Oregon?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re looking good, Marjorie,” he added before turning to me. “And who is your lovely baby butch?” he asked. “Introduce me to her, sweetie. Rrrrraowr!” The last was a growl from deep in his throat.

As alarming as that was, Marjorie just laughed. “Arno Pink, this is my new protegé, Kissy Davis. Kissy, meet the famous Arno Pink.”

Famous? I’d never heard of him, but found myself incapable of making an intelligent reply. Or even an audible one. Protegé? Kissy Davis!!?

Arno grabbed my hand where it lay on the table, brought it to his lips, and kissed my fingers. “Enchanté, ma petite belle,” he cooed. Then to Marjorie, “She’s darling! Bring her to the club—the queens will eat her up!”

He still had hold of my hand. I pulled on it but he didn’t let go, smiling sweetly at me. What the ever-loving fuck had I gotten myself into?

“Stop flirting with Double Johnson,” Marjorie said. “Unless you want to be dragged away by the hair.”

“Double Johnson?!” I squeaked.

 

Part 1 - Melrose

Chapter 4 - Trending

Arno’s table companion called out to him and the strange Mr. Pink let my hand go and went back to his own table. But not without a parting pat on my cheek and a confidence shared in a stage whisper, “You’re going to have such fun!”

“Toodles,” Marjorie told his back and he waved at her without turning around. The man waiting at his table looked like an ex-professional bouncer who had made it big as a financial consultant, or maybe Dwayne Johnson just beginning a campaign for president.

“Strange man,” I said quietly which caused her to bang her teeth on the water glass.

“Understatement,” she managed to get out. I giggled while she wiped water off her chin with one of the yard-wide green napkins. I didn’t mean to giggle—it deserved more a laugh than that—it just came out that way. It would have been rude to cackle and point.

We continued our meal in peace for a bit, savoring the unusual flavors for my part. I didn’t even know what some of the vegetables that made up the salad were, but it was good. We sipped wine and nibbled on tiny rounds of buttered bread in between trying to chase down the last bites of rocket, bok choy and jicama.

“What do you want to do with your life?” Marjorie asked after we had decided not to have dessert. “Is there any place you would like to go?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t have a car or even a license. I’m not eighteen yet. Thinking about the future is not something I’m good at.”

She snerked.

“What?” I asked.

“Something old people say,” she said. “Youth is wasted on the young. I’m only twenty-five, but I’ve already wasted six years acquiring college degrees I don’t need and have no use for. My family….” But she stopped there and only shrugged when I sent her an inquiring glance.

“Yeah, well,” I said. “I guess Mom would like me to go to college. Improve my chances of getting a job that pays a decent amount. Mom’s a medical tech, a phlebotomist but she wishes she had a degree and could aim higher. She’s been going to classes to qualify as a physician’s assistant.”

“Your mom’s a vampire?” Marjorie was amused. “No wonder you burn in the sun.”

A phlebotomist is someone who draws blood, like for testing, in a hospital or a clinic, and yes, their co-workers call them vampires and they do so themselves, too. I rolled my eyes, it was an old joke in my family; one Dad had made often enough that now he lived six thousand miles away.

“I’m not talented. I have no particular skills, or even interests other than gaming. I’m a latter-day slacker, I guess.”

Marjorie looked at me seriously and said. “You’re beautiful.”

I squinted at her, then pretended to examine her wine glass. “How many of these have you had?” I counted her dimples. One, two.

“You are beautiful,” she insisted when she stopped laughing. “Even an old jade like Arno Pink saw it.”

I wasn’t completely innocent. I’d been hit on by gay guys before. And propositioned in some pretty crude terms. Arno Pink was just a whole new level of that. I shook my head. “How am I beautiful? I’ve got hair the color of rusty aluminum, my skin is covered in pale orange spots, I’m short, I’m skinny, and when the puberty bus left, I didn’t have a ticket.”

“It’s the hat,” she said and we both laughed. “People see the hat and think, only a girl would wear that. And if they look at you as a girl, they see how beautiful you are. I did.”

“But then you saw I was a boy?”

She nodded. “It wasn’t just the rest of your clothes. You don’t move quite like a girl, not even like a tomboy girl. And your voice is high but you don’t talk like a girl, either. Not the right rhythms or word choices.” She smiled slowly. “But you could, easily, with the right incentive.”

A shrill laugh attracted our attention and we both glanced at Arno’s table. Apparently some remark the older man had made caused the Dwayne Johnson clone to gag like he’d tried to swallow a shoe. He recovered, then looked directly at me and winked.

I turned away quickly.

“Stop flirting with Double Johnson,” Marjorie said. “Unless you want to be dragged away by the hair.”

“Double Johnson?” I squeaked. I’d been calling him Johnson after The Rock who he resembled in size at the very least, but to have it confirmed as part of his name was freaky.

“Johnson Johnson,” she confirmed. “He’s a gay porn star, specializing in ‘rough trade’ pictures.”

“I’m not flirting,” I squeaked. “Look, those two know I’m not a girl.”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “You fascinate them. And they can see how beautiful you are.”

“I—you—they…” I stammered. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s true. It’s what intrigued me about you. Here’s this boy with a face that could launch a thousand ‘ships, and he’s completely unaware of it.” She finished off her wine just as the waiter brought the credit slip.

I’d drunk less than half of my wine but nearly all of the water. I wasn’t sure I liked wine yet but I took another sip while she signed for our meal. We both stood when the waiter moved away.

Arno and Marjorie traded finger waves as we threaded our way through the crowded tables and out a different way than we had come in. Johnson, double-or-nothing, sent me a look as hot and smokey as a wood-fired pizza oven.

I took a risk and mouthed at him, ‘I’m not gay.’

He mouthed back, ‘I know. I’ll teach you.’

Arno turned half around to squint a wink at me, too.

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered as we escaped into a hallway leading to parking lots behind the shops and restaurants.

“You said that out loud,” Marjorie remarked, sounding amused.

I just shook my head.

Parts of the lot were railed off with cars parked nose to nose, areas leased to the valet parking service on the main drag. I didn’t see Marjorie’s white Mercedes convertible anywhere but it wasn’t really worth it to look. If we needed it, the valet would fetch it, I was sure.

“I’m not gay,” I pointed out to her for some reason.

“I know,” she said. “But I am.”

I boggled only a little, I’d sort of figured that out from things she had been saying.

She went on. “I started calling myself a lesbian in college. But I guess I’m bisexual enough to get a hell of a crush on you.”

Something stirred in my pants. “You—I—me!?” I exclaimed.

“Uh huh,” she said, taking my hand again and leading me down a lane between the parked Bugattis and Teslas toward a building that actually fronted on one of the side streets. “I’d like to show you how beautiful you are—to me.”

The building had two signs and two entrances on this side. One said, ‘Le Trend’—what was with all the half-French on Melrose? The other read, ‘Casual Me’. From the colors and what I could see in display windows, they were both fashion clothing for teen girls and twenty-something women.

“You want to dress me up as a girl?” I wasn’t really asking or even guessing. She’d hinted at it already.

“I’ll pay for everything. And—how much do you get for mowing lawns?”

“Fifty bucks for one the size of Dr. Herlihy’s,” I said. “He’d have to pay more for a gardening service that had their own equipment but he has the tools and lawnmowers…” I realized I was babbling and shut up.

“I’ll pay for everything,” she repeated. “Dinner tonight, everything. All you have to do is wear what I buy for you and let me teach you a few things about how to walk and talk. And a makeover. I’ll give you two hundred dollars, besides.”

I started to answer. “N-n—”

She interrupted. “Five hundred dollars.”

“You’re crazy,” I managed to say. Five hundred dollars? Was this like—like prostitution? It felt that way.

She dimpled up. “You didn’t say no.”

“I was going to say, no piercings, nothing permanent.” I hadn’t said yes, either.

“Right. And no tattoos.” She looked at me, up and down. “You don’t have any piercings or tattoos now, do you?”

“No!” I emphasized that. “None, and I don’t want any.” I had another thought. “You’re not going to get in trouble for this are you?”

“For what? Buying you clothes?”

“I dunno. Contributing to the gender confusion of a minor? I’m just seventeen,” I reminded her.

“That’s only going to be a problem if we have sex in the next three weeks,” she said with a perfectly straight face. “Was that any part of your plans?”

“I guess not,” I admitted. “Maybe some of my fantasies.”

She laughed, holding the door open for me as we entered Le Trend. She pointed at a window mannequin. “I haven’t seen your legs yet but I’m guessing you would be hot in a little black dress like that one.”

I closed my eyes, not looking at it. If I didn’t look at it, I couldn’t imagine a skinny, red-headed boy wearing it. “I haven’t agreed to this yet,” I pointed out.

“But you’ve quit raising objections,” she said. “And I’m prepared to go higher if I have to.”

“It’s obscene that you have that kind of money to spend on some crazy idea like this.”

She leaned toward me, and naturally, I leaned in her direction.

“We haven’t got to the obscene parts yet,” she whispered.

Marjorie said, “We’re dressing my baby brother up as a girl for a party tonight.”

“Not your idea?” Deirdre asked.

I shook my head. “I still don’t remember agreeing to this,” I said.

 

Part 1 - Melrose

Chapter 5 - Shopping

Marjorie headed directly to the lingerie department where I began practicing my cringing. The sum total of taboo femininity in sight overwhelmed my brain and my consciousness threatened to strobe out.

“She’s serious,” I muttered to no one.

She had a bra in her hands and approached me, saying, “Let me use this to get an idea of your sizes.”

“Agh!” I mentioned but she wrapped it around my chest and noted how much it overlapped.

“Probably a thirty,” she said. “You are tiny!” She discarded that item and tried another. “Keep your arms up,” she ordered me. Then, “Yeah, and an A-cup will be big enough.”

A salesgirl approached, a teen who might have attended my high school last year. Not that I would have recognized her in my current state if she had, my brain was functioning on the level of a cartoon chipmunk. “Can I help you?” she inquired. Her name tag identified her as Deirdre. I didn’t think the chipmunk knew anyone named Deirdre.

“Sure,” Marjorie said. “We’re dressing my baby brother up as a girl for a party tonight.”

They both laughed and I died a little more. Baby brother?

“Not your idea?” Deirdre asked me.

I shook my head. “I still don’t remember agreeing to this,” I said.

Marjorie laughed again. “Think of your half of the thousand dollars. We all put up money for a prize for the prettiest boy at the party,” she amplified her lie. “My boyfriend won’t do it so I roped in my brother.” At this point, she leaned over and gave me a sisterly kiss on the cheek. “I’m paying for it all out of my half, so we better win.”

“Guk?” I noted. Her audacity and ease at prevarication appalled me.

Saying she was paying for it all and that I would get five hundred if I won got Deirdre on her side. The salesgirl quickly got into the spirit of things, producing a padded panty, little silicone bra enhancers called chicken fillets, patterned hose so I wouldn’t have to shave my legs, various cheap bangles and beads and the previously mentioned little black dress.

“I’m not going to wear a dress,” I protested. But Marjorie dragged me toward the changing room to try everything on.

Deirdre promised to keep anyone else out, though we were the only ones in the store at the moment. “Big sisters are the worst,” she commiserated with me, giggling. “I’ve got two. So bossy!”

Got that right, I thought. Marjorie began stripping my clothes off before we got the curtains closed.

My shirt was already off when she pulled down my pants. “I was right,” she gloated. “You’ve got fabulous legs and you probably wouldn’t even have to shave. What size shoe do you wear?”

Another embarrassment. I have tiny feet. “Uh, 5-1/2B,” I admitted. I sometimes have to shop for shoes in the kids department because Men’s sizes usually start at 6D.

“Deirdre? Can you find her a low-heel pump in a 7-Narrow?”

“Wow,” commented Deirdre who was about my height. “I wear a 9-Wide.”

“Me, too,” admitted Marjorie. “I can’t believe how small your hands and feet are, baby,” she said to me. Then my shorts came down and she grinned up at me. Yeah, I’m small there, too.

But despite the embarrassing attention, or perhaps because of it, Little Davey was standing tall. Maybe all of 3-1/2 inches sticking up through my scanty pubic curls. “Can you tuck it back?” Marjorie asked. She already had the padded panty pulled up to my knees.

“Not when things are all hard like this—it would hurt,” I protested, keeping my voice quiet. Besides, I hated to admit it but I’d never been fond of touching myself down there. It seemed icky and unclean, especially if things were—excited.

“Crap,” she said. “Well, I don’t want to touch it.” She looked up at me and showed her dimples, whispering, “You’re supposed to be my brother.”

She addressed herself to my brave little soldier. “Meat grinders, ice cubes, barb wire, knives, nutcrackers, pencil sharpeners, sharks,” she said in a threatening voice.

“Hey!” That actually did hurt! I think my balls went up inside me to escape. I felt something like that once when I dove into an ice-cold swimming pool.

“Bread slicing machine,” said Marjorie finished her list. “That seems to have done it.” Little Davey had wilted to no more than half-mast. She started pulling the panties up again. “See if you can push everything up inside,” she ordered me, as bossy as any real big sister.

I tried, reluctantly poking and prodding things down there. It worked surprisingly well. The only real evidence of my male sex, Corporal L.D. and his two privates, went up inside the loose flesh of my crotch leaving only some odd-looking wrinkles.

Marjorie immediately pulled the black satin padded panties up tight, keeping everything hidden. They added two or three inches to my hips and rounded my ass out a bit.

And I now had a crotch as smooth as any girl’s. I felt light-headed.

“If you’re trying on underwear,” said Deirdre from outside the changing booth, “you’ll have to pay for it whether it fits or not.” The curtain did not go all the way to the floor so she probably saw when Marjorie slipped the panties over my ankles.

“It fits.”

“Oh, good. I found some shoes,” the salesgirl said. “Black patent leather Mary Janes with an inch-and-three-quarter heel in 7B and 7C. See which fit.” She pushed two boxes under the curtain.

“In a minute,” said Marjorie. “Let’s get your bra sorted.” She wrapped my chest in the black lace, fastened the hooks in front, spun it around, and pulled the straps up over my arms. The chicken fillets had sticky backs after she pulled off a protective paper. Pulling what little flesh I had there up, she placed the silicone enhancers underneath and then adjusted the fit of the bra.

I looked down. I appeared to have rather modest cleavage and a pair of genuine A-cups. “Holy shit,” I said. I felt my nipples crinkle up in the bra, weird sensation.

“Not hardly,” said Madeline. “Those are some righteous little titties.” She giggled in excitement, the first time I had heard her make such a high-pitched laugh. She turned me with a gentle push so I faced the full-length tri-fold mirror on the back wall of the booth.

A girl in sexy underwear but wearing my face looked back at me. I blinked several times and the girl blinked back, proving she really was me.

“Pantyhose can wait,” said Marjorie. “Your nails are a mess and you’d probably make runs in them. Dee, honey, have you got a measuring tape?”

Deirdre passed a yellow measuring tape through the curtain. “Can I see?” she asked.

“No!” I yelped.

But Marjorie said, “Sure, just don’t open the curtain. You can stick your head through.”

I sat down and wrapped my arms around myself as Deirdre’s head appeared in the opening. “Marjie! I’m just wearing underwear!”

“Pooh,” she said. “Nobody here but us girls.” She laughed and I know I turned bright red.

Deirdre giggled. “You look fine! Great actually. Wear some makeup and you’re sure to win. Wow, you have freckles all over. huh? Did you already shave your legs?”

I shook my head. “Not gonna either,” I said, trying to firm my jaw up so it didn’t look so much like I was pouting in the mirror.

“She doesn’t need to,” said Marjorie. She pried one of my arms away from covering my cleavage and lifted my hand above my head. “See? She has hardly any armpit hair either,” showing my few sad wisps, hardly darker than my skin tone. Sad really.

“Told you I missed the bus,” I complained. It definitely looked like I was pouting.

“Bus?” Deirdre looked confused. “How old are you, -uh-? Fourteen?”

“Yup,” said Marjorie, grinning at me. “Abie is a freshman at Hollywood High but she’s going by Abby tonight. She’s hoping not to meet anyone from her school.”

Deirdre giggled. “Yeah, that might be embarrassing.” Actually, I had gone to John Marshall in Los Feliz and I doubted that any of the geeks and nerds that had been my friends would be anywhere near wherever Marjorie intended to go.

“Stand up,” she ordered, “I want to measure you. Do you know how tall you are?”

“I’m five-five, nearly.” Well, maybe. I stood as tall as I could, still pouting. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t grown any since my freshman year and it was a sore spot.

She used the tape quickly around my augmented bust and hips as well as my chest and waist.

“30-3/4 chest, 32 bust, 28 waist, 31-3/4 hips,” she reported.

Deirdre made motions with her hands, “An hourglass figure,” she giggled.

I pouted at her too but got distracted, staring at my reflection. The girl in the mirror really was me.

“Deirdre, do you guys have a corset or a waist cincher?” Marjorie asked.

“Sure,” the salesgirl disappeared again but was soon back with two more packages of black lingerie. She held them up one at a time, “This one has hooks and zippers, while the other has laces like a traditional corset. It’s also prettier with embroidery and stuff.”

“Damnit,” I muttered. The tight panty was beginning to feel very full in a weird way.

“Do you have a preference, Abby?” Marjorie asked.

I just glared at her.

“Let’s try the lacy one,” said my ersatz sister. “It probably has more adjustment.“ She tapped a size chart on one of the posts of the changing booth. “We want to get her waist down to twenty-six inches, so she’ll fit in a size six.”

Deirdre nodded, “Should be doable. There are steel stays in that one.”

“Steel?” I yelped. “Wait a minute! Is this going to hurt?”

“Oh, yeah,” Deirdre nodded.

“Not at all,” said Marjorie at the same time, smiling with her dimples showing. “It’s just like a nice hug around your middle.”

“Is there an animal you think is particularly like you?”

I blinked. What an odd question. If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be? “An animal? Uh—a chipmunk?”

She turned to grin at me. “I believe it,” she said.

 

Part 1 - Melrose

Chapter 6 - Tight

I already knew that Marjorie could lie with a straight face but when she said that the corset wouldn’t hurt, she told a big fib.

She and Deirdre fitted it around me. It had scoops at the top that fit under my bra. The bra I was wearing, I mean. It closed in the front with something I learned was called a busk, and it laced up in the back where I couldn’t see or reach easily while wearing the damned thing.

Deirdre pulled it snug and that wasn’t so bad. Then Marjorie worked the laces tighter, eventually yanking on them like she was starting a motorboat engine. Something about the design kept the laces from slipping out whenever they were tightened.

I gasped.

“Can you breathe?” asked Marjorie. But she stopped pulling and measured my waist. “Twenty-five and three-quarter. That’s…that’s really good.”

“It’s cutting me in two,” I whined.

“It is not. You’re fighting it. You can’t take such deep breaths. Try to breathe shallow, but not too fast, you’ll get dizzy. Stand up straight, put your shoulders back.”

I just glared at her. “I’m gonna tell Mom that you’re being mean to me.”

She laughed. “Okay, okay. I think it’s tight enough. Let’s see how a size four fits.” She tied off the laces behind me and tucked them in.

I didn’t have the breath to resist so they tried several dresses on me, finally settling on a size four made of some black stretch material with short poofy sleeves and lime green accents. They picked it because it covered the bra straps, shoulders and back, and it fit like another skin, but showed what they thought was adequate cleavage.

I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked hot. Marjorie saw me looking and made that sound Arno had made in his throat. “Rrawwrghr.”

“I’m your little brother,” I reminded her.

She laughed. “Try the shoes on,” she passed them to me and they fit, the 7Bs. The short heel was enough to make me feel taller, which I kind of liked.

She had me practice walking around the store, also standing and sitting in the corset, dress and heels. Only the corset really made this difficult. It not only kept me from breathing deep, I couldn’t bend or twist at the waist like I was used to. The shoes I had no trouble with and caused me to start wondering if I could get some elevator shoes for when I went back to being myself.

I hadn’t really wanted to leave the dressing room. Somebody might see me. The short sleeves left my arms bare and the scoop neckline showed my fake cleavage, something I wasn’t really happy about. And the dress ended six inches above my knees, an incentive to keep my legs together and be careful how I moved, stood or sat.

When some other customers came in, I hurried to the back with Marjorie following me.

“You’re doing okay—better than okay, really,” she said. She had followed me with a bottle of perfume or cologne or something she wanted to try on me. “Why did you dash off suddenly?”

I peered out from behind a rack of faux bomber jackets. “Someone came in. They might see me.” I glared at her. “And keep that stuff away from me,” meaning the bottle in her hand.

She laughed. “Lots of people will see you at the party.”

“What party? There’s not really a party with a prize, you made that up.”

“I made that party up, but trust me, we’ll find a real party somewhere.” And she sprayed me with the stinkum. It was sweet and smelled like flowers.

“Agh!” I commented.

Marjorie laughed and dimpled. She had very forgivable dimples.

“How long do I have to wear this? To win the money?” I gestured at everything. “And did you have to squirt me with that stuff?”

“Just till midnight. And yes, smelling good is part of the package of being beautiful, Cinderella.”

“Ha,” I said, as if that was funny.

“But you don’t have to win it, I’m just going to give it to you.”

“I’m not sure it’s worth it. And I never did agree….”

“I tell you what,” Marjorie interrupted. “I’ll sweeten the pot. You can keep all the clothes and stuff I’m buying for you. And this bottle of perfume, too.”

I just glared at her and she laughed.

“Come here, come over here. You need some jewelry.” She’d taken her own bracelet back and I wasn’t wearing any bling at all. Not that I wanted to.

Whoever had been in the store had left so I went over to where Marjorie was looking at jewelry. Le Trend had one big rack that was all various animals as pins, necklaces, charms, even earrings. “Do you have an animal totem?” she asked.

“Huh?” I was staring at my reflection again, this time in the mirrors near the display.

“Is there an animal you think is particularly like you?”

I blinked. What an odd question. If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be? “An animal? Uh—a chipmunk?” I actually had a genuine connection to a completely different animal, but I didn’t want to bring that up for reasons.

She turned to grin at me. “I believe it,” she said.

“I like chipmunks,” I tried to explain.

“Here,” she said, handing me a long golden chain necklace with a charm in the middle. A little golden chipmunk with green eyes and a hazelnut in its paws.

“Cute!” I exclaimed. Well, it was.

“Let me,” she said, putting the chain around my neck and adjusting it to where the chipmunk dangled just above my fake tits.

Deirdre got into the act and they decorated me like a Christmas tree, bangles and bracelets on my wrists, a necklace of odd-shaped beads in different colors. I even got some rings and clip-on earrings.

They took turns finger combing my hair this way and that but nothing made much difference. “You need a professional ‘do,” said Deirdre.

I rolled my eyes.

It was harder to recognize myself in mirrors now. The girl I saw looked like she might have been popular in school. She might have had friends that went places and did things that didn’t happen in a virtual world. I didn’t know her.

Someone else had come into the store again and I looked for a place to hide. I must have made a noise because Marjorie turned to see what I was doing and we bumped into each other as I practically ran back to the changing room.

She followed, calling out. “For Pete’s sake. Abby?”

I had pulled the curtain closed but she pushed on through it. “Are you crying?” she asked when she found me, sounding astonished.

“No,” I said. “You whacked me across the face with your hair when you turned around so sudden.” I could lie, too.

“Oh, sorry. C’mon, you can’t hide in here all day.” She tugged at my hand. “Let me pay the damages and next stop is the salon to get you a mani-pedi and a makeover.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said. “I didn’t want to in the first place. Where’s my clothes?” She pointed out a Le Trend shopping bag in the corner of the changing room. I snatched it. “Get out,” I said. “I’m changing back, I don’t want the money.”

“Kissy,” she began then changed it to her cover story. “I mean Abby…”

I cut her off. “I’m going back to being me, Davey. I mean David. Or Davey, who cares?” I glanced at the mirror. “I’m not that girl.”

“It scares you doesn’t it?” she said.

It was just the two of us in the changing room, Deirdre was out helping another customer and adding up the tags from the stuff Marjorie had bought.

I nodded, looking at the girl in the mirror who had one hand up to her face.

“Look at you standing there, knees together, butt stuck out, shoulders back, tits forward. I taught you how to do that only five minutes ago. And when you ran, you ran like a girl.”

“In heels and a tight skirt and wearing a damn corset? Of course I ran like a girl.” I wanted to be pissed about it but somehow I couldn’t manage.

“Don’t pout,” she accused. But then she grinned. “You even pout cute.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said. It sounded like whining to me. “How did you talk me into this?” I gestured at what I was wearing.

“It wasn’t that hard,” she said. “Be honest, looking like you did, going to school must have been hell.”

“I—you—no….”

“You were teased and bullied, maybe not so much the last couple of years but middle school? Hell on the playground, right?”

I nodded, wincing. It had been pretty rough until I had hooked up with the other geeks and nerds in my junior year of high school. No one bothered us as long as we stuck together. They made comments—the rich, popular kids. But they left us alone and no one got beat up or thrown in a trash can anymore.

I looked at the girl in the mirror. She was one of the popular kids. Almost beautiful, and hot. I couldn’t believe how hot she looked in her tight dress. “Where were you when I was in the sixth grade?” I asked her.

“Getting my bachelors in marriage and family counseling,” Marjorie answered.

I looked at her, surprised.

“So they called you names—fag, queer, sissy, maybe even worse.” All teasing and kidding put aside, Marjorie was as serious I’d ever seen her. “They probably did physical things too. You never got raped, did you?”

“I—no!” Maybe I had got off lucky.

“During all of that, did you ever wonder what it would be like if you were the person they kept accusing you of being?” she asked. “You had to be really careful, you had to walk and talk as much like a boy as you could. Be invisible, not be the real you.” She gestured toward the mirror.

I stared at the girl there. “She’s not me,” I said.

Marjorie leaned toward me and kissed me right on the lips. She pointed at herself, “Kisser,” then she pointed at me, “Kissee.”

I started to cry again and she pulled my head to rest on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Kissy. You can be yourself now. You don’t have to pretend to be a boy.”

I’m out with my girlfriend, who happens to be a lesbian, so of course, I’m dressed as a girl. It didn’t make any sense at all, but it had a certain logic. We were just about to step off the curb when some guy stopped in front of us.

He was a bit of a blob but a big one. Six foot two or so, at least 300 pounds, with a Tony Stark beard and ‘stache and Hispanic coloring, he pointed at me. “Samantha!” he said. “You play Sam on ‘Days of Our World’!”

“I—what? No, I don’t!” I protested.

 

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 7 - Breathless

It took them almost two hours to get me out of the store wearing that little black dress. I was reluctant, and Marjorie wanted to spend more money. We left Le Trend with a wave at Deirdre. She waved back with enthusiasm. Marjorie had dropped over $150, and I felt giddy. It was a lot to take in.

The first thing we did was go next door to look at hats. I didn’t want to keep wearing Mom’s hat, but none of the hats at Le Trend suited both of us. Marjorie claimed to like how I looked in a big hat, but I just rolled my eyes. I still wasn’t sure about this dressing as a girl thing, and I hadn’t agreed to anything, but I played along.

Marjorie seemed convinced that I was really a girl, despite physical evidence, and would only be happy if I admitted it.

“Don’t you think I’d know that if it were true?” I told her. “I’m not someone on one of these afternoon agony shows. I’m just a skinny nerd boy who apparently is easily talked into things.”

“Can’t fool me with your denials, Kissy. I’ve seen how you look at yourself in the mirror. You’re afraid to admit it, but you’ve been hiding your femininity from everyone, probably since you were very small.”

I winced at some memory that evaded my mental grasp. Something about my father before Mom and Dad split up. “Leave me—,” I began, but I didn’t want her to abandon me in downtown LA dressed like I was. “Just—you’re wrong, Marjie, you’re wrong.” It sounded weak even to me.

She snorted, leading the way into Casual Me, which turned out to be different enough from Le Trend to explain why they could co-exist in different halves of the same building. Much more colorful, with fashions that were probably even more in the now, especially in the Retro-now. Not that I did much looking around, keeping my head down in what I imagined to be masculine angst.

I had a purse now since there were no pockets in my dress. The little bag contained a new billfold with my California ID, school and library cards, my pay from the lawn care job, and my cellphone. I noticed that Marjorie had put the little bottle of smellum in there, as well. She really was a stinker, I decided, but I didn’t make the joke out loud.

I had two store bags, too—one with my old clothes and shoes and a much smaller one with two pair of pantyhose and the receipt from Marjorie’s purchase. In case I needed to return something, I guess.

Marjorie waved away help from a salesgirl since the hats were in plain sight along one wall. She made a beeline for the biggest hats, all at one end. A green monster, probably twenty inches across, had an oversize orange bow tied around it. She snatched it off the wall and plopped it on my head and pointed to the mirror.

“Okay,” I said. It looked fine. The green didn’t quite match the more electric shade of the inserts in the LBD, but with the orange, it did manage to be complementary.

“A little enthusiasm, maybe?” Marjorie sounded a bit annoyed.

“I’m supposed to be enthusiastic about this? I’ve just managed to get past being so scared I wanted to throw up,” I told her.

“I think the hat looks terrific on you, but maybe you’d like this one better?” She pulled down another hat, kind of caramel-colored with a big multi-colored ribbon. It might be less attention-getting than green and orange.

I shrugged. Marjorie had already put Mom’s hat in the big bag from Le Trend. She looked from one new hat to the other. “We’ll get them both,” she decided.

“I can’t wear two hats,” I pointed out.

“You can take one home to wear some other time,” she said with a teasing smile.

“There’s not going to be another time,” I said, my voice going up the scale. “This little escapade is a one-off.” I meant to end that with a snort, but it came out as a sniff. The corset didn’t leave me enough air for a snort.

She solved the dilemma by putting the green one on me and wearing the beige one herself. “That does look good on you,” I admitted as we went up to the counter and she paid. “It works for a blonde as well as it does for a redhead.”

Marjorie smirked at me, and I wondered what I had said.

We left, going down the side street back toward Melrose. There was a CVS Pharmacy on the corner, and we went to buy some sunblock, a tube that promised to be non-stain and non-sticky. Marjorie promised we’d find a place to put it on soon but that we had an appointment nearby to get my nails done.

“Oh, joy,” I muttered.

We also got some ibuprofen, and Marjorie talked me into taking some against the pain I had complained that the corset was causing me. It really wasn’t bad anymore, I guess I’d gotten used to it, but I took the pills anyway. “You’re breaking in new shoes, too,” she pointed out.

“Have you got anything stronger? Xanax maybe? Heroin?” I asked, but I was just kidding, and she laughed at me.

I still felt a bit freaked out to be in public dressed as a girl, but the only second looks I was getting were smiles, not glares or threats. I realized that I was smiling back at everyone, just in reaction. I couldn’t figure it out.

“Why is everyone smiling at me?” I asked Marjorie.

“You’re a beautiful girl who seems to be enjoying yourself.”

“But I’m not! Neither of those things.”

‘You’re smiling,” she pointed out.

“Only because they are, I mean, I don’t want to be rude.”

Marjorie looked at me. “Then it must be the hat.”

I snorted at that, but she might have a point about why people were smiling. I may have looked a little wild-eyed and goofy, but I was clearly harmless, just a short-haired redhead in a little black dress and a big green hat shopping on Melrose.

I had an urge to giggle insanely, but I managed to emit only a strangled, “Urk!”

Marjorie looked at me with an eyebrow up.

“Where to now?” I asked, ignoring her curiosity.

She pushed virtual buttons on her phone for a moment longer, then turned and pointed. “Back the other way and across the street,” she said. “The Salon a la Mode, see the sign?”

“I see it,” I agreed. We turned and headed for a crosswalk. I had another giggle, this one escaped.

“What?” asked Marjorie, taking my arm and linking us into a unit, so the busy sidewalk didn’t force us apart.

“I know what ‘a la mode’ means, but what’s funny is that they’re using an ice cream cone as a symbol on the sign,” I said. We both laughed. Just holding her arm made me feel better.

This was an adventure, right. I’m out with my girlfriend, who happens to be a lesbian, so of course, I’m dressed as a girl. It didn’t make any sense at all, but it had a certain logic.

Crosswalks mid-block on Melrose are standard and a little bit more techy than you see elsewhere, with flashing lights embedded in the pavement for the pedestrians and traffic lights for the cars. We were just about to step off the curb when some guy stopped in front of us.

He was a bit of a blob but a big one. Six foot two or so, at least 300 pounds, with a Tony Stark beard and ‘stache and Hispanic coloring, he pointed at me. “Samantha!” he said. “You play Sam on ‘Days of Our World’!”

“I—what? No, I don’t!” I protested.

“Get out of the way, asshole!” Marjorie’s answer was more direct.

Looking confused, the roadblock moved himself out of our path, and we hurried across. I didn’t look back because my heart was pounding, and I felt like I might throw up.

The corset chose just then to remind me of its existence. I didn’t feel like I could breathe, and I grabbed hold of Marjorie as we went up the curb on the other end of the crosswalk.

“Don’t let assholes like that scare you,” Marjorie told me.

“Uh, huh,” I agreed. But it was too late. I was frightened almost out of my senses.

“We’re going to have to get you some pepper spray,” Marjorie muttered. “The salon is just a few doors away. You can sit down if we can make it there.”

I nodded, still trying to gasp in buckets of oxygen and not succeeding. Not quite staggering, holding onto Marjorie for all I was worth, I made it to the door of the salon and collapsed into the first chair I saw.

“Just calm down,” Marjorie said. “He’s gone, you’re safe, but if you keep trying to breathe like a steam train, you’re going to hyperventilate and pass out. You’ve got plenty of air.

And the bitch pinched my nose closed with one hand and covered my mouth with her other! “One-two-three-four,” she counted slowly while I struggled to push her away. “Breathe now,” she said as she released me.

I did taking in as much as I could with my diaphragm constricted by the corset. But when I breathed out, she used her hands again to stop me from continuing to gasp. “One, two, three, four,” she counted, a little slower than last time. “Breathe,” she ordered.

I got the idea and co-operated as the panic drained away. After two more cycles, I could breathe normally. She sat beside me, “You okay now?”

“This corset is cutting me in two,” I complained, again. It kind of felt like that if I were thinking about it.

She nodded. “That’s ‘cause it’s a cheap, mass-produced piece of shit. We’ll get you a better one.”

“I—what?”

But she’d stood back up, went to the counter and checked us in for my mani-pedi. Two Asian ladies beckoned me to come sit in a recliner-type chair that had a sink full of water where the footrest should be.

I let myself be directed into the contraption, kicking off my shoes and stepping into the basin of very hot water. “Ooo,” I said.

“Too hot?” one of the Asian ladies asked.

I shook my head and turned to sit down, running a hand under my ass the way Marjorie had shown me so my skirt wouldn’t wrinkle or ride up. The first lady sat on a low stool and began washing my feet and legs while the second lady moved a chair and small table up beside me on the left side.

She motioned that I should put both hands into a bowl of bluish liquid. That was awkward but doable. “You want French nail?” she asked.

I had no idea, but Marjorie answered for me. “Yes, French nails with gel color on her toes. I’ll go pick out a color, Kissy.” She addressed the last to me.

“Wait,” I said. “Something I have to tell you.”

She stepped back to listen. “That guy in the crosswalk. I know him. He kinda recognized me, I think, but he got the wrong—uh?”

She nodded. “He recognized your face, but the hat and dress confused him.”

I blushed. “Yeah, he’s never seen me in a dress. Well, obviously not.”

Was a girl turning her boyfriend into a girlfriend, something that happened out there? Just in fantasy, yeah, maybe, but in real life?

 

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 8 - Brazil

Marjorie grinned. “The guy who thinks he knows you…what’s his name?” she asked.

“Uh, Armand Gower. He was a couple years ahead of me in school. He’s the one who basically started the—the gaming club. Really smart guy, but kinda messed up.” It was funny that Armand hadn’t recognized me fully, but I was glad. It would have been worse if he knew I was really Davey Kissee instead of thinking I was some soap opera actress.

“Messed up how?” Marjorie wanted to know. She had a sort of expression I hadn’t seen before.

“He’s -uh- he’s Asperger’s. You know?” I remembered that she had a degree in psychology.

“I do know,” she said. She seemed to relax a little. “So, he’s not a creep.”

I laughed a little. “Well, no. Though he kinda seems a little creepy to people who don’t know him. He’s just—different.”

“He seemed more than a little creepy outside in the crosswalk but being Asperger’s fits. He saw you as a puzzle and wanted a solution.” She sighed. “I’m going to go see if he’s still hanging around. If he sees enough of you, he’s probably going to figure it out.”

Armand was actually good at noticing details, just not the details almost everyone else would see first. “That—would be bad.”

“Probably not, if he’s really a friend. And it’s something you’ll have to face sooner or later if I’m right about you.”

“You’re wrong,” I said flatly, but I was talking to her back.

The two ladies, Jenny and Linda, working on my nails traded glances but asked no questions. I wasn’t sure how much they had understood since they were Asian, and obviously immigrants judging by their accents. Their English seemed good enough for their jobs, but I didn’t know how fluent they might be.

Linda, the one working on my feet, wanted to know what I wanted. She handed me a menu that did me no good at all since I had no idea what half of the things listed might be. “My -uh- sister is paying for everything, can we wait till she gets back?”

“Sure,” said the woman. “I just do basic until she tell me, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” What she was doing, scrubbing my feet and rubbing something onto my legs felt very relaxing. I’d never had anyone do anything similar to me.

“You not shave legs?” she asked. “We do waxing?”

I shrugged. “Marjie will decide.”

She was gone a little longer than I expected and returned with a couple of bags she added to the one from Le Trend. “No sign of him,” she said when I asked. “I guess you don’t have a stalker, yet.”

“Armand isn’t a stalker. He can be intense, though.”

She nodded. “I actually looked into getting into that field, working with children. But the fact is, I’m lazy.” She grinned. “Still surprises me I finished two degrees.”

“You’ve—got a lot of energy,” I told her.

She grinned at that. “I’m stubborn, too.”

I snorted.

Linda handed her the menu, and Marjorie glanced at it. “The works,” she said. “Waxing, too.” She touched her arms and face, “The whole thing,” she said. Then to me, she said, “You’re going to love this.”

I didn’t love it.

We sat together on the lobby chairs at the front of the salon, looking at Jenny’s and Linda’s work on my hands and feet. We waited for another client being worked on in a back room to be finished. I still had my shoes off with little twists of paper between my toes and some paper sandals on while my toes finished drying.

“Pretty,” said Marjorie, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Beautiful.”

“My nails?” I held out my hands to get a better look.

“No, you,” she said. “You’re beautiful.”

I made a noise halfway between a snort and a whimper. The nails looked nice enough—pretty, I guess. Just not on me.

French nails turned out to be a two-tone, pastel orange-and-white job that looked elegant but were probably designed to keep the wearer coming back for maintenance. And Marjorie picked out a dark orange-red for my toes that almost matched my hair color, with the addition of a white and green flower on my big toenail. It was so cute I could scream.

“I’m going to be able to get all of this stuff off before going home, aren’t I?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Or not. But I like my girlfriends to be sexy, you know.”

My hair was no redder than my face. “I’m not your girlfriend,” I said quietly.

She shrugged. “Well, that’s a matter of opinion. But am I yours?”

“Uh?”

She peered at me from under her blonde hair, eyes as blue as sapphires sparkled, and those dimples twinkled or whatever dimples do. “Is it a hard question?”

“-uh-”

She leaned on me, and since she’s four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, she ended up pushing me sideways. “Don’t you want me to be your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But you’re crazy,” I admitted.

She laughed.

“Well, then,” she said, “you have to be my girlfriend. You can’t be my boyfriend because I’m a lesbian.”

I glared at her. “That would make me a lesbian, too. And I’ve never taken a single drama class.”

It took her a moment to work that out, then she laughed, loud enough and long enough that I tried to shut her up and got the giggles myself. Not that I wasn’t still annoyed at her, but that laugh was infectious. “Stop it! Stoppit, stoppit, stoppit!” I complained uselessly.

Linda came over and waited patiently for us to stop laughing.

“Wait—what?” I asked, wiping my eyes.

“Room is ready for waxing to begin,” she nodded.

I followed Linda, and Marjorie followed me. “Is this going to hurt?” I asked.

“A little,” she said—the liar. “The wax is warm when it goes on, sometimes a bit hot. Then it stings a bit when it’s pulled off.”

“Ow,” I said, knowing how reliable Marjorie could be. If she said it was going to sting, I imagined jellyfish levels of hurt. “I’ve changed my mind.” I tried to turn around and go the other way.

“C’mon,” she got me in a firm grip, and we kept walking toward my doom.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said, making up my mind. But we were already in the back room, and Linda closed the door behind us.

“Don’t be a baby,” Marjorie scolded. “You have so little body hair. This is going to be a snap.”

“You want Brazilian?” Linda asked.

“Uh, no, not this time,” Marjorie decided after glancing at me.

I didn’t like the look of that smirk. She explained to me later what a Brazilian was, and I was right to be skeptical of her smiles. “Have you had this done?” I asked, as much to distract myself as for information or reassurance.

“Sure. Every four to six weeks. When I start feeling furry, but there’s less hair to remove each time.”

“Huh?” I said.

Linda motioned toward a clinical-looking padded table. “Take off dress, shoes, jewelry?”

“What? I—why? No one said I had to get naked for this.”

Marjorie kissed me on the cheek. “You don’t. You’ll have towels draped over you, but wax could ruin your clothes or jewelry.” She started removing my jewelry, which went into a bright plastic bowl on the counter. Well, it wasn’t mine—just the jewelry I had been wearing. Same thing, I guess.

Linda nodded vigorously and mimed me removing my dress. You know what I mean.

I sighed. The dress came off just like a t-shirt, and Marjorie had a towel right there to wrap around me. I lay down on the table with more towels across me. “Why am I willing to do almost anything you tell me to?” I asked.

She kissed me on the forehead. “You’re going to be wondering that even more in just a few minutes,” she said with dimples.

“It’s not that I’m just hoping to get laid,” I began.

She put a hand over my mouth, “Hold that thought.”

Linda had something that looked a lot like a paint-stirrer in her hand, almost dripping with a green-tinged liquid the color of the walls in a dentist’s waiting room. She painted some of the warm liquid on a patch of leg above my ankle, then pressed a sheet of some material against it, smiled at me and ripped it off.

I flinched. Okay, that hurt and was still stinging, but I’ve always been a rip-the-band-aid-off-all-at-once sort of person. This wasn’t that bad. Linda giggled when she saw my expression.

It got worse, but I lay there thinking about the things Marjorie said back in Le Trend, and about how I seemed to be so—so willing to do even crazy things she thought up. She wanted me to be her girlfriend. Was I willing to do that?

I knew I was certainly curious about the idea. Marjorie wasn’t like any person I had ever known. She was bossy, but I kind of admired her determination. She was certainly sexy and interested in me, a new experience for a nerd boy who had been on exactly four solo dates in his life. Five now.

She was certainly pushing me in directions I wasn’t comfortable with. Curious about, but not comfortable. I decided I needed to do some research on the internet when I got a chance. Was a girl turning her boyfriend into a girlfriend, something that happened out there? Just in fantasy, yeah, maybe, but in real life?

After the pits, which were awkward, Marjorie began soothing my legs (almost all the way to Brazil) with the SPF 666 sunblock we’d bought. “It’s not reindeer schmaltz, but it will help,” she said.

It did, and I loved the thought that Marjorie was doing it.

Linda tapped her chin, brow and upper lip. “We do face, too?” she asked.

Marjorie looked up from rubbing my thigh under the towels. I shrugged, “I guess so,” I said. “Why stop now?”

“Rescue time, girls,” Marjorie said. “Baby sister Kissy here just graduated from being a tomboy, and she has a hot date tonight!”

 

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 9 - Smiles

Before we left the salon, Marjorie talked me into letting her tighten the corset again. I complained but not a lot. I had other things to think about. Besides, the tighter fit got rid of the very slight bulge there had been at my waist. When I put the dress back on, it fit better than before.

The waxing left me feeling smooth and very sensitive all over, as if I had a whole new skin I was living in. And doing my face changed the look of my eyebrows, making my eyes seem bigger. I’d never had much beard, I shaved less than once a week, and more out of hope than need, but now my face was completely smooth.

When Linda wasn’t looking, Marjorie rubbed her cheek against mine, and it felt amazing.

The ladies in the salon warned me about using any products with strong chemicals for a while. “No hairspray, no strong soap or detergent, no perfume,” they said. I thought about the bottle in my purse of stinkum and was just as glad.

I put on a pair of pantyhose, now that my nails were safe before putting the shoes back on. My legs were silky smooth, and the nylon or whatever they make patterned hose out of went on like ice, cool, and so different feeling. The pattern on this pair made black-edged hearts and diamonds.

I didn’t want to say anything, but I felt some pressure in my groin. I resisted squirming, afraid Marjorie would guess what the problem was.

We retrieved our hats and bags from where they had been stored behind a counter and headed out onto Melrose again. It seemed we got even more looks than before, guys especially. “Stop smiling at everything with a dick,” Marjorie scolded me.

“I’m not!” I protested. I put my arm through hers and turned my face up for a kiss. She gave me a peck on the lips.

“Yes, you are, you little slut,” she accused, but she was teasing.

I didn’t feel like a slut, but I wasn’t sure what a slut would feel. It was just so funny that the men, and boys, couldn’t tell that I wasn’t a girl. Or that Marjorie was obviously my girlfriend.

“Now you’re giggling,” Marjorie commented. “Cut it out. You’ll get us arrested.”

“For what?” I demanded.

“Be quiet. I’m sending a text.” She had her phone out and was pushing virtual buttons rapidly.

I considered steering her into another pedestrian, preferably a big hunk-type for maximum embarrassment. Then I got distracted wondering if I would recognize a hunk if I saw one. Well, someone who looked like Double Johnson we had seen earlier, he was definitely a hunk. I felt my face go red, thinking about him.

My giggles must have given my game away, though, because when she put the phone in her purse, she gave me a stern look and commanded, “Don’t you dare.”

That caused more giggles and nearly an existential crisis as I realized I was having fun. There I was, sashaying down the middle of a city street, in high heels, hose, dress and all the accessories, and I seemed to be enjoying myself. Way too much.

It was almost three, a little off-peak for street traffic but still busy with locals and tourists enjoying the June afternoon. “Time for a makeup lesson,” Marjorie announced.

“I—what?”

“I just confirmed our appointment,” she said, steering me right away into a shop called Venus Collection. It was filled with an astonishing variety of beauty products, and two tall, gorgeous salesladies immediately turned their attention to us.

“Rescue time, girls,” Marjorie said. “Baby sister Kissy here just graduated from being a tomboy, and she has a hot date tonight!” I wondered vaguely if they had classes in how to lie at whatever university she got her degree from.

I protested. “Not two hours ago, you were telling people in that other shop that I was your little brother trying to win some cockamamie beauty contest!”

“Well, no-one’s going to believe that one now,” said Marjorie. “You should have seen her this morning, girls. Sloppy jeans, baggy t-shirt and grass growing in her ears.”

I slapped my hands over my ears for some reason. “Hey!”

The salesgirls, Bee and Janni, loved it. “You must have made a terrible tomboy,” Bee said. “No muscles.”

Janni asked, “How did you get grass in your ears?”

“That’s actually true, I was doing yard work for spending money,” I admitted, making them laugh again.

“I want you to erase her scandalous and shameful past as a tomboy,” Marjorie told them. “But keep it light and on the casual side, and don’t cover up her freckles or granddad will disown her.” She added an aside, “She looks like him, but don’t tell her that.”

“Hey!” I protested, but I had a hard time keeping a straight face. Marjorie had mentioned her granddad a few times as well as her mother, and apparently, they were both redheads, too.

“You have lovely soft skin,” said Bee as she applied what she explained to me was called under-foundation. “You’re just like a sundae, vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce and a strawberry on top.”

“I’m not that sweet,” I warned her, and she laughed.

Bee explained what she was doing at every step: foundation, contour, highlighter, blush, setting powder. She deepened the shadows under my cheekbones and made them look sharper with highlights. She drew attention towards my eyes with a subtle halo of light surrounding them.

Then she worked on my eyes, shaping and filling in my brows with pencil, defining things with eyeliner, bringing out color with the light use of brown, green and orange cream eyeshadow and finishing up with mascara that was a rich chocolate red.

“Are you wearing colored contacts?” she asked at one point.

I know I blushed. “Um—yeah?”

“Green is a great color for you, but what color are they without?”

“Uh—hazel. A light hazel, almost the same color as my freckles. I thought they sort of disappeared, so...so when I got contacts, I asked for colored ones.”

She nodded. “That’s pretty girly for a tomboy,” she teased. I blushed again and heard Marjorie laugh.

Bee did my lips last, drawing around the outline, then painting them with actual little brushes. She used three different colors of red, orange-red and a brighter gold for highlight. She finished with a gloss and powder that she assured me would last the night. My lips looked full and luscious: kissable, no other word for them.

“We couldn’t do anything less for someone named Kissy,” she assured me with a giggle. Then she showed me how to repair any damage done from kissing (or eating) and had me do it myself a few times with Marjorie supplying the damage. It wasn’t hard, but painting my lips had to be even less masculine than wearing a dress.

Janni built a makeup kit of my own, putting at least one of everything Bee used in and more besides. I never knew there were so many kinds of makeup, not to mention makeup applicators. Some of the little brushes were actually tiny sponges on sticks.

“I’ve really got three kits here,” she told me. “One little repair kit to carry in your purse, a larger kit to take with you when you travel and the stay-at-home collection that has everything.” She put the small kit into the purse that held my IDs and it was almost too big to fit.

I nodded and thanked her to be polite, but privately my reaction was: no way will I be using this stuff. I still thought of this as something Marjorie was doing for an afternoon of fun.

But I saw some of the prices. This was hella more expensive than the clothes Marjorie had bought for me at Le Trend. “You’re spending a lot of money. I’m not going to keep or use all this stuff.”

She waved away my objection. “You’ll have it if you need it and want it.”

I snorted but let her have her fun. The cost didn’t worry her, why should it bother me?

I didn’t really recognize myself in the mirror now. I still looked like me, but it was so obviously the face of a beautiful, sophisticated girl who might be a model or an actress, that it didn’t connect in my brain with how I expected myself to look.

Marjorie put her arms around me from behind and looked over my shoulder at my new face in the mirror. “Do you think you could learn to do that?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Bee put in, “It’s not that hard, you just need to practice. This is only a casual party look, a daytime look would be simpler, and a full evening look would be more dramatic. But there are video tutorials on the internet to show you how.”

Janni cautioned. “There’s a lot of crap on the internet, too. So, remember, we’re always here if you need another lesson or help separating out the bogus lessons from the real ones.” She told me which brands had real internet classes on how to use their products.

Bee nodded. “We don’t even charge for helping regular customers.”

“I’m—it’s—you…,” I tried to explain, finally settling on, “Thanks.”

We got out of there with another large bag to carry. “Let’s go get the car,” said Marjorie. “Or at least put these bags in the trunk.”

“Okay,” I agreed. The one from VC was particularly heavy, and Marjorie had swapped with me, so I carried the bigger, but lighter, bag from Le Trend.

But if I’d thought I was getting looks before, things had gone up a notch. Now, it wasn’t only men and boys, but women and girls were looking at me, too. And did I detect a bit of jealousy? I giggled nervously as we made our way to the crosswalk and back to the valet stand. Some of these women looked dangerous.

At one point, I did a bit of a double-take. Had I just spotted a familiar wall-like outline at the end of the block? Armand Gower again? False alarm, I decided after watching carefully. Super-nerd, his nickname in our group, was nowhere in sight, I could relax.

Marjorie had already texted ahead, and they had the white Mercedes convertible waiting when we strolled up. The valets checked us out as we slid into our seats, and I think I accidentally gave one of them a panty-shot.

I was giggling about that as we sped away. I’d have to practice getting in and out of a car with a skirt on to avoid that in the future. The future?

I was mulling that thought over when Marjorie derailed me with another train-wreck she’d apparently had planned. “We’re just going to have time to get you to your doctor’s appointment,” she said.

Uh-oh.

“Dad’s a plastic surgeon. But you don’t need him.” She flashed me a few dimples. “Yet.”

 

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 10 - Trust

A doctor’s appointment? Why would Marjorie schedule a doctor’s appointment for me? Of course, she answered without me asking. The girl is uncanny that way.

“Because I think there are some things about yourself that you don’t know and probably should?”

She also has the ability to make me feel like a little kid sometimes. “Maybe I don’t want to know?” I said, knowing I sounded whiney.

She nodded. “Yeah. Which is exactly why you should know. You’ve mentioned things about yourself that I think anyone would be curious about. And I’ve noticed stuff that kind of confirms my suspicions.”

“Huh.” I tried to think about it as we went down Melrose toward Western. I knew where we were heading, so many doctor’s offices are in the Wilshire. Some of the tall buildings there had every sort of medical specialty spread through twenty or thirty floors. “We’re not going to Dr. Herlihy’s office, are we? My mom works there.”

“I know, and no, we’re not. It’s a block or so away.” She glanced at me, smiling. “It’s not the building where my dad has his office either. Or the one I own.”

“Huh? Your dad is a doctor? You own a building?” I know that last came out in a squeak.

She nodded. “Dad’s a plastic surgeon. It’s—never mind. You don’t need him.” She flashed me a few dimples. “Yet.”

Oh, fuh. I shook my head.

She put her right hand out, palm up. I put my left in it. She gave my hand a squeeze and I squeezed back, then she went back to two-handed driving. “Don’t be scared,” she said.

“Going to the doctor isn’t exactly my idea of a fun date.” I half-pretended to pout, half not-pretending.

She laughed.

I knew I was forgetting to ask about something else, but it didn’t occur to me until later.

We had put our big hats in the back seat because the top was still up on the convertible. I pulled down the vanity mirror and looked at myself again. My reflection didn’t look at all apprehensive. That girl looked confident and wise. Bee, the makeup artist at Venus Collection, had to be some kind of genius. I stared at the image until some of her courage infiltrated my unease.

I put the mirror back up as Marjorie pulled into another valet space after boxing the square (avoiding a left or u-turn) to get on the right side of the street, heading uptown instead of down. Must be nice not to worry about the expense of parking. Even self-park lots in the Wilshire could cost as much as $8 an hour and valet parking might be twice that, plus a tip.

Unless you owned the building. I remembered what I wanted to ask but turning the car over to the valets distracted me again.

The guys (with one girl valet at the kiosk, writing things down), hopped to it, helping us out of the car. This time I made sure not to give anyone a free show and I really appreciated the help reaching the sidewalk since curbs in the Wilshire are like a foot high. They actually had a wooden step in the gutter to make it easier.

Wayne, that’s what his nametag read, retrieved our hats and purses from the back seat and off we went, down Wilshire toward the sea, though it was miles away. In the distance, I could see the buildings of the museums on the right with more tall buildings like the ones we were walking between on the left.

I hadn’t been to the museums in years, though I lived only a few miles and a short bus ride away. A whiff of air from the west brought the smell of the Tar Pits, sharp but not completely unpleasant at this distance. I thought of saber-tooth tigers, mastodons and dire wolves and those freaky giant ground sloths. Imagine trying to park one of those on Wilshire.

“You said you’re not working now,” I mentioned on the walk, still thinking of how much money she had spent today; lunch, shopping, salons, parking, it added up. She’d said something about owning a building, did she mean on Wilshire? And she was offering me $500 to keep her company in my masquerade. “Does your dad….”

She interrupted. “I have my own money. My granddad set up a trust fund for me and I got control of it when I turned twenty-five.” She turned and looked at me directly. “Income is about $300,000 a month without me doing anything at all.”

A month! My jaw fell. That’s rockstar wages.

She gestured at the building we were standing in front of, red granite and glass sides, about twenty stories tall. Steel letters and numbers gave the address and name of the structure: R.A. Pritzger Medical and Professional Suites.

“Huh?” I said.

“My granddad, my mother’s father, is Roald Alexis Pritzger. This is one of the buildings my family owns.” She contemplated the sign. “I think my share is about four per cent of this one.”

I felt like I needed to sit down. I started toward the entrance but she pulled me away. “The doctor we’re seeing is in the next building.” She dimpled. “One I don’t own.”

I nodded and we linked arms again, hands clasped. She kept looking at my face. “I didn’t want to tell you at first. I thought it might make a difference in how you treated me.”

I blinked. “Well, I knew you were rich, the car, the shopping, -uh- even just your attitude about things.” I remembered her telling me not to look at prices more than once. “But not how rich…,” I trailed off into a mutter.

“I like being rich,” she said. “It means I can do nice things for people. Our family foundation gives away millions every year, but I can be personal.”

I’d actually heard of the Pritzger Foundation I realized. They were big in financing small businesses in India and Africa, funding rural clinics in the Americas, and research into things like orphan diseases. Also, live theaters and art museums in medium-size cities and wifi in rural libraries.

She offered a kiss and I accepted. “I’ve learned the hard way that trying to buy love turns out badly,” she whispered. “But it is a terrible temptation.”

“I’m—it—you?”

She nodded. “I’m trying to buy you, Kissy, and I know it’s wrong. Forgive me?”

We stopped in front of the building in the next half-block. It had gray stone fascia with windows so dark they looked black. Conroy Arts and Sciences Building the steel letters read.

“Granddad plays golf with Mr. Conroy,” Marjorie confided to me. “They both cheat.” We giggled about that as we struggled with twelve-feet tall glass doors that weighed half a ton each.

A man inside ran around a counter to help us. “Ladies,” he said as he held the door open, practically without effort. We thanked him, still giggling, and dashed for the elevator, Marjorie calling to him, “We’re going to the ninth floor.”

“Why did you tell him what floor?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He’ll be watching the floor indicator, anyway. But it’s good to tell security where you’re headed. Women have to think of things like that.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’m glad he came to help with the door. Why do they make them so heavy, anyway?”

“I don’t know, but if you’d been a guy, he probably wouldn’t have helped.”

I protested. “I would have still needed help.”

“Yeah, but he would have maybe thought you would be offended if he helped you.”

“That’s stupid,” I said.

She shrugged. “That’s how men think.”

“Ding,” the elevator said. We were on the ninth floor. I followed her down a short hall that turned a corner into a longer one.

“I still say it’s stupid,” I muttered.

“I’m not arguing.”

“Have you been to this doctor before?”

“Yes, but not for me. Guy I was in college with. I came with him.”

We stopped in front of a door that read, Dr. Guy Forbes, Endocrinologist.

“He’s a Guy doctor,” I pointed out.

“Ho, ho,” she said.

Inside a narrow reception area with only nine chairs and a sliding glass window next to a single door. Marjorie approached the glass which opened just as she reached it. “Three forty-five appointment for Kissy Davis to see Dr. Forbes.”

Kissy Davis again. I squirmed. Well, I didn’t look like any David Kissee, did I?

“You’re early,” said a voice from a woman I couldn’t see because I was too short and too far from the window. “Take a seat. There’ll be paperwork to fill out when the nurse calls you in.”

We sat down. “Endocrinologist?” I asked, hoping I got the pronunciation right.

She started to explain but I got it with the first word. “Hormones….”

I stood up, glaring at her. “You’re going to try to get me to take hormones?”

“Sit down,” she ordered. “I—we—I want to find out if you need to take hormones.”

I sat, annoyed but willing to listen. “Huh?”

“You said yourself you missed the puberty bus. You’re about average height for a woman, like you quit growing at maybe fourteen, you have almost no body hair or muscle definition, except in your legs, and while you’re pretty flat-chested, your nipples stick out and you have some shape to your ass.”

“That’s—that’s padding.”

“Not all of it. You’re also built about like a pre-teen between the legs. Something is wrong with your hormones. He’s the Guy who can tell us what it might be.”

I ignored her repeating my pun. She was right, I hadn’t grown more than half-an-inch since eighth grade. My voice hadn’t really changed either, just sort of slid down to what I thought of as a high tenor but could just as easily been described as alto or even soprano. I had worked really hard at trying to pitch my voice down all four years of high school.

Except today, I’d been speaking in more of my natural voice, which was higher than Marjorie’s.

The door opened and a woman holding a clipboard and dressed as a nurse stood there. “Miss Davis?” she inquired.

We both stood up. “It—I—that’s me,” I said. Well, for all practical purposes I was Miss Davis.

“I’m Nurse Donovan.” The nurse glanced down at the clipboard. “Kissy? That’s a cute name, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

“It’s a family name,” I explained truthfully. “Can my sister come in with me?” I asked.

The nurse looked at my girlfriend.

“I’m paying the bill and she’s underage,” said Marjorie.

“I’m afraid you didn’t do a very good job convincing Nurse Donovan that you’re a boy.”

 

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 11 - Doctor

Nurse Donovan led us to a small examining room and invited me to sit on one of those steel tables while she took a medical history. Marjorie sat at a small desk and filled out another paper saying she would be responsible for paying the bill.

Other than giving my name as Kissy Eleanor Davis (I have three real middle names, but I stole this name from my character in our role-playing game), I simply told the truth until asked when I’d had my last period. I just blinked at her. Well, I knew she thought I was female, but I hadn’t expected that question, and she hadn’t asked for my sex.

“You don’t have to be exact,” she qualified the question.

“Uh, never,” I said. “I’ve never had a p-period.” I don’t normally stutter—stammer, yes, but not stutter—still, this seemed like it might be a good time to start. “I’m a b-boy.” Why was I having a hard time saying that!

Nurse Donovan did not blink or look startled, she simply wrote it down and continued asking about childhood diseases, immunizations and allergies. Then she took my blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate. She had me take off my shoes and measured me, 160 cm, then weighed me on a scale, 45.5 kg. I worked that out later, about 5’3” and a bit more than 100 lbs., somewhat less on both numbers than I had thought.

She looked in my ears and up my nose and had me open my mouth and say ‘ah.’ Then she took the paper she had filled out, and the one Marjorie signed and left the room, saying, “The doctor will be in to see you soon.”

“That went well,” Marjorie remarked.


I shivered. “I’m terrified.”

She climbed up, sat beside me and put her arms around me “No need to be scared.”

“Easy for you to say,” I accused.

She nodded, smiling in sympathy. “You’re covered in goosebumps.”

“It’s cold in here. Doctor’s offices are always cold.”

Marjorie hopped down from the examining table, strode across the room and opened a cabinet. Before her behavior could scandalize me further, she turned around with a thin blanket exactly like the ones they give you in a hospital. She spread it out, double thickness, and draped it around my arms and shoulders.

“Thank you,” I said, clutching it to me.

The doctor came in before Marjorie could get us into more trouble. He was a tall man with receding wavy brown hair and sharp grey eyes behind glasses. He seemed to be carrying the same clipboard Nurse Donovan had used. He smiled at me, “You’re Kissy Davis?”

I nodded, close enough.

He glanced at the cabinet Marjorie had left open where she had gotten the blanket I had wrapped around me then back at his clipboard. “Unusual first name,” he observed. 

“It’s from a town in Scotland,” Marjorie put in. “It means, meadow where the cress grows.”

I stared at her. I’d never told her the derivation of Kissee. She was always messing with her phone—she must have looked it up.

The doctor was still smiling. “I’m afraid you didn’t do a very good job convincing Nurse Donovan that you’re a boy,” he said. “She wrote it down, but I don’t think she believed it.” His smile broke into a grin as he looked me over. I very carefully kept my knees together.

He pulled a chair over and sat down, putting our eyes almost on a level, him being tall and me sitting on a table. “You also said you had never had a period. That’s the sort of problem people come to me for. And others see me because they have a problem deciding for themselves or convincing other people of their gender.”

Marjorie started to say something, but Dr. Forbes just looked at her, and she shut up. I needed to learn how to do that.

“I’m a boy,” I said after a moment of being quiet. “Marjorie wanted to see how much I could look like a girl, since I—I don’t seem to have gone through puberty like everyone else.”

“Pretty elaborate effort,” he commented. 

I nodded.

He seemed to consider something. “First, we have to find out what your problem might be, medically, if you have one. But whether you want to become a boy or a girl, there are treatment options. Including doing nothing, perhaps—if that suits you best and is not medically dangerous.”

“But,” and he looked at Marjorie. “You did not check the box that you are Miss Davis’s legal guardian, and I don’t believe you are. Since she’s underage, I cannot treat her; I can’t even take blood samples to send to the lab. All I can do is examine her with her clothes on, which Nurse Donovan has already done.”

He made a gesture to show his hands were empty.

“Could you take a cheek swab?” Marjorie asked.


Dr. Forbes glanced up at the ceiling through his rather bushy brows. “I think I could. The lab can rule out Klinefelter’s and a few other things.” He stood and went to the counter, pulling a big jar of long swabs toward him. He chose one, then opened a drawer and pulled out a long thin test tube.

“Miss Davis,” he said to me, “I’m going to swab this around your cheek and gums and catch a few of your cells, which we can do some testing on. We can also check the saliva for a few things we would normally look for in your blood. This is minimally invasive, but if you don’t want to open your mouth, there’s nothing I can do.

He sounded so serious, and he wasn’t talking to me as if I were a child. I giggled nervously and opened my mouth. He swiped around inside quickly, then sealed the swab, stick and all, into the long tube and put the tube in an envelope. 

He spoke to me. ”We probably won’t get this back before next week. Genetic testing takes time. But if you can return with your guardian, or a signed and notarized permission slip, we can do some blood work and… other tests.”

He turned so he took both Marjie and me into his gaze and smiled a little ruefully. “The odd wrinkle in the law is that if you had come in claiming that you thought you might be pregnant, then I could take blood tests, ultrasounds and do certain other procedures without permission of your guardian.” He sighed.

Pregnant? Oh, boy. I nodded to him. I’d have to get Mom to sign something, or this would end right here. Okay by me, I decided.

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” said Marjorie. “And if it’s possible to hurry any of these tests, I’ll pay for it.”

The doctor nodded, apparently accepting that she could indeed pay. “Make an appointment with Louann at the front,” he said. He put out a hand and helped me down from the examining table, then shook my hand in both of his. “Nice meeting you, Miss Davis,” he said. 

“Nice—nice to meet you, doctor,” I said, leaving the blanket on the stainless steel table.

He shook Marjorie’s hand, too. “Nice to see you again, Miss Lords,” he said. “Have you heard from Carl—Carol?”


Oh. This wasn’t the first time Marjorie had been here?


She smiled and nodded. “Carol had her surgery a year ago, here in LA. She’s probably on her honeymoon now. I think they were planning to go to Spain.”

“Nice,” said the doctor. He turned back to me, saying, “Miss Lords brought me another young lady with a problem similar to yours a few years ago. Well, maybe not that similar but perhaps in the same genus.” He smiled, showing a dimple of his own in his right cheek.

Marjorie gathered our purses, handed me mine, then went to make payment arrangements at the front desk. She was also probably going to make another appointment, one that I intended to skip.

I wandered out to the waiting room where a young woman in a very smart pantsuit and a three-day growth of beard sat on the back sofa near the reading lamp. I went on out to the hallway to hide my disturbance.

Down the hall, I saw a sign for Restrooms. I headed that way, thinking about things. I went inside the correct restroom for the way I was dressed, chose a stall and removed or loosened enough clothing to relieve myself.

I checked my phone. Still half an hour till 5 pm. My mother worked for another doctor in a building less than two blocks away. Long Wilshire blocks, but only two. I could go there and get a ride home from her. I’d have some tall explaining to do, but it was doable.

Or, I could take a bus, get home before Mom did if she was going out with her friends, get out of this masquerade and never have to tell anyone about it.

I cleaned myself off, put my clothes back the way everything had been just as I heard someone else come into the restroom. “Kissy?” Marjorie called.

I flushed and left the toilet stall, meeting Marjorie at the mirrors. We kissed, more than once, and I knew she had done enough damage that I should get out the repair kit. I didn’t, though.

“I made us an appointment for eleven in the morning,” she said.

“That late?” I asked calmly.


“Earliest they had,” she said. “It’ll be Friday. They probably won’t get any lab work back until next week.” She shrugged. “They’ll try to hurry it but no promises.”

I looked directly at her. “Cancel,” I said. “I’m not coming back.”

Her face fell. “Are you mad at me?”

I shook my head. “I’m not mad—I—,” I became aware that I was crying.

“Sh, sh, you’ll mess up your makeup.” She tried to put a laugh in her voice, but it came out a sob.

We stood there holding each other, crying like our hearts were broken. Eventually, I pulled away from her and started for the exit.

“Oh, Kissy, don’t go!” she cried. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to do this, but don’t—don’t leave me.”

I turned to face her and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Lipstick smeared, eye makeup running down my face. And Marjorie looked no better. We came together and held each other, again.

“Oh, Marjie,” I whispered in her ear. “What am I going to do?”

“Kissy is out, and Davey can't put her back in again.”

 

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 12 - Home

"I want you to take me home," I told her.

She nodded.

"Mom is going out with friends, and if I get home before her, I'll have time to get all—get rid of all this—stuff. And go back to being D-Davey."

She shook her head and pulled me against her. "You can't," she said.

I flared. "The hell I can't," pushing her away, or trying to. "You can't make me do anything I don't want to do."

She let me push her away, standing there with her hands hanging by her sides. "No, I mean, you've opened the box. Kissy is out, and Davey can't put her back in again."

"Damnit!" I wanted to hit something, but all the surfaces within reach were hard metal and glass. "You can't just come into my life and turn me upside down and tell me I'm not me anymore!"

We were both crying again.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she repeated. "I knew I was wrong." She hung her head. "But I saw you were really a girl, and you're so beautiful…."

I went back into one of the stalls and threw up. I think it was from swallowing so much mucus produced by the crying. I throw up when I have a cold, too. Don't try throwing up wearing a corset. You can't bend over right, and it hurts, and the wrong muscles have to do the pushing. Marjorie's fault I was wearing such a torture device, I raged.

I didn't play fair, though. From inside the stall, I shouted, "You make me sick!"

She didn't say anything, and I thought maybe she had left. I used a lot of tissue to clean up, flushing it down. I'd managed to avoid getting anything on my—my dress or shoes, and really, my throwing up was hardly more than a mouthful. A sour mouthful that fit my mood.

I left the stall to go to the sink for water to wash out my mouth. Marjorie hadn't moved. She had a collapsible cup from inside her purse that she offered to me, and I took it. She took the cup back when I finished, filled it again and swallowed some pills from a small bottle.

"What's that?" I asked, calm again, but she shook her head.

"Couple of raccoons," she said, indicating the mirror.

We looked…horrible. It was actually funny that we looked so bad. Mascara streaks down to our jawlines, and eyeliner smeared every direction. I started to giggle, and then we were both laughing and holding each other again.

"Oh, boy," I said. "Let's wash our faces, so we don't get this stuff all over us." We did, using lots of paper towels and some wipes from Marjorie's magic purse. When we'd got all the makeup off, she handed me a tube of something else, after putting a dollop of it in her own hand.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Moisturizer, nourishes the skin."

"Marjie, don't start—" I began.

"Just use it," she snapped. "It won't kill you, and we just stripped all the oil out of the skin, and you got your face waxed and it—look, you need it."

"Okay, okay," I said. I put some of the moisturizer on, following her directions on how to make sure I got it where it would do the most good. It did feel good.

I looked in the mirror. Even with no makeup, I saw Kissy looking back. "Shit," I said. "Those ladies did a real number on my eyebrows." They were shaped arches instead of just hairy strips above my eyes.

Marjorie put a hand over her mouth, and I knew she was laughing.

I couldn't unsee the changes. I had less than half as much eyebrow as I used to have. "How could I let you do that? And besides, it hurt!"

"Using tweezers is worse and takes lots longer," she said.

"Thanks," I said, trying to sound sour instead of whiney. "I don't feel better at all."

She managed not to laugh out loud and straightened her expression completely when she suggested that we re-apply some makeup. "Nobody wants to see our naked faces in public."

I watched while she did a minimal application, just a little powder, some mascara and lipgloss. It made her look less like she had been crying or through some sort of trauma.

I sighed, looking at my own face in the mirror. My contacts were still in place, easy to tell because of the color, but Kissy looked forlorn, and I still couldn't see Davey at all. The urge to open the repair kit I'd gotten at Venus Collection was strong. I pushed my purse around on the shelf above the sink, waiting for Marjorie to be done. I snorted.

"What?" she asked.

"Don't they make waterproof mascara?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "But the high-end brands are always conservative about some stuff. They came out with waterproof first, but now that every drugstore label has it, they've gone back to traditional formulas. We could replace the runny stuff in your kits…."

I stopped her with a glare.

"Or not," she conceded. She hung her purse on her shoulder and handed me mine, which I handled as if it might contain a tarantula.

In the elevator on the way down, I asked. "Do you know my address?"

"I've seen it on your ID, but you'd better tell me where to turn. It's a few blocks off Western, south of Los Feliz?"

"No," I said. "It's close to Vermont, like two blocks from Hollywood Boulevard. It's a fourplex up-and-down on a would-be cul-de-sac, they have these vicious speed bumps." I described to her how to navigate the turns. From the shelf near the door, we retrieved our hats, which I had completely forgotten about.

When we got to the lobby, the guy at the desk took one look at me and asked, "Is everything okay, miss?"

"Peachy," I said. "Thanks for asking."

He scooted over to open the door for us, and Marjorie thanked him.

Out on the sidewalk, Marjorie accused me of being rude to the man. "Certainly, nothing that has happened was his fault. He saw a pretty girl who looked to be in distress, and he was concerned."

I sighed. "Don't guilt me, Marjie. It ain't gonna work." I paused. "But I do see why most women wear at least a little makeup when they go out."

She nodded. "Social norms. It varies on where you are, but we're presenting as upper class, and it would fit our roles better…. You don't want to hear the paper I wrote on this in my sophomore year, do you?"

I had to laugh at the thought, and she smiled. We headed uptown toward the valet kiosk. Far ahead of us, a big guy was getting out of one of those Uber Black cars. Funny to see one of them in the daytime, but Wilshire was somewhere someone might hire a limo just to get around. Besides, he was so big, maybe he needed one.

I looked at the building where my mom worked, in the block past that. She'd be getting off soon and heading to the movies with some office friends. She wasn't likely to come out and see me, so I forced myself not to worry about that. We reached the kiosk, and while Marjorie ordered the car brought, I struggled to stand still. Pacing was not going to help.

While we waited, the girl valet asked me quietly if I were okay.

"I'm fine," I assured her. I wasn't walking in small circles, but I felt like I might be vibrating like a tuning fork.

"You look like I do after a bad session with my therapist," but she grinned to show she was probably kidding. Still, almost everyone in LA had a therapist, didn't they? And the Wilshire was thick with their offices. Marjorie was even qualified to hang out her own shingle.

What the heck did that mean, anyway? Hang out a shingle, wasn't a shingle something that went on a roof?

Distracting myself by thinking on such trivia had a downside. When the car arrived, I forgot about and missed the wooden step getting off the too-high curb and would have done a faceplant in the pavement if Paul the valet hadn't caught me.

I found myself looking directly into a pair of the biggest, brownest eyes I'd ever seen. His lashes were long and lush, curly and touched with gold. "Careful," he said, smiling.

"Uh—thanks," I managed to murmur. Damnit!

The car had been stopped for enough from the curb that the door could be opened wide. I squeezed past Paul to get in, remembering to smooth my skirt under me and to sit down before swinging my feet inside. "Thank you," I said again as he closed the door.

Marjorie looked at me curiously as I fastened my belt.

"What?" I asked.

"You realize what you just did there?" she asked in turn as we headed uptown temporarily.

"No," I said. "What did I do?" I had a bad feeling.

"You flirted with that guy."

"I tripped from missing the edge of that step!"

She waved a hand. "He was interested."

"Yeah, well," I said. "I wasn't."

"What did he smell like?" she asked, surprising me.

Even more surprising was that I could immediately call to mind his scent. Clean, with a masculine musk and some citrus spice. "Damnit," I said, feeling myself blush.

"Uh, huh," she said. "Damnit."

"What are you saying 'dammit' about?"

"My girlfriend is flirting with guys."

"I'm not your girlfriend."

"Am I still yours?" she asked.

I didn't answer at first. "I think we have to work that one out."

"Do you—do you think we can?"

"I dunno," I said.

She concentrated on driving for a bit. We passed through Little Armenia getting back to Vermont, and the smells reminded me that it had been hours since a light lunch, and I had emptied my stomach in the bathroom. I didn't say anything, though, figuring I could find something to eat at home.

We turned north and passed the scruffy strip malls near Hollywood before she spoke again. "I think I love you," she said. "I know I could."

I looked out the window, not at her, determined not to cry.

"Do you think you could love me?" she asked.

I had another impulse to be unfair. "With your money? I'm sure I could."

She sighed. "I deserve that," she admitted.

She turned west then north again, following the zigzag as I directed her in how to avoid the speed bumps. She stopped in front of our apartment building. We had the north-side ground floor apartment, and our carport was empty. Mom wasn't home yet.

"Do you want me to come in?" she asked.

"Marjie—I—you," I tried to tell her no and finally just shook my head.

She jumped out with the car idling in the middle of the street and ran around to open my door. She held a hand out to help me out, and I took it, then she pulled me into a kiss. We kissed more than once.

"Goodbye," she whispered, handing me the bag containing my boy clothes and mom's hat, the one I'd been wearing when she first saw me. She put the big green hat on my head, and I let her.

Another car had appeared, waiting in the street behind the Mercedes. She raced around the convertible to get it moving out of the way. I went up the walk to my apartment. I'd ended up with a second bag, too.

I stopped to figure out where my keys were, in my purse, of course. I took them out and looked up to see Marjorie slowly turning the corner at the end of the block. She waved at me, and I waved back, then she was gone.

“I still saw Kissy instead of Davey when I looked at my reflection.”

 

Part 3 - Hollywood

Chapter 13 - Closet

Mom’s plans wouldn’t have her home before late so I had plenty of time to get out of the stuff Marjorie had dressed me in. Once in our apartment, I went directly to my room, threw the big green hat on my bed and kicked the low heel shoes I was wearing toward my closet.

I stripped off the jewelry and left it in a pile on my dresser, then pulled the little black dress off over my head. It was stretchy and had no snaps, buttons, zippers or ties, so it just came off like a t-shirt. The pantyhose were more of a problem, but I got them off without snagging them on anything.

And there I stood in front of my mirror, wearing nothing but padded underwear and a corset. I still saw Kissy instead of Davey when I looked at my reflection. I looked cute, sexy and very much a girl. I don’t know how long I stared.

I took the dress to my closet, found a hanger, and hid it in the very back, behind the warm clothes I wore when we visited Big Bear in the winter. I turned back toward my image in the mirror, stuck out my tongue at her, then put my hands up to ruffle my hair and finger comb it into a semblance of the pixie cut look Marjorie had achieved.

Close, I decided. I put a hand on one hip and looked at myself sideways. The only girl I knew close enough to talk to who looked half as good as I did was Marjorie herself. “Shit,” I said.

Mom wouldn’t be home for hours, if she’d been coming right home she’d be here by now. I had time to experiment without—without Marjorie sticking her thumb in.

I looked through some of the drawers of my dresser, finding a yellow t-shirt from an anime con I had attended a few years ago. The shirt had gotten too small but now I pulled it on and—well, it looked good. I found a pair of jeans in my closet that had been getting tight in the waist and I pulled those on. They were tight in the seat now but fit well enough.

I looked in the mirror. I was wearing padding but the outer clothes were mine and I still looked like a girl. “I should—I don’t—crap.” I was talking to myself, a bad sign. But I looked good. Even with no makeup….

I started putting stuff away. My yard-work costume went in the hamper. Mom’s hat I hung on one end of the mirror, near the door, to remember to take it back to the utility closet where she kept it. I put the big green hat with it, it could go out there, too. No place in my room to put it where it wouldn’t be seen or maybe damaged.

I hid the two larger makeup kits in a bottom drawer under my extra blankets. Some miscellaneous stuff like sunblock was destined for the bathroom.

But I discovered that Marjorie had slipped into my bag a package of panties and another padded panty, as well. My face was red while I hid those as well as I could under my warmer pajamas. Damn her. The two pair of pantyhose went there too.

I debated digging out my phone and calling Marty Bosch to go on over for the game tonight. Thursday night gaming was almost sacred in our geeky crowd. I discovered I was making a face while thinking about it. Apparently I didn’t want to go.

“Those guys—” I said aloud, looking at myself in the mirror. If I showed up looking like this, what would they do? I giggled. Yikes. But it was true, they’d fall all over themselves if they saw me, even if they knew it was me.

Gamer girls were the unicorns they pursued at every con they could manage to attend. The idea of teasing them threatened to cause a whole case of giggles. Maybe do a minimal amount of makeup and just show up like I was now? Okay, that would be funny but not a good idea.

What would it take? I booted my computer and found a ton of YouTube tutorials on makeup. I surfed away from them but bookmarked the search.

Sitting at the keyboard reminded me that I still had my nails painted. I had honestly forgotten. Maybe I could find nail polish remover in Mom’s bathroom or dresser, though I hated to enter her room to look for anything. With my current mood, there was too much temptation in there.

What was going on in my head? I had no clue. This was so messed up. I should get out of the rest of Marjorie’s stuff and burn it or something. Figure out how to take the polish off my nails.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in—uh—seven hours or more. I could find something to eat in the house, even cook something myself — I did more than half the cooking anyway, since Mom had a regular job and I didn’t.

I was making a face again, I saw. I didn’t want to cook. I wanted to go somewhere and do something. I sat on the bed and looked at my nails again. Why wasn’t I disgusted to be wearing such obviously girly nails?

I’d just thrown a fit on Marjorie for manipulating me into dressing as a girl, against her wanting me to be her girlfriend. And here I sat, most of the disguise she had talked me into intact.

What did I really want to do?

Four blocks away, there were a dozen fast food places and a few real restaurants in the strip malls along Hollywood. There was a Rite-Aid where I could buy polish remover.

Holy shit!

I got up and looked in my purse. Yeah, there was the $500 Marjorie had given me. Plus $50 from the yard work and the twelve dollars in bills I had had before. I should put that—I should save it—spend it—give it away….

There was a bank ATM next to the Rite-Aid where I could deposit the cash in my debit account. I’d have money for the fall to buy books for school. That’s why I’d been mowing lawns. I didn’t want a McJob and Mom had not pushed me into getting one.

She had promised to pay the low tuition cost to go to community college and to buy me a bus pass. All I’d need was money for books and maybe some food. Clothes…. Damn. I’d just caught myself thinking that I only had one dress!

I paced the room glancing at my closet door from time to time. From that to the mirror and back again. Pretty obvious to me, now—I didn’t want to give up being Kissy.

I felt my face go red. What a name Marjorie had tagged me with. I’d been called that before—how much more obvious an embarrassing nickname could you come up with for someone with my last name?

But—but—but this, but that….

What better chance would I have for experimenting with being Kissy on my own? I went and put the low heel—pumps? court shoes? whatever they were—in the back of my closet under the shoe tree and dug out a pair of unisex looking maroon deck shoes. I didn’t need socks with deck shoes.

I dragged my computer chair over and sat in front of my dresser. I took the small makeup kit out of my purse and contemplated what I needed to do. My contacts were still in, so green-eyed Kissy with her face bare looked back at me.

With the eyebrow pencil, I filled in and extended my brows. A touch of brown eyeshadow at the inner corners of my lids. Some blush on my cheekbones. Carefully, doing it slowly like I’d been shown, so it would dry as more was being applied, I brushed my lashes with mascara. And last, a dab of coppery red on my lips, blotted and reapplied.

“Hi, I’m Kissy Davis,” I told the mirror and it was true.

I looked at the bottle of eau de cologne in my purse and decided that if I put a little on my wrists, I wouldn’t risk a burn since they had not been waxed. It still smelled sweet and flowery, something a girl might wear every day.

I put the kit and bottle back in my purse, added a couple of cheap bracelets and my necklace with the chipmunk charm to my look, and I was ready to walk down to the corner to put money in my bank account, get a cheap burger and buy some nail polish remover. How hard would that be?

I brushed my hair again until I realized I was stalling. I grabbed my purse, and on the way out of my room, the big green hat. It was after six but the sun wouldn’t go down until almost ten and no use taking chances with my tender, freshly waxed hide.

I caught a last glimpse of myself in the mirror. It was entirely appropriate that the anime characters decorating my shirt were Ranma-San and his red-headed female self, Ranma-Chan.

Outside, I checked that I had my keys and made sure the door was locked behind me. Out onto Vermont and around the corner to Hollywood, it was less than a five minute walk to the ATM. Making sure no one was watching, I put $540 into my debit account, leaving me plenty of cash for walking around money.

So far, no one had paid the slightest bit of attention to me, not that there were many people around. As I finished my banking and turned around, a car pulled into a nearby space and an older man got out. Noticing me, he took two quick strides to the door of the Rite-Aid to hold it open.

I smiled and shook my head, pointing across the parking lot at the hamburger stand. He shrugged, smiled and went on into the drugstore.

I hoped I hadn’t been flirting with him, he must have been at least my dad’s age, but he hadn’t had any doubt that I was a girl. I still had a few of my own, but I was enjoying myself, and wasn’t that strange?

“He was obviously checking me out. I didn’t smile because if I had, I was sure to start giggling.”

 

Part 3 - Hollywood

Chapter 14 - Burger

The burger shop on the corner was a Fatburger, an L.A. Chain that served enormous burgers by default but you could get a more reasonably-sized one. I definitely did not want to try to eat a half-pound burger while wearing a corset.

And I was still wearing the corset, though I hardly noticed it any more. “Huh,” I said out loud. Marjorie had been right about that.

I walked across the parking lot to the entrance. Someone in an SUV, one of several in the drive-thru lane, made a noise and I turned to look. The sound had been the passenger side window going down and now a twenty-something guy who looked like Jesse Pinkman’s cousin watched me, smiling. He pushed his baseball cap back a bit when he saw me glance toward him.

I looked away quickly. He was obviously checking me out. I didn’t smile because if I had, I was sure to start giggling. Why did I want to smile?

I reached the door to the place and someone inside opened it for me, holding it open and standing mostly out of the way. “Thank you,” I murmured as I edged past him, trying not to touch his big belly.

“Yeah,” he drawled. He was an older guy, black, with a receding hairline in some half-hearted cornrows and he must have been nearly a foot taller than me. After holding the door until I was completely inside, he let go and left with his food in two huge bags.

The dining area was crowded, every table had at least one person sitting there, three people were in line to order and two more were standing around waiting for their food to come up. I got in line behind an enormous guy wearing ripped jeans and a black t-shirt.

I was still smiling and everyone I looked at smiled back at me. It should have embarrassed me but it didn’t. It scared me a little. I was standing there, everyone thought I was a girl, and I was happy to let them think so.

The guy in line in front of me turned around and I startled. It was Rory Beeson. He’d been an all-sports star at school when I had been a freshman. He smiled down at me because he was at least a foot taller. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey?” I whispered. Why did I make it a question? Rory had wide shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and a huge face hanging over me surrounded with a mane of golden hair. His eyes were blue and his lashes so thick they looked furry. I felt like something had melted inside. That’s why I made it a question, as in what the heck?

He smiled at me and that broke through the euphoria of looking at him for a moment. I smiled back, I couldn’t help that but the thought had penetrated my brain. I felt my nipples crinkle up. I was attracted to this guy—to a boy.

Well, a man.

He was saying something. “This is taking too long. Wanna go down the street and get Thai food in a restaurant where we can at least sit down while we wait?”

“Uh?” Was he asking me out? It sounded like it. “I’m not—I just—uh? Did you just ask me out?” I squeaked out that last bit.

He grinned. “I guess I did. And before I even found out your name.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Rory Beeson and you’re…?”

“K-kissy Davis,” I said. I put my hand in his but he didn’t shake it, in fact, he just engulfed it in both of his.

He loomed over me, grinning. “Thai food? Or if you prefer, there’s Butonnari’s Pizza across the street?”

“Pizza sounds good,” I heard myself say.

And that quick, we were on our way out of Fatburger, my right hand tucked into his left. He steered us through the door and out to a fairly new pickup truck, a big, jacked-up, four-door Toyota, parked near the Vermont corner of the lot. “What do you like on your pizza, Kissy?” He asked as he helped me climb into the giant truck.

“Almost anything—no anchovies, onions, bell peppers or pineapple,” I said, and he laughed as he boosted me inside. I got settled, glad I wasn’t wearing my short skirt. It would have been impossible not to have flashed him. I pulled my phone out while he dashed around the front of the pick-up.

As he climbed in the driver’s side, he asked, “Calling someone?”

“Just leaving a message for my mom,” I said, which was what I was doing, actually. “Gaming,” I sent. “Out late. Don’t call, text if you need to talk.” I put the phone back in my purse. That was pretty standard for Thursday gaming nights but Mom liked to hear from me. And for some reason, I wanted Rory to see me using my phone.

He was buckling his seatbelt so I put mine on too. “Aren’t we —uh— just driving across the street?” I asked as he got the truck moving.

“I know a better place to get pizza,” he said as he made the funny turn from the parking lot that put us on Hollywood headed west. “Do you live with your folks? Around here?”

“Uh-huh, just my mom,” I said. “So what have you been doing since high school, Rory?” I smiled at him.

“Hah?” He peered at me from under his shaggy blond brows. “Did you go to Marshall?”

He obviously wouldn’t have remembered Davey Kissee and he’d never even met Kissy Davis. “I did. I was in the frosh when you were tearing it up as All-City baseball champs. Did you make it to the pros?”

He shook his head and grinned. “I guess the answer is, not yet. I took a scholarship to UCLA and we just missed going to the College World Series.”

“Wow,” I said. The inside of the cab of the truck felt steamy. I put a hand on my chipmunk charm, wondering if my corset was interfering with my breathing again.

“Yeah, I’m playing in the California Summer League, starting this week. Pitching for the Torrance Titans. We’ve got games Friday, Saturday and Sunday, down in Newport.”

“Tomorrow? I’m—that’s—good for you, Rory!” California Summer League was one of the premier off-season leagues for college athletes. I was kind of vague on the details, not being a jock myself.

“Uh-huh,” he said. He kept glancing sideways at me, making me nervous. Was this a date? Was I going on a date with a guy? He took his right hand off the wheel and put it on the console between us. I didn’t want to stare at it like a snake, but it made me nervous. I looked around to see we were passing through Thai Town. The smells might have told me as much.

“Not much pizza here,” I commented.

He laughed. “Well, you didn’t want Thai.” That hand moved again, landing on my thigh, giving me a squeeze and moving away again. Something flashed through me. It might have been fear.

“I like your perfume,” he commented. “Is it Mille Fleurs?”

I pictured the bottle in my mind. “Mille et Un Fleurs,” I said. “The sequel.”

He laughed more than that deserved as we passed under the Hollywood Freeway. The next street was Gower which reminded me.

“I saw Armand Gower today, old classmate of yours?”

He seemed startled. “Yeah, good old Armand, year after me. Big guy, but not athletic. A little odd. Where did you see him?”

“Melrose,” I said casually. “Kicking around, shopping with my girlfriend. He got in my way cause he thought he knew me.”

“Thought he knew you? Armand never forgets, I don’t think he can. We used to call him Packy for pachyderm.” He laughed. “That’s a kind of elephant, so it was appropriate two ways. I heard they tried to recruit him for the Skunk Works but he wants to do science instead of engineering.” Being a nerd myself, I knew that the Skunk Works was an aerospace research group.

He shook his head, continuing. “If he thinks he remembers you, he probably does. Might take him a while to sort out the referent. Did you know he got his Bachelors at the same time he graduated high school? Brilliant kid but he might drown in a rainstorm by looking up without an umbrella.”

Huh? I didn’t understand that. I pictured Armand looking up. If he saw something interesting, his mouth would be open. Okay, I got it, and I got the giggles. “That’s kind of a mean thing to say,” I told Rory.

“But funny,” he said, grinning at me.

We passed through the touristy part of what might be called downtown Hollywood, traffic was slow here. Professional cosplayers dressed as characters from movies posed with tourist for snaps and a few bucks. Sometimes they got in fights, Superman dissing on Mary Poppins, or Shrek giving Charlie Chaplin a wedgie. It made the local news sometimes.

We turned south for a few blocks on a street I didn’t know and Rory pulled the truck into an underground lot. “Uh, this is a hotel?” I said. A hotel? What was he planning? Yikes! I’d gotten into his truck and just let him take me somewhere? I’m an idiot, I thought. Just cause I used to know who he was in high school.

Rory parked on the second level. “2D43,” the parking space, he said as he shut down the engine. Then to me, “Restaurant is on the roof. But your face,” he laughed. He got out of the truck and came around to my side. I had the door open and my seatbelt off. “What did you think, Babe?” he asked, still grinning.

“I didn’t know what to think,” I admitted. Especially about him calling me Babe. He held his arms up and I put my hands on his shoulders as he lifted me by the waist and put me down on the floor. No struggle, he just did it and it seemed natural. I felt tiny, like a little kid next to him. Babe….

He laughed. “Relax, this is my uncle Jake’s restaurant and my grandfather owns the hotel.”

I looked up at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel more safe, or less?” I asked.

“Hungry, I hope,” he said. He put a hand in the small of my back and directed us toward an elevator. This was an old building and the tiny elevator complained as it carried us up two floors where it stopped and two more people got on. I was right up against Rory, under his arm and he caught my left hand with his while I had my right arm around his waist.

Cozy. What the heck am I doing? I wondered.

A little green card on the wall of the elevator read Tetto di Giacomo, and below that, Cucina Italiana. The other people got off on the fourth floor and we went all the way up the sixth. “This isn’t a pizza restaurant,” I said as we stepped into a rather dim lobby decorated with old woods and stone floors.

“I never said it was, Babe, I said they had good pizza.” Rory motioned to a waiter, “Dominick, a quiet table outside?” We followed the waiter through an arch to the roof of the hotel with a dozen or more tables, each of which was covered in checkered oilcloth with lit candles in centerpieces.

One direction, we had a view of the Hollywood sign on the hills above and the other way, across downtown LA lay Chavez Ravine where the Dodgers would be playing in an hour or so. And to the west, the sun was settling into red and gold and purple clouds.

I’m on a date with a boy, and he’s taken me to the most romantic restaurant I’ve ever seen, I thought.

“Rory kidnaps pretty girls and brings them to see the sunset.” He gestured, and I gasped as I got another glimpse of technicolor glory.

 

Part 3 - Hollywood

Chapter 15 - Pizza

“I don’t feel like I’m dressed right to be here,” I murmured to Rory as Dominick led us to an out of the way table.

Rory piffled that. “I’m wearing a Göthique Revölution t-shirt. Don’t worry about it. This is California. Chicks! Always worrying about if they’re dressed right.”

I giggled at that—a bit nervously, sure. “W—what is Gothic Revolution?”

“Please,” he said. “Göthique Revölution.”

Dominick held a chair out for me, and I covered my awkwardness with more giggles. “Okay, Gerthick Reverlution. What is it?”

He waggled his bushy brows at me. “It’s a heavy metal band I’m in-when we get the chance to perform.”

I laughed out loud at that.

Dominick left menus behind- but Rory didn’t touch them. “I know what we’re having if you’ll let me order for us?”

“Uh, sure. Um, what instrument do you play?” I asked.

“I’m a screamer,” he said with a straight face.

“A—uh—a vocalist?”

He made a face, like a mime discovering he has stepped in imaginary dog poo. “You don’t know much about heavy metal music, do you, Babe?”

Well, I didn’t. “Apparently not,” I admitted.

“Well, you have drummers, who play the drums, yeah? And guitar people who do guitar stuff.” He looked thoughtful while I struggled to control more giggles. “A keyboardist who stands at the keyboard and tries to look cool. The vocalist, who’s the one who’s supposed to know the words if the song has them. And then the screamers. Every band has to have at least one.”

“Do—they—do they—scream?” I asked between more giggles.

He nodded. “Yeah, well, it’s what they do, what I do. The lead vocal sings the verse, then I come in and scream the hook. The chorus. And everyone screams along.”

It was a legit description of most of the heavy metal I had ever heard—which made it very funny.

“Loo-gee!” said Rory as another waiter approached.

“It’s Luigi, Moonface,” said the waiter. Then they did one of those masculine things with the fist bumps.

“‘At’s what I said, Loo-gee.” Rory turned to me, “Kissy, my cousin Lou. Lou, my date Kissy.”

So, it is a date. My ears were roaring, and I didn’t hear the next thing that anyone said. I thought, I’m on a date with a guy, and I’m having a lot of fun. Which reminded me that a lot of what I had done with Marjorie had been fun, too. “N-nice to meet you, Lou,” I stammered at what I hoped was the approximate time.

“Is this kidnapper treating you right?” Lou asked.

“K-kidnapper?”

“Yeah, he kidnaps pretty girls and brings them here to see the sunset.” He gestured in that direction, and I gasped as I got another look at technicolor glory. “It impresses them so much they forget they’ve been kidnapped and give him what he wants.”

Rory laughed.

I managed to look serious. “He did sort of kidnap me. Practically right off the street,” I said.

“You were in a Fatburger, I had to save you,” said Rory.

“You didn’t tell me where we were going,” I pointed out.

“You didn’t know about this place, so if I’d told you, you still wouldn’t know.”

“Hmph,” I said, trying to play along with the gag.

The guys looked delighted at my reactions.

“So, this is where I tell you what I want?” Rory asked, teasing.

“No,” said Lou, “this is where you tell me what you want.”

“Not as much fun, but okay,” agreed Rory. “We’ll have twice-baked, green salad with, crusty bread, sparkling red and those raw veggies with the dip.”

“And water,” I put in.

Lou nodded, scribbled something on his pad and scooted off.

“Are you old enough to order wine?” I asked Rory. “I’m underage.”

“You’re undertall, too,” said Rory. “Short. They let you ride the big kid’s rides at Disneyland yet?”

Ouch. I am short, or Davey is, but Kissy is almost average height for a girl. “I’m not short,” I protested. Okay, it’s a bit of a sore spot for me.

Rory grinned. “I’m teasing. And I’m old enough. Here. Famiglia, as they say—it’s like being at home. If you’re good and promise not to get sloppy, you can have half a glass.”

“I—you—it’s!” I glared at him. “Everyone wants to get me drunk!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Everyone?”

I looked away. “The last date I was on, I mean….” The show in the sky captured my attention.

We watched the sunset until the antipasto came. It was quite a show, but we had to look away when the waiter arrived with a tray with small bowls of sauce and a big platter of vegetables.

Domenick explained. “Mama doesn’t think you should fill up on cheap delicatessen meats before a real meal. So she came up with this. Cut up raw veggies with oil and vinegar to dip, and her own recipe, crema di pepe, peppercorn cream.”

The last was a creamy dip with sharply flavored bits of fresh ground black pepper. Also garlic and something else. “This is wonderful,” I said, after a taste on a dipped piece of broccoli.

Rory and Domenick both beamed as if they had mixed it up themselves. There was also a basket of hot, fresh, crusty rolls, with either butter or olive oil to adorn them.

And the food kept coming. A green salad was next with four kinds of greens, seasoned croutons, and a savory version of Italian dressing like nothing I had ever tasted. “Has this got beef in the dressing?” I asked Rory, astonished.

“No,” he said. “Fish. Good, isn’t it?”

I nodded though I couldn’t imagine what kind of fish it might be.

Then Lou brought the main course, a sizzling casserole that, when uncovered, revealed three pieces of lasagna, all of them crispy brown on the outside, and standing more than two inches tall.

“You see,” said Lou. “This is the dating special—twice-baked lasagna. Three pieces, one for him, one for her and one to share or take home.” He glared at Rory, “Usually, this criminal eats two pieces himself, and as much of the girl’s share as he can talk or extort out of her.”

“I need fuel,” Rory defended himself.

I laughed at him as Lou helped our plates with the delicious smelling pasta.

I did have a few sips from a half glass of sparkling red wine, but mostly I drank water. And I ate until I could hold no more, the corset helping me keep my appetite to a ladylike proportion. Then I cheerfully handed over the last more-than-a-third of my serving and watched it disappear into the engine that was Rory Beeson.

“It is criminal how you can eat,” I observed.

“I know, huh?” he admitted. “All the guys eat like I do. Coach says he’s glad he only has to feed us one or two meals on game days. Two if we’re on the road. You gonna come see me pitch tomorrow? Free tickets, right behind home plate.”

I frowned at him. “This is—I’m not—Aren’t you trying to move fast? I mean, we hardly know each other.” I gestured at the restaurant. The lights were dim, but now that the sun was down, rivers of jewels flowed through the city, and Chavez Ravine, across the valley, was lit up like a birthday cake. “All this? For…just a date from a casual meeting?”

“This is Hollywood, Kissy. Romance is the gross national product.”

I snorted to keep from giggling. Well, we were in Hollywood, which is part of LA, just like Los Feliz is. The Hollywood sign was all lit up somewhere above us, though I’d lost track of which direction.

Dessert came, tiny scoops of our choice chocolate or spumoni gelato or rainbow sherbet. I took chocolate, and it was just the right amount.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Kissy,” said Rory. “The reason I asked you out is I’m on the rebound. I’d just broken up with my girlfriend, and intended to drown my sorrows with a Triple Fatburger and a side of chili fries.”

He leaned towards me, “Then I smelled a thousand flowers and turned around.”

“A thousand and one,” I said inanely.

“And there you were.” Rory reached across the table and took my hands in his. “It’s not that sudden. We’ve known each other for years.”

I felt a sudden stab of anxiety. I shook my head. “You don’t remember me. We might have gone to the same schools together, but you were three years ahead of me.”

He shook his head. “I remember you now. My older sister was your babysitter. We lived on Massachusetts, and you lived two doors down, until I started middle school, and you guys moved.”

That would have been about the time of the divorce. Mom and Dad had sold the house as part of the settlement, and Mom bought the condo we lived in now. I remembered Cindy, my babysitter, she went away to college about that time, but we moved several miles away.

“You can’t remember me,” I protested. “I was just a little kid.”

He nodded. “And I was almost the size I am now. You probably thought I was a grown-up.” He laughed. “You were the cutest little redhead in the neighborhood, sure I noticed. You were eight, I was eleven, it could have worked.” He grinned. “Your face, Babe, you should see your face.”

“Rory—Rory—I—I!”

“Your name was Dannie, when did you change it to Kissy?” He frowned. “Oh, wait, Kissy was your last name.”

I tried to breathe deep, to not hyperventilate. I counted my breaths, silently. I didn’t want to pass out.

“I meant to look you up when you got to high school, but you were always hanging with Mando Gower and his Amazing Zoo Crew. Buncha nerds,” he grinned. “No offense. Armand tutored me in math. He’s a good guy.”

“Not—not Dannie.” I gasped. I had to tell him. But he might try to throw me off the roof. But if I didn’t tell him and he found out later, well that might be worse. What could be worse than getting thrown off a roof? I got ready to run. “My name was Davey. Davey Kissee.”

Rory’s face lit up. “That’s right. I remember now. And I didn’t date you cause you were a boy back then.” He smiled at me. “But you aren’t now, are you, Babe?”

He gave me a small squeeze. “You’re going to be killer when you get the training wheels off..."

 

Part 3 - Hollywood

Chapter 16 - Spuma

I glared at him. “Are you telling me you knew all the time?”

“Well, not all the time,” he admitted. “But I kinda sorta figured it out. But I thought your name used to be Dannie.” He made a motion with his hand. “Which could be a boy or a girl’s name.”

“It was Davey. Is Davey….” I trailed off.

“How long have you been living as Kissy?” he asked. “You’re pretty good at… that’s going to sound weird.”

“What’s going to sound weird?” I asked.

“Saying you’re pretty good at being a girl.” He grinned. “You are a girl, just you come across a bit of a tomboy sometimes. Like how you sit, and sometimes how you say something….” He paused. “I think I only noticed because I’ve known you so long?”

“I didn’t know you knew me that well!” Was I pouting? Maybe.

“I’m well known to have an eye for pretty girls. Of course, I noticed you. Even at eight you were so cute.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I was a boy back then. Never even thought about being a girl.”

He snorted. “I wasn’t sure. Sis said you were a boy but I wasn’t sure she wasn’t just fooling with me.”

“Good grief.” I don’t think I rolled my eyes at him. But I might have.

“She told me how your dad threw a fit when he caught you and her playing with makeup. And she painted your nails because you asked her too.”

“What?” Ice went down my back. I didn’t remember this. I looked at my hands with their sophisticated two-tone French nails. But I saw younger, pudgier fingers with nails painted Baby Doll Pink.

Rory commented. “Your freckles really stand out when you do whatever you just did, Babe. Even in this light. Hey, you know, Sis was the one who gave you the nickname Butterscotch because of the color of your freckles.” He laughed. “Still true. I think they’re cute, but some girls don’t like having ‘em.”

He stopped talking and peered at me in the candlelight and the light of the sun setting. There were dim bulbs at the waiter stations, too, but their light didn’t reach our table. “Are you okay, Babe?” he asked.

I shook my head but said, “I’m all right. What time is it?”

He shrugged. “About eight I think? It ain’t dark yet.”

I took as deep a breath as I could and said, “In answer to your earlier question, I’ve been Kissy Davis for about… seven hours.”

“Huh.” He looked curiously impressed. “You mean this is your first day going out in public, deliberately dressed as a girl?”

I nodded. I made a face and shrugged. What could I say?

“Wow,” he said. He still had my hands caught in one of his big ones. He gave me a small squeeze. “You’re going to be killer when you get the training wheels off, Babe.”

I shook my head. “I—I'm—I’m not sure.”

“Not sure? Not sure you’re going to stay a girl?”

I nodded miserably.

“You’re just trying it out?”

“Yeah. This girl I met…. She’s a lesbian….”

“And she wanted to see how you’d look as her favorite meal?”

I winced. “Don’t be crude, Rory.” It was funny, though, and I had to suppress a small smile.

“I’m a guy. We’re crude, sometimes. Not like you refined and sweet ladies.” I could see his grin.

“Now you’re teasing me.” I pulled my hands away and he let me.

“Sure, but I hope I’m not being mean about it. You’re easy to tease and you blush so pretty.”

“Damnit, Rory. Are you trying to make this hard?”

“Babe,” he said sounding serious. “That’s my line, isn’t it?”

My purse buzzed against the back of the chair where I had hung it, just in time. I must be getting a text. For a distraction from Rory’s teasing, I decided to look. “Might be Mom,” I told him as I retrieved my phone.

It was Marty from my gaming group. I kept my answers short.

Dude you going to make it at all tonight
Proly not
You wont believe who showed up to play
Who
Armand the man he’s home on break
Cool
He asked about you
Ok
We told him you had a date
Ok
Did we lie
Am on date now, quit texting
Dude

I turned off Skype and put the phone away. If Mom texted me, she’d use SMS through the phone circuits.

Rory had been watching me. “You even text like a girl,” he said.

“How’s that?” How does a girl text different from a boy?

“With your thumbs, quick as lightning.”

“That’s the way everybody does it!”

“Not me, my thumbs are too big. I have to use my pinkie.” He held up his little finger and made a face like Dr. Evil.

I laughed at him. It was so unexpected and he had Myers’ expression down perfect.

He grinned, asking, “Was that your mom?”

I shook my head. “No. Nerd patrol. They miss me.” I sighed. “Marty said Armand showed up.”

“Fucking Armand,” said Rory fondly.

“Hey,” I protested. Armand had been very nice to me in school.

“Armand had a thing for you, too, you know?”

“I—what?—a thing? What kind of thing and what do you mean, too?” Did I go through twelve years of school with blinders on?

“He told me about you in the—what did you call it?—nerd patrol? Said you were the only girl who showed up.”

My face may have lit up the whole rooftop, I know a couple other diners looked our direction. “He thought I was a girl?”

“You are a girl—he noticed.”

I shook my head.

“I couldn’t talk him out of it. He said you were a girl pretending to be a boy and you had the whole school fooled. Except him.”

“Then why—why did he think—I don’t understand?”

“When he called you by some actress’s name?” I nodded. “He was probably trying to give you a compliment. Guy is hopeless at social shit. Not soo-a-bee like me.”

I didn’t get the joke, at first, when he butchered the Spanish word for smooth. When I did get it, I snorted, again to keep from giggling.

I rubbed my arms, I could feel the air changing from offshore to onshore flow, it would be a cool night with wind from the ocean penetrating miles inland. “Can we go?” I asked.

“Sure, Babe,” he said, standing and coming around the table to help me with my chair.

“Where’s my hat?” I asked.

“You left it in the truck,” Rory answered.

Domenick appeared with a small paper bag. “Uncle Jake’s treat tonight, kids,” he said. “And Mama sent two slices of cheesecake and two bottles of spuma in cold sleeves.” He presented the bag to Rory.

“Thanks,” said my date. “And thank Uncle Jake and your mama for me.”

Lou came over to say goodbye and warn me. “Don’t trust this one. He’s a criminal.” But he and Rory traded fist bumps again.

Did they like each other or not? I realized I never had really understood boys.

Rory put his free arm around me, the one not holding the bag. “You’ve got goosebumps,” he commented.

I wasn’t sure if they were from him holding me or from the onshore breeze.

“Get her off the roof, man,” Lou told him.

We rode down alone in the tiny elevator, Rory’s arm around me again. “What’s spuma?” I asked.

“Fizzy lemonade,” he said. “Well, the word means foam, actually.”

In Spanish, foam is espuma. Could you turn such Spanish words to Italian by leaving off the ‘e’? Spume means foam in English, too.

Rory’s arm stayed around me as we walked to the truck, and it helped with the coolness of the wind. He boosted me into the front seat of the truck on the driver’s side and I had to clamber over the console to my seat. I really needed the help up because it was a huge truck with a heavy door and I was tired.

He climbed in behind me and passed me the goodie bag which I put on the floor behind the console. My hat lay on the back seat, I noticed.

“Hey, Babe, wanna drive in the hills?” he asked as he started the truck up.

I just looked at him. “This is my first date with a boy and you want to take me up on some hillside to neck?” My heart did not add an extra beat when he made the suggestion. No, it didn’t, I swear.

“That was the thought,” he admitted.

“Can you just take me home? You can come in and we can eat cheesecake and drink lemonade.”

“Yeah? Okay, Babe, that sounds good.” He made a couple of turns and we ended up on Vine heading north. When we crossed Hollywood, alarm bells went off.

“You didn’t turn,” I accused.

“Ah,” he said. “If we go straight to your place, we're not going to want to eat cheesecake right away, and—uh—I can’t see us—uh—wrestling on the sofa while your mom might come in at any moment, so I thought we’d just take a little drive first. Just a drive.”

“We’re not gonna wrestle,” I said firmly. No extra beats, no, sir.

“Sure, Babe,” he said. “First date, I’m lucky if I get a kiss at the door, right?” He grinned at me.

“You’re a doof,” I said.

“Is that good?”

I put out a hand and wobbled it. “You’re on the bubble.”

“Hah,” he said.

So we drove up into the hills for half an hour or so. We stopped once at an overlook where we could see the Hollywood sign reflected in the lake. Reservoir, really. Honest lakes are rare in Southern California.

We didn’t do any necking. For one thing, the big console sat between us in the front seat. “We could climb in the back,” Rory offered.

But I said, “No,” and he didn’t push it. He was actually making me feel—I wanted to say good about myself with all his attention—but it was more complicated than that. Like I wanted him to say all the things he would say to a real girl but still it scared me.

We finally came down out of the hills and reconnected with Hollywood. We’d seen a lot of beautiful homes and they made me think of Marjorie, though I knew she lived somewhere a mile or so east, nearer the Griffith Observatory.

What a day, I thought.

I directed Rory to turn onto New Hampshire and pointed out our apartment before I noticed. Mom’s car was in the carport.

“Oh, shit,” I said.

“What?” Rory asked as he turned into the driveway.

“Just make a turn and get us out of here,” I said.

“O-okay,” he said, making a K-turn as if that were what he intended all along. “What’s wrong?”

“Mom’s home,” I said.

“Want me to let you out a block away?” he asked. “You could walk in like nothing was wrong and like I ain’t even been here.”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t know about Kissy.”

“Oh, ho,” he said. He went on down to Vermont and turned south. “When are you going to tell her?” he asked.

"Yesterday, I was pretty sure I was a boy. Heck, this morning….” I trailed off.

 

Part 3 - Hollywood

Chapter 17 - Clubbing

“So, your mom doesn’t know you’re experimenting with going out in public as a girl?” Rory asked.

“No.” I winced.

“And she’s not expecting you home until later?”

“No, I’m usually out till eleven on Thursday, game night. I don’t have a curfew since graduation.”

“And your gamer buddies don’t know where you are?”

“No.” We were in Rory’s truck, heading south on Vermont from my neighborhood in Los Feliz.

“But your mom came home earlier than you expected and she’s there now?”

“Yes,” I said. “She was supposed to be going to a movie with friends in Westwood. I didn’t expect her home before ten. Maybe they went to an early show and skipped getting dinner.”

“Girl,” he said, “are you in a fix or do you just think you’re in a fix?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

He sighed. “We’ve got choices. I can take you home and you can face your mom, with or without me to back you up. I can take you to your gaming group….okay no.” I was shaking my head on that one. “We could go to my place and just hang out till you think your mom has gone to bed.” I frowned.

“Lou says you’re a criminal and not to trust you,” I pointed out.

He laughed. “Good ol’ Lou, a character witness when you need one. Okay, I understand where you’re coming from. So, we could go somewhere else and wait or do something else, cause I take it, you don’t want to face your mom tonight?”

I shook my head. I felt my lip tremble. I didn’t want to cry. I’d have to fix my makeup. Which I realized I hadn’t done after eating. I pulled down the vanity mirror and took a look. My lipstick was gone but everything else looked fine.

Rory was laughing at me. “You are such a girl,” he said. “Oh, crisis,” he went on in a high voice, ‘oh, time to see how I look!’”

“Shut up,” I said. I debated whether I could apply lipstick in a moving vehicle. We turned west on Santa Monica. I got a lipstick out of my purse, the copper red that almost matched my hair. “Where are we going?”

“You’re not giving me a clue, darling,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just driving.”

He watched with quick glances as I applied the color in three movements, keeping it on my lips and not my cheek. I pulled a tissue out of the pocket pack included in my kit, blotted and re-applied.

Rory smiled. “You’re already a pro,” he said. “Sure you haven’t been doing this for years?”

“Yes. Just starting out. Not even sure this is where I’m going to be going. Yesterday, I was pretty sure I was a boy. Heck, this morning….” I trailed off thinking about Marjorie.

“Be a waste of natural talent if you don’t. Have you seen anyone about this? Anyone professional?”

“Psychologist.” Meaning Marjorie but she wasn’t really a counselor. “Medical doctor. Have an appointment for in the morning with him again.” I startled, remembering that I would need Mom along or at least her signature on a permission slip. I sighed. A few hours ago I had been sure I would not go, now it looked like the best thing to do.

“Is there some place we could go, a public place?” I asked him. “I need to think.”

“Okay, Babe,” he said.

This time of night on a Thursday, Santa Monica Boulevard was busy but not mad busy. We cruised westward, passing south of Hollywood, north of Melrose and into West Hollywood. We cruised right into the sunset as the golden ball finally dropped below the horizon.

But when Sunset broke off, we stayed on Santa Monica until Rory pulled into the parking lot of what looked like an old church, except a neon sign advertised it as Sanandrea.

“What’s—Is this that gay bar for kids?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s a kiddie bar, no alcohol, and it’s gay friendly, trans, too. Dancing, food, people to meet.”

“We don’t need food, I don’t dance….” I trailed off.

“And you hate people right now, huh?” He grinned at me.

I looked at him. “Am I trans?”

“You tell me.” He got out and went around the truck cab to my side and helped me out. “We can take a look and if it is a problem, we can leave.” And then for the first time, he kissed me.

On the forehead. The difference in our heights was so much, he’d need to bend pretty low to kiss me elsewhere, even if I got on tiptoe. But other than my father when I was small, had I ever been kissed by a male? It sent shivers down my spine. Like, but not like getting kissed by Marjorie — and some of those had been pretty passionate and right on the lips.

We were miles closer to the ocean now and the onshore flow was positively chilly. Even though summer officially started last week, we still had springtime weather in LA. It’s always like this, this time of year, and it always surprises the tourists. I shivered and Rory put his arm around me.

“C’mon short stuff, let’s get inside before you start chattering,” he said pushing me along.

“I’m not short,” I complained. Well, not for a girl, I’m not.

“Okay,” said Rory. “You’re diminutive.”

“Fine,” I said. Which was an obscure role-playing-game joke no one who wasn’t a geek was going to get. (Diminutive and Fine are the two smallest sizes of creature in one famous game—fine being nearly microscopic.) Had Rory made a gamer-geek joke? By accident?

At the door to the place stood a pair of bouncers, neither of which was quite as big as Rory but impressive nevertheless. “No one over thirty inside,” said one of the bouncers, looking us over. “You two are okay.”

Inside, a large space was divided into a restaurant and a dance floor with a stage at one end visible from both. Young people of all descriptions, and I mean all descriptions, occupied the tables and booths in the restaurant half, and a number were dancing in the other half. It wasn’t as crowded as I expected it to be but the volume of noise was tremendous.

Up on stage, a tall girl lip-synced to one of the latest dance tunes, played at aircraft-engine-level through speakers as big as those little French cars. I wasn’t up on recent music, so I didn’t recognize the tune or even the voice, but that might have been because it was so loud. A dozen huge screens showed people dancing, some probably from the music video of the song.

“I—,” I began but shook my head. Standing on tiptoe, I pulled on Rory head to get it down to a level where I could be heard. “Too loud! Let’s get out of here.”

He nodded and we made our way toward the exit, separate from the entrance and with its own bouncer. This was a woman, probably a transwoman from her size and muscles. She smiled pleasantly at us and mouthed some sort of goodbye.

I pointed at my ears, which were actually beginning to hurt, and she nodded, pointing out that she was wearing earplugs.

Back at the truck, Rory opened the passenger door, picked me up and just put me in the seat. Then he gave me a quick peck on the lips, closed the door and ran around to his side. I did some thinking. I hadn’t had that melty feeling again that I’d gotten when he first spoke to me back in Fatburger.

Still the lip smack had started something I felt like I wanted to explore. But did I dare trust Rory to—to respect me if I called a halt? That I wasn’t all-girl didn’t seem to bother him at all and when I had objected to things he had been willing to back off. But damn, he was just as pushy as Marjorie.

I sighed.

He climbed in and began to buckle up so I did, too. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Let’s drive down to the ocean, we’re almost half the way there already. By the time we get there, maybe park a bit, and get back, your mom will almost certainly be asleep.”

“Uh—.” I thought about it. “Okay.” Mom had to work in the morning, she wouldn’t stay up too late.

So we did that. We had to stop for gas but we made it down to the Santa Monica pier in a bit more than half an hour. On the way, we talked. I asked a lot of questions about playing baseball in the CSL.

“It’s not like playing in the minors. It’s a developmental league. We don’t get paid except a per diem for expenses and a tiny amount the NCAA lets us get without losing our amateur status. Kind of like the campus jobs some guys in other sports get,” he explained.

“Are you going to make it into the big leagues?” I asked him.

“Well, I got to think so or why do all this, but really, who knows? It’s a crapshoot. About six hundred new guys a year get to play in the majors, some of them only for a couple of weeks and there are tens of thousands trying for those spots. Half go to players who were there last year, so the odds are even worse than they look.”

He liked to talk about baseball so it was easy to keep him on the subject. It didn’t matter what he said. I just enjoyed watching him, looking at him. I loosened the seat belt so I could turn half sideways and not have to keep cricking my neck to see him.

He had muscles in places I didn’t even have places. Like his neck, how could anyone have such a muscular neck? I felt of my own, I didn’t seem to have any muscles there at all, just enough to keep my head from falling onto my chest. His must be close to twice as big around.

He had that haystack of blond hair on his head, too. His coaches were always after him to cut it, but he said, “Chicks dig the hair? Am I right?”

I giggled in agreement.

He had furry arms, too. Lots of blondness like a cloud or a halo. I wanted to drag my fingers through that. I had no hair there at all and didn’t want any of that on me. But on him, it was almost irresistible. A week ago, even yesterday, the thought would not have occurred to me.

He found an open lot above the beach where we could park and see the ocean. We sat there for some time. Eventually our talk ran down and we got quiet. I was looking at him almost as much as the sea which was throwing up some big waves that crashed on the beach and glowed in the darkness all on their own.

He startled me by suddenly getting out of the truck. The wind that came in the open door for a moment made me shiver but he closed it, ran around the truck, opened the door on my side, and released my seatbelt.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He used the seat controls to push it all the way back in its track. Then he scooped me up, climbed in, sat down with me in his lap and closed the door.

“Isn’t this better?” he asked.

I didn’t have time to answer before he was kissing me.

"We were face to face, me sitting in his lap, sort of sideways. “Damn,” said Rory.

 

Part 3 - Hollywood

Chapter 18 - Cowgirl

I put my arms against his chest and tried to push away from his kisses. His own hands were rapidly discovering that most of my curves were padding. “You got some growing to do, girl,” he said.

“Stop it, Rory,” I said. “This is—not fun.” Too sudden, too disturbing.

He sighed and relaxed his hold on me, letting his arms fall away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were looking at me so intently, asking so many questions, you even licked your lips—”

“I did not!”

He grinned. “Yes, you did. I decided that if we both wanted something, we should have it. Hmm?” He reached up with one hand and touched my earlobe, “You’ve lost one of your earbobsie-doodles.”

I was still sitting in his lap, and as he touched my ear, a shiver ran through me. And I sensed something… throb underneath me.” I squirmed, trying to get away from it, and the most astonishing look crossed Rory’s face.

“Do that again,” he said.

But what was happening under me was not only in Rory’s pants but also in mine. My own—equipment—down there, stuffed into its tight little padded prison had responded to the situation and the stimulation, and I had the oddest sensation going on.

Marjorie had provoked something similar, but this was different. With Marjorie, I had felt my own excitement as a rather uncomfortable hard-on, essentially masculine despite what I had been wearing at the time.

But now, it didn’t feel like that at all. It felt like something internal as if I were being penetrated instead of preparing to accomplish some penetration. I squirmed again, as requested, and we both gasped.

We were face to face, me sitting in his lap, sort of sideways. A shudder went through both of us.

“Damn,” said Rory.

I moved again, straddling his left thigh, facing him without being half-turned away. His arms went around me again, and mine slipped up from his chest to his neck. His beard stubble rasped against the back of my hands, then I clasped them behind his head and pulled him toward me.

We trembled while he gently kissed me on the cheeks, the lips, my neck.

“If you keep moving, this will get messy,” he warned. He gasped again when my hips involuntarily thrust forward. I almost cried out myself, but I clamped my mouth shut on what might have been a moan or a shriek.

“Kissy,” he whispered. “Do you want to do this?” he asked against my neck.

“No,” I said, and it took effort to say so because I did want to do it. “Not now, not tonight,” I finished using willpower I was surprised to find that I owned.

Suddenly the truck door opened, and just as abruptly, we were standing on the pavement beside the truck, the chilling breeze from the ocean exactly like a cold shower. And just as painful and unwelcome.

Rory was holding me upright and leaning his ass against the truck. He laughed in between curses. “Oh, Kissy, you’re too much woman for me tonight,” he said, and he kissed me again.

To one side, the ocean roared and poured out its passion against the beach. To the other, the city lights and the traffic on Ocean Avenue pulsed and flowed in a broken rhythm of chaos and order. I shivered in the wind from the water and shook in the knowledge of what we had almost done.

It can get very cold quickly, next to the ocean once the sun goes down. “Rory,” I whined, my voice a weak, empty plea. “I’m f-freezing.”

“Sorry, Babe,” he apologized. As effortlessly as he did most things, he picked me up and put me back in the cab of the truck and shut the door. Then he ran around to his side, opened the rear door there, and from somewhere behind the back seat, produced a wooly blanket which he handed to me, reaching between the front seats.

I wrapped myself in it gratefully. “Thank you,” I said.

He was laughing again as he climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the engine up. “Let’s run the heater a bit, huh?”

I nodded.

We sat there a moment, thinking about what had happened, while the cabin warmed up. “I’d better get you home,” he said, putting the truck in gear and backing out of the space. Pulling forward into the lane back toward Ocean, he added, “Now I know what they mean by having all the fun you can with your clothes on.”

We laughed like loons all the way to the entrance to the 10 freeway.

“You’re a doof,” I told him as he negotiated the ramp in downtown Santa Monica.

He put out a hand and wobbled it. “I’m on the bubble?”

“Yah,” I said, and he laughed again. I snuggled into my blanket and giggled, wondering why I felt so happy.

Rory had chosen to use the freeway to get back to our neighborhoods, but none of them went directly there. We made pretty good time on the 10, but he got off at Western and headed north on surface streets instead of drawing the box to get closer to home, which would mean navigating the tangle of freeways around downtown LA.

Even close to midnight on a weekday, that kind of traffic could be hairy since the roads filled up with big trucks as evening turned into night. Western was pretty busy, too, but the lights are timed, and we sped along, probably averaging more than 30 mph. I don’t drive, but every Angeleno knows the traffic patterns around where they live.

I don’t know what we talked about, but we did a lot of talking. It got warm enough in the cab to throw the blanket into the backseat. I retrieved the goodie bag from Tetto di Giacomo, opened the lemonades, and unwrapped the cheesecake, and we snacked on the custardy slices as Rory drove.

When we turned off Western onto Santa Monica, I started getting sleepy. If I asked an occasional question about baseball, Rory would keep talking. I remember us turning onto Vermont and passing City College, but I must have dozed off in that last mile or so because it came as a complete surprise when Rory stopped the truck in our driveway behind Mom’s Prius in the carport.

The time on the dashboard read 11:48, but the lights were still on in the kitchen, so Mom was still up. That was unusual; she had to be at work by nine in the morning and didn’t usually stay up this late. I undid my seatbelt and started to get out. 

Rory climbed out, too, asking, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

He came around to my side and helped me down while I thought about it. “I don’t know why she’s still up,” I fretted.

He retrieved my purse from the console and handed it to me. I’d forgotten it. “If my underage daughter were out this late, I’d be waiting up for her,” he said.

“But—.” But she doesn’t know I’m her daughter, I’d been about to say. Was that true? Was I? Did she not know? I tried to think about that, but nothing was happening between my ears.

“I can go in with you,” Rory repeated. “You know, for moral support. After your cowgirl stunt, you probably need it.”

I glared at him when what he’d said sank in, but he just grinned. “Okay,” I said. “If she wants to throw me out, at least I’ll have a ride to the homeless shelter.”

He took up all the room in front of the door and held out his hand. “Gimme the key,” he whispered. “I’ve had a lot more experience sneaking in after curfew than you have.”

“The lights are on, and I don’t have a curfew,” I whispered back, but I dug the key out of my purse and handed it to him.

He opened the door with hardly a click, eased it wide, stuck his head through, and then went in, holding the door for me to follow. He had his finger to his mouth in a shh gesture, so I followed on tiptoe.

Mom slept on the couch, the afghan usually decorating the back pulled around her. The kitchen light was the only one on, and she had her face turned away from it.

Suddenly seized with the need to pee, I dashed down the hallway and into the bathroom, moving as quietly as possible. I could do most of my changing back to Davey in there. Mom had her own bath in the big bedroom in back.

I hadn’t been quiet enough. I heard Mom call out, “Davey?” Then she asked, “Who’s this big doof?”

Rory rumbled a laugh and a reply, “I’m on the bubble.”

I stripped off my pants and yanked the padded panty down to my knees. I decided it was safer to sit down to pee rather than trust my newly released member to not spray wildly in all directions. I did so, and it probably was.

Mom and Rory were talking in the living room, not shouting at each other, just talking.

“Where’s Davey,” Mom asked.

“In the bathroom,” Rory answered. “She’ll be out in a minute.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering if Mom had noticed the pronoun. I started to pull my shirt up to take off my bra, but I had forgotten about the corset. I looked at my hands. My nails, too. And my eyebrows. I sighed.

I used a washcloth to clean myself up down there; it was sticky. The padded panty would need to be washed, but I pulled it back up and my pants, too.

Mom called out to me. “Armand called from your game an hour or so ago. He said you weren’t there, that you had gone on a date.”

Shit.

“I told him you weren’t home yet. I didn’t know anything about a date, but I didn’t say.”

I stared at my image in the mirror. Davey Kissee or Kissy Davis, whoever you are, you are in so much trouble.

I washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror again, glanced at my nails and my chest and sighed. In for a Pennyworth in for the whole Wayne Manor, I decided.

Part 4 - Momland

Chapter 19 - Grounded

“I’m Rory Beeson, Mrs. Kissee. Cindy’s little brother. Davey and I went to school together,” I heard Rory tell my mom.

“It’s Parker,” she said. “I use my maiden name now. And you’re not anyone’s little brother, the size on you!”

Rory laughed at that, of course.

I washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror again, glanced at my nails and my chest and sighed. In for a Pennyworth in for the whole Wayne Manor, I decided. I pulled my makeup repair kit out of my purse and began work.

I didn’t hear everything Mom and Rory were saying because they moved into the kitchen apparently. But I did hear Mom ask Rory, “Are you the one Davey was on a date with?”

Rory replied, “Yes, ma’am. We went out to dinner at my cousin’s place in Hollywood and then for a drive by the ocean.”

“Hmph,” Mom sounded doubtful, but I didn’t hear her next question, just Rory’s reply.

“I don’t know anything about a phone call from a doctor, but she did say something about she couldn’t go see me play tomorrow afternoon because she has a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

Again, Mom’s voice disappeared in the sound of traffic from Vermont and Hollywood Boulevard a block away.

But Rory said, “Uh—yes, I mean—um, Davey.” He said something else in a lower voice I didn’t catch.

So she hadn’t missed him calling me ‘she’ and ‘her’ and she had gotten a call, probably from Dr. Forbes. That made things both harder and easier.

Someone rapped sharply on the bathroom door and almost caused me to poke myself in the eye.

“Davey? Rory needs to use the bathroom, too. Are you—almost done with whatever you’re doing?”

She sounded calm, but Mom had worked in emergency rooms before getting an office job with Dr. Herlihy’s clinic. “I’ll be right out,” I said. And, damn, did I pitch that up into the girlier-than-thou range?

I did my lips the way I had been taught, this time using the Honestly Red shade to stand out in dimmer light. I noticed—Rory had mentioned it before—I was missing a clip-on ear-bob, but there was no time to do anything about it, so I took the other off and put it in my pocket.

I opened the door, and Mom stood there right in front of me. She looked me up and down once then grabbed my hand, pulling me forward. “Get out of the way, dear, I think Mr. Beeson needs to hit a line drive or something.”

Chuckling, Rory managed to slip his bulk past us into the now vacant bathroom. “Thank you, Miz Parker.” He shut the door behind him, and I heard the toilet seat clatter against the tank.

Mom towed me toward the kitchen, calling back. “Just let yourself out, Rory. I think ‘Kissy’ and I can handle things ourselves now.” We didn’t linger to hear a reply.

“Mom,” I began, but she hushed me.

“I want a cup of tea,” she said. “Put the kettle on, Kissy, dear.”

“Uh—okay, Mom.” Late-night tea-drinking went with serious discussions in our family, like when Mom told me about the divorce, my father’s remarriage, and the passing of my last grandparent. But she’d called me Kissy without any emphasis on the name at all. A good sign? I didn’t know.

I emptied the electric kettle and refilled it with cold water and turned it on. Then I ran hot water from the tap into the tea kettle, put it in the pot, and covered it with the cozy while Mom filled the tea ball with the chamomile blend.

We heard a flushing sound and Rory coming down the hall. He paused in the living room and waved at us through the kitchen arch. “G’night, Miz Parker. G’night—uh—Davey.”

“Good night, Rory. Thanks,” I called back.

“You’d better call her Kissy when she’s dressed like this, Rory. It could get confusing otherwise,” Mom said.

“Uh—right. I guess it could. G’night, Kissy.” Rory fled. I’d never seen such an expression on his face before. Not fright, but something like it. I waved at him as he disappeared.

After he closed the door behind him, Mom said, “You’d best go give him a good night kiss.”

“Uh—what!?”

“If he spent money on you, he’s expecting a kiss.”

“Mom—.”

“Was he a gentleman?”

I thought about that a moment. “I guess so. Yeah.”

“Then he deserves a kiss. You’ve got things to learn about being a girl. If you want him to ask you out again, kiss him. Go.” She made a shooing motion.

I went, hurrying, through the door after him. “Wait,” I called when I saw him climbing into his truck. He hopped back down and came toward me.

How was I supposed to kiss him? If I stood on tiptoe, I’m not sure I could reach his chin.

“Kissy,” he said. He handed me something, my missing ear bob. “It was right there, on top of the console. It must have come off.”

“Thanks,” I said, stopping in front of him. “Mom says you should—,” I tried to explain, putting the bit of jewelry in my pocket with the other one. I needed a stepladder.

“What?” he asked.

I put my face up and stood on tiptoe. “Kiss me,” I said.

He laughed, put an arm around me and pulled me up to where our lips met. I felt that meltiness inside I’d felt when he turned around in line at the burger stand. The kiss lasted a while. My feet weren’t touching the ground, and my toes curled and uncurled in my shoes.

Mom’s voice came from the door. “That’s enough, kids,” she said.

Rory put me back down. “That do you? Think you could make it to my game on Saturday? It’s in Newport at 5 p.m.”

“I don’t know. How would I get there?”

“I could take you, but I have to leave here at noon. That’s a long time to sit around watching guys sweat in the summer sun.”

I giggled. The thought had an appeal I would not have expected. “I might be able to stand that,” I said.

He nodded, dug into a pocket and handed me his phone. “Put in your number. I’ll call before I come over. Wear something summery but bring a sweater. Newport can be unpredictable.”

“Okay,” I said. I punched in my number. He gave me a peck on the forehead as he took the phone back and whispered, “Your mom is still watching. She’s something, ain’t she?”

I nodded.

“So are you, Kissy,” he said. Then he got in his truck and pulled out. The big vehicle was silly, with four doors and its jacked-up suspension, but it suited him. He rolled down his window and waved, and I waved back.

Mom came up beside me. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

I stood for a moment more, trying to catch a breeze like we’d felt on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. I remembered sitting on his thigh like a cowgirl on a pony, kissing and being kissed, wanting to slide back and forth on his jeans and feel something inside me melt. I resisted using my hands to rub my fake breasts to get at the itchy nipples underneath. Damnit.

Mom tugged on my arm, and I followed her. “Did he ask you out again?” she wanted to know.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “On Saturday afternoon to watch him play ball.”

She shut the door behind us. The kettle was whistling, and I hurried on into the kitchen. “Too bad you’re going to have to convince me you’re not grounded for the next six months.”

“What? Mom! You told me to go kiss him!”

“I wanted to see if you’d do it.” I rolled my eyes at her, but she just grinned.

I poured the hot water out of the teapot, put in the tea ball, filled the pot with boiling water from the kettle, and snugged the tea cozy around the already warm pot. Mom’s parents were Canadians, and they took tea seriously, even non-tea teas like chamomile.

“Sit,” Mom ordered, and I sat at the kitchen table with her. “So how long has this been going on?”

“Uh—with Rory? Just this evening.”

She waved a hand. “Have you been wearing my clothes when I’m not home?”

“What? No, Mom. They wouldn’t fit anyway.” True, we were near the same height, but Mom had a very womanly figure.

“Some of them would,” she noted. “That shirt and pants and shoes are Davey’s, but where did you get what you’re wearing under them?

I told her the whole story. Marjorie picking me up from yardwork, taking me shopping in Melrose, dressing me up as a girl. She made me bring in the shoes and dress I’d been wearing when I admitted they were in my closet.

“Nice,” she said. “Good taste. Did you pick the dress?”

“Uh, no.”

She nodded. “What happened next?”

I told her about meeting Armand in the street, getting my nails done, and my legs, pits and eyebrows waxed. Then we went to see the doctor.

“Why did you fall apart then?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know.” We’d drunk a whole pot of tea by then, so I got up and started making more. “I’d found out about her money and talking with the doctor about taking hormones and seeing the bearded lady in his waiting room…. I started to feel like a pet poodle or something. Being groomed, getting my shots…. And—and—.”

I knew I might just burst into tears again.

“In all this,” Mom asked, looking at me thoughtfully, “why didn’t you ever get your ears pierced?”

My hands went to my lobes. “Mom! That would hurt!”

She laughed, and after a moment, so did I, giggling at the absurdity.

She wiped her eyes. “So, you came home and decided to go out trolling for boys?”

“I—I—.” What could I say? It did kind of look like that.

“Finding out that you weren’t attracted enough to this—,” Mom got a level of disgust in her voice I had never heard from her, “—woman to let her make a toy of you, you had to discover if you could attract some attention more to your liking?”

I blinked. Had that been my motive? “I guess so. I don’t think I knew myself why I did it.” I puzzled a moment more on it. “I met Rory, and he seemed nice, and he asked me to go out with him for pizza—”

“Pizza?”

“It turned into more than that,” I hadn’t gotten into the details of my night with Rory, and I felt my face turning red in anticipation of telling my mom some of what we’d done.

“Are you aware,” she asked, “that he gave you a love-bite, high up on your neck, next to your ear, a little around to the back?”

“What!?” I slapped a hand to the spot. “That’s how I lost the earbobsie-doodle! The rat! Just wait!”

Mom laughed, and so did I.

“You’ll never get your brand on that one, dear,” she warned. “Not if you give him a thousand hickeys. But it might be fun to try.”

Mom gave me a hard look. “For God’s sake, Kissy, keep your pants on.”

Part 4 - Momland

Chapter 20 - Yawning

Mom had some trouble believing me that this had all started just that morning, that I had never done any dressing up as a girl or dating boys or anything along that line until Marjorie dragged me along with her.

“Honest, Mom,” I said, “I never thought at all about—about changing gender. I knew I had some problems with puberty, but I had no idea there were people out there who thought I was a girl. It caught me by surprise.”

“Well, it surprised me, too,” she admitted, “but it didn’t shock me. I’ve known for some time things weren’t—typical—for you. We probably should have had you to a doctor long ago, but you seemed so healthy.”

Mom decided such neglect had been a mistake—at least yearly exams for both of us from now on. Except for a couple of dental visits and eye exams, I hadn’t seen a doctor since I got my last childhood vaccination five years before. It especially embarrassed her, being a medical professional herself.

We talked about the clothes and things Marjorie had bought me and the money she gave me. Mom debated with herself whether she should make me give it all back but finally decided I could keep it. “You’re probably going to need more clothes,” she pointed out as a clincher.

We talked late into the night. Mom told me she would be calling in to get the day off so she could go with me to my doctor’s appointment. She also gave me the bad news.

“You’re on restriction,” she said. “You showed some really poor judgment, and you didn’t communicate. But to get to the bottom of what’s happening with you, you’ll need some room to experiment. So, no going on dates I don’t know about ahead of time. No accepting money or large gifts from people you don’t know well.”

She gave me a hard look. “And for God’s sake, girl or boy, keep your pants on.”

I had to cover my mouth not to giggle.

“So,” she went on, “I want to know where you are and who with at all times. Call or text me every two hours throughout the day if I’m not with you. Even if you’re just home alone. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.” We both yawned.

“All right,” she said, glancing at the clock. “It’s after—2? 3?—but one more thing. There’s no one in this house named Davis. So, if you want to keep Kissy as a first name for your girl ID, okay, but I want you to use Parker as a last name. If we ever end up legally changing your name and birth certificate, that’s who you’ll be.”

She paused, thinking. “Kissy is a cute name, but you do realize how suggestive it is?”

I blinked. “You think I haven’t been called Kissy before? At least this way, I’ll own the name.”

“It’s not a common nickname or short for anything I can think of. But there’s not really a good girl equivalent of David is there?” Mom mused. “Dawn, maybe. We had a girl’s first name picked out for you before you were born.”

“What—what was it?”

“Eleanor,” she said. “We both thought it was pretty.”

I grinned at her. “That’s what I put down for a middle name at the doctor’s office.”

Mom grinned back. “Well, it was your grandmother’s name. All right then.” And we both yawned again.

It wasn’t long before we decided to go to bed.

“Be sure to wash all your makeup off, honey,” Mom told me as I followed her down the hall. “Do you have any makeup remover?”

“Just—uh—just soap,” I said.

She stopped and looked back at me. “We need to have a ta—alk,” but a yawn interrupted her. “Euhh. I’ll give you some pads tonight, but you’ll need your own stuff.”

“Pads?”

“Makeup remover pads.” Yawn.

I stopped at the door to my bathroom. “Uh—Mom?”

She turned. “What?”

“Can you help me get this corset off?” I asked.

She laughed softly. “That would be one way to punish you for not calling. Make you sleep in your corset.” She shook her head and motioned to my bedroom. “Go in. I’ll show you some tricks for getting in and out of the damn things.”

They were good tricks. One of them involved baby powder for putting one on and keeping a crochet hook in your purse for retrieving awkwardly placed laces and dealing with itches. She had to tell me, then show me what a crochet hook was. “A knitting needle will work for itches, but it doesn’t have the angled tooth at the end for hooking laces,” she explained.

After we got it off, and my bra, and the sticky little slabs of silicone that filled it out, there I was in front of my mother, naked from the waist up and feeling pretty itchy. “You’ve got marks where your bra and corset don’t fit as well as they should. And you need to wear an undercorset if you’re going to wear one all day.”

“Uh—,” I mumbled. Unsure of what to do with the chicken fillets, I stuck them together and wrapped them in the bra and stowed them in my middle dresser drawer.

“And you’ve got the cutest nipples, dear,” she laughed. “But almost no flesh behind them. We’ll see what the doctor says. Don’t wear your corset tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I agreed quickly. I wanted her to leave the room so I could deal with the itching.

Huge yawns caught both of us at the same time, and with a muttered, “G’nite, dear,” and a peck on the cheek, Mom trundled off to her bed.

When she was gone, I discovered I could not scratch my itches. I had to settle for rubbing them—gently. Maybe it was the nails or the waxing done on my hide, but scratching hurt.

I got undressed the rest of the way then staggered back to the bathroom to put bra, padded panties and corset in the sink under cold water. Mom had recommended it strongly, and I surely did not want to deal with whatever might be in those panties after it had dried overnight.

I didn’t take out my contacts; I had the kind you can wear for days or even a month.

I didn’t have anything on at all as I got back to my bedroom, but that didn’t feel right. I debated whether I should put on a pair of boy underwear from my dresser or dig out a pair of the panties Marjorie had bought for me. Hey, I thought as my blush lit up the room, I can get embarrassed even when I’m alone.

But I fell asleep somehow and didn’t know what decision I had made until the morning.

*

Dreams are weird. They have skewed logic and are made up of fragments of memories, suggestions, rationalizations and fantasies.

In a landscape I recognized as the old neighborhood on Massachusetts, I raced along on my trike. Rory, or an eight-year-old avatar of him, pursued me on foot, “Gonna get you, Davey,” he called, laughing. “I’m gonna tickle you silly.”

I was terrified, or playing at being terrified, and though I could have run faster on foot, I pedaled that tricycle as hard as I could, squealing and giggling.

Another scene involved a school playground, a couple of bigger kids were enjoying holding first graders down and making them eat dirt. I was screaming, “Rory, Rory, help!”

But it was Armand who showed up. He didn’t hit anyone. He just ran into them and knocked them down. He was a big kid who never looked like he paid attention to anything but got such good grades they had skipped him ahead a year. And he was still bigger than his classmates.

Sometimes he came over and sat near me when I was eating lunch. He didn’t usually say much, just sat there eating peanut butter sandwiches without jelly, four of them—watching me without staring or saying anything. One kid told me that in kindergarten, the teachers had spent a month teaching him how to look at something without staring.

I knew I was dreaming, but I wondered, how much of this was memory?

Armand was running into bullies again. “Don’t you hurt Davey,” he growled. “She’s my friend.”

Did I really remember that?

And then Cindy and I were playing. Cindy was my regular babysitter, the high school student sister of Rory. We were at my house. It was Saturday afternoon. Cindy was letting me help her paint her nails, and we were both giggling. Then I asked her to paint mine. She did, and I thought it looked beautiful.

Mom got home. “C’mon, Butterscotch,” Cindy said. “Let’s show your mom that you can be pretty too.” Mom was amused.

Dad got home much later, and he and Mom had a fight about someone named Deborah. “You kissed her,” Mom shouted at him.

Dad saw my nails and told Mom to clean them off. “You’re going to confuse him. He’ll think he’s a sissy.” I cried when Mom cleaned the polish off with a terrible smelling yellow oil. “And don’t hire that Beeson girl as babysitter again. She must be a pervert.”

Then they were fighting about Deborah again.

Later, I sat with Mom, and I asked her, “If I’d been born a girl, what would you have named me?”

“Eleanor,” she said. “It was your grandmother’s name.” Then she kissed me on the forehead.

But Rory and I were sitting in the swing on his patio. “This stinks,” he said. “Your dad is leaving, but your mom can’t stay in the house? Grown-ups don’t make sense.”

He was twice my size, taller even than Armand and almost as tall as my mom. I’d been crying, and he tried to cheer me up. “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll tickle you silly,” he threatened. But even being tickled didn’t help. I just kept crying.

School again. The bullies were chasing me, yelling, “Kissy! Kissy! A boy named Kissy! Give us a kiss, Kissy!” They hadn’t hurt me, but I was scared.

Rory came from around the fence between the middle and elementary schools. “Leave him alone!” he shouted. “Don’t call him names!”

“But that is her name,” they shouted. “Kissy, the boy who wants to be a girl.”

*

I woke up with Mom tapping on the door. “We’ve got plenty of time, honey,” she said when I answered her. “But if we get dressed and out of the house by nine, we can stop for waffles at Huckleberry’s Cafe.”

“Okay,” I said. Then I said it again, trying to sound less like Kissy and more like Davey. Dave. David. I pulled back the sheet and found that I’d been sleeping in panties, apparently with everything tucked up and the front of my pink underwear completely flat.

Mom continued with a sparkle in her eye. "The real question is, what makes you happy?"

Part 4 - Momland

Chapter 21 - Waffles

"Mom," I called and heard her come back to my door.

"Should I go as Kissy or as Davey?"

"Up to you, hon," she answered casually as I had asked her whether to wear brown or black shoes.

"Urr," I said.

I dithered a bit, then stripped off the panties, found a pair of jockey-style briefs in my dresser and put those on. I hadn't really even tried to be Davey in almost 24 hours. The dreams I'd had mostly faded to a vague feeling that my memories held secrets I'd actively tried to forget.

It was unsettling.

I got out a pair of brown slacks, jeans-style but not jeans cloth. They felt scratchy on my legs, but I ignored that. I tried on a t-shirt, decided I did not like the look with the two points of my nipples showing and added a high-collared polo shirt over it.

I heard the doorbell ring, and Mom exclaim in surprise. My heart did a flip, but I decided it couldn't be anything to do with me and looked at myself in the mirror. Other than the modification to the shape of my eyebrows, I was the same Davey Kissee, who had gotten dressed in this same room yesterday.

Until I looked at my nails. How could I forget the orange-and-white French nails I was wearing? Did I have time to figure out how to remove them?

But Mom calling from the door, dealing with a delivery. She might need some help, so I slipped on the same pair of boat shoes I'd worn to go to Fatburger, then changed my mind twice before ending up with my brown athletic shoes.

I tied the laces quickly and paused in front of the mirror for a moment. I'd remembered something, but a quick check showed that the hickey behind my left ear wasn't visible from in front and, in fact, only showed up from certain angles. Seeing it, though, brought a quick flush to my face.

What the heck had I been thinking? Yesterday seemed more dreamlike than my dreams. Who had I been? What had I been doing?

From the encounter with Marjorie to the ending—kiss!—with Rory, it didn't seem as if it could have really happened.

"Honey, can you come here?" Mom called.

"On my way," I answered and headed out to the front steps where Mom stood with three large packages around her feet, all with the Amazon smile on them. "What did you order?" I asked.

"Nothing," she answered, looking puzzled, annoyed and amused all at once. "They're all addressed to Kissy Davis."

"Oh—fuh—Marjorie!"

Mom nodded. "That's what I figure. Help me drag them inside, and we'll deal with it later."

Each box was about two feet on a side and fairly heavy. I had an idea what might be in them, but I was busy dealing with my anger toward Marjorie. "Who does she think she is?" I muttered. "Still trying to manipulate me."

"She's a bratty rich kid who wants her toy back," Mom observed, probably as accurate a way of putting it as possible. "Like I say, let's get this inside and then be on our way. Waffles won't wait all morning."

We piled the boxes at the end of the couch. "She must have paid a fortune for overnight delivery," I said.

Mom shrugged. "Not important." She tugged a stray lock back in place, having already dressed in her office-chic costume, Friday edition. Soft maroon pants, a poofy fuchsia blouse, green step-in low heels and her usual assortment of jewelry.

She grabbed her maroon and green purse and announced, "I'm ready, are you?"

"Uh—almost," I said, heading back to my bedroom. I'd forgotten to transfer things from my purse, Kissy's purse, back to my wallet and pants pockets. When I got back to the door, Mom was already outside, starting the car, and soon we were on our way. Dealing with my nails slipped my mind again, hard to believe I had gotten that used to them.

The curious thing about us as Angelenos is that we lived practically on top of the LA Metro Red Line, the subway, that would have taken us three-fourths of the way to where we were going with a short and frequent bus ride to finish. But being true natives, we didn't even consider it. Three-fourths of the way does not make the grade, and the time-savings of using a car clinched it.

Besides, we wanted to detour to Huckleberry's, which was a considerable side-trip down Santa Monica.

We traveled silently for a bit, Mom dealing with the traffic and me with my thoughts. She looked at me when we were stopped at a light and asked. "Are you comfortable?"

I shrugged. "Outwardly, I'm comfortable; inwardly, I'm screaming in terror and angst."

She laughed. "You don't look comfortable."

I nodded. My chest itched, the pants I was wearing seemed as coarse as burlap, my face felt naked in a very weird way. "Yesterday didn't happen, did it?"

Mom flashed a worried look at me then decided I was kidding. "And you didn't even have enough to drink for a good excuse," she said.

"Yeah, ha. Did Marjorie hypnotize me? Drug me? I dunno." I shook my head, "I can't—I didn't—it just doesn't feel real."

"You fell right into the role of being Kissy last night," Mom pointed out. "All your angst seemed pretty normal for a teenage girl."

I winced. "But I'm not a girl. And I don't think I've ever wanted to be one. It just—it was like—like acting in a play."

"I dunno," said Mom, turning into the parking lot of the restaurant. "You certainly seemed to be having a lot of fun with Rory."

I winced again, feeling my face turn red. Damn Rory. There were a lot of things about last night I didn't want to think about and him kissing me was one of them. Is it just that I'm gay and in denial, I wondered? Maybe that was it. While kissing Marjorie had been fun and more than just fun, it was still nowhere near as exciting as kissing Rory.

Damnit. I knew I should have tucked things back up inside and worn tighter underwear.

"Maybe I'm gay," I muttered aloud as Mom parked near the back entrance to the fake log cabin structure.

Mom looked as if she were about to comment then changed her mind. We got out of the car and started up the walk beside the cute No Fishin' and No Skinny Dippin' signs beside the pond and fountain. She still looked distracted as we reached the door.

After a moment of confusion, I opened it for her, and she said, "Thanks."

Inside, a walkway beside what looked like a white-washed clapboard fence decorated with more countrified sayings led to the front lobby. The decor in Huckleberry's is over-the-top, but the food is good.

With the restaurant almost empty, the hostess waved for us to choose our seats. At this time of morning on the weekend, the place would be packed, which is why Mom seized the idea of coming here on a Friday mid-morning.

The hostess left menus and set off to bring coffee for Mom, and juice and water for me. Mom put her hands together and looked across the table at me. "How on earth would we tell?" she asked.

"Uh—what?" I pushed a menu at her, but she ignored it. We'd known what we were having before we left home.

"If you're gay? I mean," she waved a hand vaguely. "What sort of measure would you use?"

I rolled my eyes. This was Mom's idea of teasing me.

"But the real question isn't, are you gay?" she continued with a sparkle in her eye. "The real question is, what makes you happy?"

"Okay, Mom," I sighed. "I get it."

The waitress came with our drinks, and we both ordered our usual, blueberry and bacon waffles with country scramble, plus real maple syrup for a small extra charge. Mom took her scramble with eggs, sausage, cheese and onion, and I had mine with eggs, potatoes and cheese.

"Okay, ladies," the waitress said as she left, "should be quick this morning."

I stared at her back then turned to look at Mom, who carefully showed no expression at all. "Is it the eyebrows?" I asked. I looked at my hands. "It's my nails, isn't it?"

"They don't help, surely," Mom admitted, "but it's more the way you're sitting."

"Ah—?"

"Teenage boys sprawl. Teenage girls sit with their knees together, feet flat on the floor, shoulders back, head up, elbows in—they smile at everyone. You're giving all kinds of signals. And I don't remember you doing this so much before."

"I—." Nothing believable occurred to me to say.

Mom looked thoughtful again. "Before your father left, a lot of people seemed confused as to whether you were a boy or a girl. But then you maybe grew out of that. More definitely boyish, though little—uh—girly mannerisms would escape now and then. Do you remember that plush moose you used to have?"

"Moosey, yeah, sure."

Mom didn't say anything more, but our food came while I was still thinking. I used to tell stories about Moosey's adventures with a little girl lost in the woods. And I did the voices, Moosey as deep as I could manage and the little girl in closer to my own voice. Her name was Dee, and she kept getting lost in the forest and rescued by her friend, Moosey. I felt my face turning red and tried to think about eating.

It had been some time since I'd been able to finish all the waffle and scramble they served at Huckleberry's, but not wearing a corset, I expected to do better than I did. I managed more than half of the waffle and nearly all the egg, but I got full suddenly and couldn't eat another bite.

On the other hand, Mom finished all of hers and poured the last of the maple syrup in a spoon and ate that too.

"Mom," I protested.

"Quiet," she said. "This stuff is twelve dollars a pint in the stores."

After paying the bill and leaving a nice tip, Mom drove us down Western to the medical buildings on Wilshire, and we used a self-park lot on the back street. We were almost half an hour early. On the walk to Dr. Forbes's office, I pointed out which building Marjorie's family-owned.

"She's a Pritzger?" Mom mused. "That explains her attitude toward money. And people."

When we checked in with Dr. Forbes's receptionist, we were told that doctor was running a bit late, and we would have a longer wait than expected. But there were more forms for Mom to fill out and a couple of new questionnaires for me.

The easy one had ten very personal and embarrassing questions, on the strongly-agree to strongly-disagree scale. The last of them was, "I would like to be evaluated for having gender confirmation surgery."

Yike!

Mom made a noise. “You came here yesterday in a dress? I think he recognized your freckle pattern.”

The other questionnaire turned out to be an abbreviated personality inventory test like some I had seen before. A lot of colleges have them as part of the application process. Sixty-four questions on this one but I still finished before we got called for our appointment, by which time Mom was kibitzing over my shoulder.

One question was, “I am a self-starter,” and I had marked that one, ‘Agree’ and Mom snorted.

“What?” I asked, a little annoyed.

“You are not, you know. You never do anything until someone tells you to.”

That was terribly unfair and I ignored her, going on to the next question, which was, “I have a rich internal fantasy life.” Well, it’s not completely internal, I play fantasy role-playing-games. I was a little unsure how to answer.

“Go back and change that last one to Strongly Disagree,” Mom told me.

“Mom!” I protested.

“Go on, change it,” she insisted. “Don’t lie. The test is no good if you lie.”

I went back and changed it to Not Sure or Don’t Know. “Happy?” I asked.

She giggled. Mom’s not a big giggler so I turned around to look at her. She shrugged, picked up a magazine and stopped looking over my shoulder.

I went back to the test and decided to answer the one about fantasy with ‘Agree’. The next was another toughie. “It takes a lot of convincing to get me to change my mind.”

Tough not because I didn’t know the answer but because I did. And it was embarrassing. But Mom was right, I shouldn’t lie on the test. I marked that one ‘Disagree’. Okay, yeah, but I’m not a complete wimp.

Eventually we got called back and answered more questions from the same Nurse Donovan while she also took blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and a tray of blood samples in the standard array of prepared vials. Mom watched her technique with professional interest.

“Mom’s a vampire, too,” I explained.

“Ah,” said the nurse.

“You do this a lot,” Mom observed. “I’m afraid I’m on a desk job now and am out of practice.”

They traded experiences for a bit then Nurse Donovan told me to take off my clothes, except for underwear, and put on a flimsy gown she handed me. “Opening to the back,” she added. “The doctor will join you shortly.”

Then she left. The room was just as cold as it had been yesterday and Mom did the same thing Marjorie had done when I began to shiver; she fetched a blanket out of one of the cabinets and wrapped me in it. I was grateful because this time, my thinly-clad bottom was sitting on cold steel.

Dr. Forbes appeared a few minutes later, accompanied by Nurse Donovan. After greetings in which names were established, Mom being Ms Lillian Parker and me being David Kissee, the doctor washed his hands and began examining me.

It got embarrassingly thorough. He had me take the front of the gown down while he looked at my nipples. “Mild gynecomastia with enlarged nipples,” he told the nurse and she wrote that down.

He looked at my groin. “Descended testicles but gonadal development is consistent with pubertal threshold, say about twelve years old.” Another embarrassment. He didn’t just look at things, he felt of them and his hands were cold.

He remarked at one point, “You have some mild growth of pubic hair but no axillary or body hair at all.”

“Uh—I had it waxed off,” I explained. Nurse Donovan winced and the doctor’s eyebrows went up.

He looked around my asshole and asked if I had ever been sexually penetrated there. “No,” I said. My embarrassment meter was broken with that one.

At last, he let me wrap the blanket back around me and appeared to settle in for a chat. After some nothing-burger pleasantries, he said, “Your cheek swab from yesterday shows no gross chromosomal abnormalities, but there are other tests for more subtle genetic differences we can do.”

“Um—what does that mean, gross abnormalities?”

“You don’t have any missing or extra chromosomes, and none that are obviously deformed. You do seem to have a mild degree of genetic micro-chimerism but with modern medicine pushing into this area, we have found that this is not as unusual as once thought. Blood tests may show us more, but we’re not expecting a major finding here.”

Talk about answering a question without providing new information. “Uh—?”

Mom to the rescue. “Almost everyone has a few cells in their body inherited directly from their mother, hon. It doesn’t mean anything unless you have a severe auto-immune disease. Which you don’t.”

That was a little clearer. “Okay,” I said.

The doctor continued. “We’re going to rush the blood lab work through, so perhaps we can get some answers on other questions this afternoon. Fortunately, the lab we use is right in this building, so I have sent Emmaline to fast-walk the samples to the right technicians.”

Emmaline? Must be someone else in the office we hadn’t met.

“Your physical appearance is of a young male at the beginning of puberty, thirteen or fourteen, yet you are almost eighteen. According to the history you gave, your development progressed normally until about age fifteen when it stalled and in fact, may have regressed a bit.”

I nodded, hardly blushing at all.

The doctor leaned forward. “An obvious preliminary hypothesis is hypogonadism, which is really a description, not a cause. Your sex hormone producing organs are not as developed, nor as active, as norms would predict. But we need to see the bloodwork. Also, you may have an underactive pituitary gland, stalling your development.”

I glanced at Mom and realized that she did understand what he was saying, so, okay, she could explain it to me later.

“Hypogonadism can be treated with externally supplied hormones,” said the doctor. “But in your case, we have a question: which hormones?”

He looked at Mom so I did too. “Yesterday, a young woman came into the office,” he turned back to me, “today we seem to have a young man.” He glanced at my hands but didn’t mention my nails. “So before much can be done in the way of treatment, once a diagnosis is decided on, we’ll need a decision on which way you,” meaning me, “wish things to proceed.”

“Ah—yeah.” I shivered despite the blanket wrapped around me.

He glanced at a clock on the wall. “It’s too late to get an ultrasound done before the technicians leave for lunch, so can you be back here at one? No, make it one-thirty.” Nurse Donovan nodded and scribbled away.

The doctor went on. “We can’t expect to have bloodwork returned before three, two at the earliest, so after ultrasound and time for us to look at results, we can have another conference at…four?” He smiled. “It’s Friday so we try to get everyone out of here by five.”

More was said but the outcome was that Mom and I could leave and return at 1:30 for the ultrasound, then again at four for a consultation. I was a bit annoyed because I had been sitting in my underwear on a cold, hard, steel table for a half-hour when I could have been dressed and lots more comfortable for all the talky-talky.

In minutes, Mom and I were in the elevator headed down.

“Will you stop rubbing your chest? It actually makes your nipples stand out more.”

My blush reflex had not reset since the doctor’s talk so I could mostly ignore that. “It itches,” I said. “They itch, I mean. I think because people keep talking about them.”

She snorted. Well, so what if it were psychosomatic, they really did itch.

In the lobby, the same man who had been behind the security desk came around to help us with the heavy door. “Have a good afternoon,” he said as we exited.

“Thank you,” we both said.

With the door closed behind us, I remarked, “At least he didn’t call us both, ‘Ladies’.”

Mom made a noise. “You came here yesterday in a dress? I think he recognized your freckle pattern.” I frowned at her as she continued. “But he probably sees a lot of traffic to the various clinics here. Dr. Forbes may be a specialist in patients like you.”

“Like me? How like me?” I didn’t think she meant redheads.

“Presenting as female one day and as mostly male the next? Gender dysphoria, they call it now, but it used to be called transsexualism.”

“Mph. I don’t know if I’m that. I’m just a kid with a hormone problem who had a strange adventure yesterday.”

Mom grinned at me. “Uh, huh.” She pulled out her phone while we walked to the car and asked the built-in assistant. “Nearest lingerie shop,” she asked it.

“Mom!” I protested.

“You need protection. You’re going to hurt yourself scratching.”

I crossed my arms on my chest and glared at her. “I—you—no!”

“Hush,” she ordered me. The app reported several lingerie shops within twenty minutes drive. Mom rejected the first two with addresses in Koreatown as being unlikely to have what she was looking for. The next was a Victoria’s Secret in a vertical mall on the edge of Downtown.

“Mom, I can’t go into…. Dressed like this? I mean….”

“Poo,” she pooh-poohed. “You did it yesterday with your girlfriend, you can do it today with your mother. At least you’re not covered in grass clippings. Besides, no one will care at all.”

“I dunno,” I said, my resistance wilting as we reached the car.

“You’ll see,” Mom promised.

We followed Wilshire and found parking just off 7th street with the mall only a block away. “This is a bad idea,” I told her. “I’m going to be a boy in a lingerie store, everyone will laugh.”

“No one will laugh,” Mom promised again. “Now what size bra did Margo buy you?”

“Uh—32A,” I said. I didn’t correct her on the name, it wasn’t important.

Most of the mall was underground with both trendy and discount shops laid out in compact squares on three floors. I cringed when we sighted the Victoria’s Secret. Mom stopped with a hand on my forearm. “You’re still nervous about this?”

“Um—yeah?” You do not ‘duh!’ your mother.

“I can’t imagine why,” she said with a grin. “Tell you what, let’s make a little bet. We go in, get you fitted for a bra, and no one calls you he or treats you like a boy, I win. If you feel they have twigged to what’s in your pants, you can claim the win, and we’ll leave without buying anything.”

“Uh—?” I glanced at my hands. With my nails painted the bet was tilted against me.

“But if I win,” Mom went on, “when we come out, we get your ears pierced at the little kiosk over there.” She pointed.

My hands had gone to my ears. “Mom!”

With her hand on my forearm she started forward. “Is the bet on?”

I sighed and followed her, my ears already twinging in anticipated pain.

I wasn't supposed to have an opinion on things like mascara, especially if it were for me.

I should have known Mom would cheat. We didn't go through the doors right away. Instead, she pulled me into an out of the way corner and took out her own makeup repair kit.

"Stand still," she ordered me when I tried to get away. She kept it to a minimum, a bit of eyebrow pencil, and then she handed me a brand new mascara wand she'd apparently had in her purse.

"It's green," I said.

"I know, I bought it by mistake."

"Green mascara…." I did not want to say how cool I thought that idea was. I wasn't supposed to have an opinion on things like mascara, especially if it were for me. I used her compact mirror to apply the color, and it went on smooth, thickening and lengthening and creating distinct, colorful lashes. I couldn't believe how good my eyes looked from just a bit of mascara. I suppressed a squeal.

She handed me a lipstick next, Honestly Red. "Oh!" I gushed, cringing at the same time to hear myself. "I've got this color, too!"

"It's a perfect red," said Mom as I applied, blotted and re-applied. "Not orange or purple, just a real red."

"Uh, huh," I said. "It looked great yesterday when I used it over my Tahitian Bronze, which is really copper." I held a hand up, "Like my nails, but darker."

Mom grinned, and I sighed, glancing over at the earring kiosk. "We might as well get my ears pierced now, huh?"

#

The tiny Asian girl in the booth made four holes in my head with little puffs of air, two in each ear lobe. I refused to flinch, but my expressions seemed to amuse my mother, and she left with a hand over her mouth. It hurt but was soon over, leaving only a little discomfort. I'd already picked out the studs, one pair plain gold and one pair with ruby-colored gems. Ruby is the birthstone for July.

Mom came back from wherever she had gone (probably to indulge herself in an evil cackle) while I was getting tortured. She presented me with a brown-and-red fold-over purse for putting my ear care products in. "And take the stuff out of your pockets. Only a slag walks around with lumps in her jeans."

"What the heck is a slag?" I asked.

"The sort of girl who keeps condoms in her back pockets," Mom explained. "Not that you shouldn't keep a couple in your purse," she added.

The blush was working again. "Mom! Jeez!"

We went into VS, and I tracked down a cute lace bra, 32A, gold and cream with tiny orange hearts around the cups. "Pink moons," I whispered even though I knew that wasn't what the caterpillar said. Caterpillar? I meant, leprechaun.

Mom had found a padded panty and some of the same chicken fillets (for the bra cups) Marjie had bought in Le Trend. These panties had silicone in them instead of foam, and I wondered how that would feel. Probably more convincing if someone patted my ass.

I tried not to think about that image while I looked for a changing room, but Mom pointed out that half of the store was devoted to young casual fashion. "Uh—?" I said. "Do we have time?"

We both pulled out our phones to check, and I saw that I had messages from…Marjie (2), Rory (1), Marty (2) and Armand (4). When the heck did I get so popular? And how did Marjie get my number? And how did my phone know which was hers? And Armand? What was he calling about?

I must have had my phone set to refuse calls. While I was trying to figure that out, I forgot to look at the time.

"We've got at least a half-hour," Mom said. "Time to pick out one cute outfit for you. You've got that card attached to your debit account?"

I nodded.

"Good, we'll let Marcia pay for this."

"Mar—? Oh." Was she getting the name wrong on purpose? It was such a petty form of spite I had to giggle.

Mom actually shops much more like a guy than like your stereotypical woman. She decides what she wants before setting foot in the store, goes there, gets that, and gets gone. I guess I'm a little the same way, or can at least tolerate that style.

With Mom's help (read direct orders), I picked out a pair of green shorts with cuffed legs and a yellow tank top with a green, orange and blue beach scene. "You've got ten minutes to get changed—go, girl," Mom commanded after collecting all the tags and my card. She already knew the four-digit security code I used.

So off I went, wondering again just how I got roped into all this, but the tiniest bit excited about—about wearing a new outfit, I guess. I'd never worn shorts or a tank top as a girl before. I suppressed another squeal.

While getting dressed, I had time to wonder just why Mom was doing this? Some sort of revenge on Dad for leaving us? Didn't seem like her, despite her fake forgetting of Marjorie's name. But she was being just as pushy as Marjorie about dressing me up. Why?

The padded panty went on over my own underwear—should have thought of that yesterday—with little irrelevant bits tucked up inside again. Then the shorts, whose waistband and cuffs were high enough and long enough to hide the panty. Bra, chicken fillets, tank top. I bumped an ear pulling the tank down, Ow! I did flinch at that and resolved to be more careful.

Where was my hat? Oh, I didn't wear one today. I looked in the mirror. If I were going to be outside in the sun, wearing this for long, I definitely needed sunblock and a hat. But Kissy looked back at me and grinned. I put a hand over my mouth in case I really did squeal.

Then I stuffed my boy clothes in a store bag, grabbed my purse, and fled. Besides paying for my clothes, Mom had also bought me a pair of orange and green flip flops. "Wear these," she ordered me. "We've got to go, I forgot about time to walk back to the car."

I dumped my boat shoes in the bag and slipped on the thongs. "Mom, these have a three-inch heel," I complained. I didn't even know they made high heel flip flops. I glared at them there on the ends of my legs.

"It's a one-inch platform and only two inches of added heel. You'll get used to wearing them by the time we get to the car."

"I duwanna," I whined. But she was tugging me toward the door. I hurried to keep from being dragged. "If I fall and break something—"

She did slow down a bit; I think only because of the foot traffic on the street. Once we got around the corner, she let go of my hand and power-walked toward Seventh. "I'll go get the car," she said. "Catch up when you can, slowpoke."

I hurried as fast as I could (distracted only a little by the bounciness of the silicone jelly wrapping my butt), and I only fell off the heels once but didn't lose a shoe. When I reached the corner of Figueroa and Wilshire, I stopped and waved the store bag at her coming down the street.

"Hey, lady! I need a ride!" I shouted. We were both laughing when she picked me up.

It was right down Wilshire with one dogleg to get back to the medical offices, and Mom pushed it. "We didn't have time to get your hair done," she complained, glancing sideways at me.

I made a New York gesture with my open hands. "We did enough! And what's wrong with my hair?" It wasn't very long, but I thought it looked nice.

"No style, dear," she said. "And no volume."

"Mom," I said seriously. "My hair is red—how much louder can it get?"

Though she tried to look sour, she couldn't fake it, and we both got the giggles over that.

I did a little more thinking while Mom dealt with traffic. This near downtown, it was murder, and "Friday-light" just meant rush hour started two hours earlier. I decided Mom was pushing me to be more girly to see if I would throw a fit and refuse. And I hadn't. Why hadn't I? Maybe I am a wimp.

I pulled down the vanity mirror and glared at my reflection. "Damnit," I said. "Being out in the sun without sunblock or a hat has caused twenty-six new freckles." So we laughed about that.

"I've still got your card," Mom said. "Let's use the valet park if they'll take it—"

"They will."

"—Good. So Marjo can pay for that, too. I'll let you out, and you go ahead." She pointed at the time on the dash: 1:28. "You're going to be a teensy bit late.

"Rie, Mom," I said, smiling. "Marjo-Rie."

She waved a hand and made a face.

When she pulled into the valet stall, I was already opening the door before it stopped rolling. The valet helped me out, and I made a dash for the sidewalk, almost missing the little step there like before. But the other valet—the one with the curly eyes who had caught me last time—saved me from another accident.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Kissy Parker, and we keep meeting like this. You're Paul."

"Uh—," he said, but he couldn't deny it. His name was right there on his shirt.

"Gotta run," I said, starting off. I couldn't really run in those flip flops, but I made the best speed I could until I got to the medical building. Had the dang door gotten heavier?

The guard hurried over to open it for me. "Back again, you must like them poking you with needles."

I thanked him and giggled, then hurried on to the elevators. How did he know I'd been poked with needles? "Oh," I said. I still had a cotton ball in the crook of my elbow and a bandaid on my left index finger.

I rushed into Dr. Forbes's office at 1:35, and the woman behind the window said, "Where's your mother? She needs to sign."

"Um, she's right behind me on the next elevator," I said. "Can't I go ahead, so we don't keep the tech waiting?"

She agreed and directed me to the ultrasound lab, which was on the same level. I saw Mom getting off the elevator as I hurried down the hall. "You have to go sign," I said, pointing toward Dr. Forbes's office.

"Okay," Mom agreed. "Do you need your purse? You forgot it." She held it out.

"Uh—thanks, but no, you can just catch me up."

"You look cute, honey," Mom said, smiling as I hurried past without slowing down.

I stopped in front of the right door and looked both ways, up and down the hall. Then I opened the door and went in.

A tall man at a high-tech desk stood and turned around. He had wavy brown hair, blue eyes and a big smile. Something caused my panties to get tighter. I'm pretty sure he was wearing clothes, so it couldn't have been that.

"Are you going to do an ultrasound on me?" I asked.

"Uh—," he grabbed a paper off his desk, glancing at my legs. "No, no. My next patient is David Kissee." And he blushed.

This had suddenly gotten complicated.

I wondered absurdly, what would it feel like to kiss someone with that kind of—scruffiness?

No one had actually said what part of my body would be ultra-sounded, but I had a guess. Things seemed very awkward.

I tried a kind of bluff. "Are you sure it doesn't say Kissy Parker somewhere on that paper?" I asked.

He stared at me for a moment too long. 

I stared back, noting that he had, well, beard stubble, as if he hadn't shaved in two or three days. I wondered absurdly, what would it feel like to kiss someone with that kind of—scruffiness? I didn't feel melty, like I had with Rory, but I definitely felt interested. Of course, he was probably thirty or older, so—kind of ew?

He finally looked at the paper in his hand and looked back up at me quickly. "It does say—Kissy Parker, further down." 

I nodded. He nodded. Impasse.

He spoke softly. "David Kissee?"

"Yes," I said, sighing.

He looked to each side as if he planned to step off a curb.

"Where—uh—where are you supposed to—do—the machine? The ultrasound? What—part of me?" I managed to ask.

He looked at his paper again. "It says, lower abdomen and—uh—groin, and—." He looked back up at me and frowned.

I winced and glanced at the door behind me. Maybe Mom could sort this out; where was she?

"Do you—uh—would you—prefer a female tech?" he asked.

I'd already had a man poking and prodding me down there, Dr. Forbes. So—what the heck? "No," I said. "I'm just waiting for my mother to get here." I shrugged. "I'm underage."

"Ah—ah—ah?" he said. I had no idea if a reply was needed to that. He finally said something intelligible. "I don't usually work with Dr. Forbes's patients."

"Okay," I said. "I'm new."

He looked at the floor then at me. "You're very pretty—Miss Parker."

I smiled at him. "Thank you," I said. "You're good-looking, too." I giggled; I couldn't help it.

"I don't usually work in intimate areas with—uh—with—."

"Girls?"

He nodded.

I leaned toward him, and, reflexively, he leaned toward me. I was beginning to enjoy messing with him because he was clearly more embarrassed than I was. "Don't let it bother you too much, sir. I'm not as much of a girl in my—intimate areas," I said.

He sighed. "I figured that from the paperwork."

About that time, Mom stepped through the door. "Mr. Katz?" she asked.

"Uh—yes, ma'am. Eli Katz," he amplified.

Mom grinned at him. "This isn't as bad as it seems, eh? It's embarrassing, but it can soon be over with, y' know." Mom's parents were Canadian, and that was sometimes evident in things she said, eh?

Eli looked relieved. Someone was prepared to slice through problems.

With Mom's direction and commands, the whole thing was over in less than thirty minutes. It was embarrassing for both Eli and myself, but Mom did not seem bothered by that. 

It was uncomfortable for me, in more ways than one, but tolerable. I had to get completely undressed below the waist. The jelly smeared on my skin, and the machinery itself were cold. But Eli handling my intimate parts did not cause the embarrassing reaction I had feared because, by that time, I was bored. Sad, really.

Besides the intimacy, the doctor had also asked for a bone density survey and a growth zone survey, which Eli chose to do on my left hand. This was to make sure my hormone problems had not weakened my bones and to find out if I had stopped growing when my puberty went into neutral.

"If this turns out to be important," Eli explained about the bone scans, "they'll probably do an MRI. But I can rule out major problems with ultrasound."

"Uh, huh," I said, watching how the corners of his mouth crinkled when he talked. In some ways, he was so cute that I could wish he were younger. Whatever part of me remained Davey cringed, but as Kissy, I could get into a handsome guy who thought I was very pretty.

After the scan of my hand, I got to clean the jelly off my various parts and get dressed again, wondering vaguely why the ultrasound lab wasn't as cold as Dr. Forbes's examining room. And the tables were padded vinyl with paper covers instead of stainless steel. Why the difference?

Mom had followed me into the dressing room as much to get out of Eli's way while he did clean-up as to keep me company. She handed my purse over, and I touched up my makeup in the small mirror. The green mascara had stayed in place and still looked amazing.

I paused in front of the full-length mirror before leaving. The shorts and tank top combination felt right and came off stylish on me, but I suddenly realized that without the corset, my nearly straight-up-and-down figure made me look about twelve. "Crap," I muttered.

And my hair did look kind of flat. I tried fluffing it with my fingers, but that didn't help much. 

Mom watched me with some amusement. "We could put a bow in it," she offered. "You would look so sweet."

So I gave her a sour glare. 

On the way out of his office, I made a finger wave at Eli and a musical, "Bye-yee," and he gave me a smile and a stammered goodbye back.

Out in the hall, Mom remarked, "He's too old for you to be flirting with, honey."

"Who says?" I replied. "He sure is good-looking, and it's fun. But I do confuse him, huh?"

Mom shook her head. "Marlette created a monster."

I laughed. "Where to?" I asked, noticing that we were heading to the elevators.

"Emmaline said Doctor wants to see us for a conference at 3:15, so we have almost an hour to kill."

"Is she the lady that sits behind the window?"

"Uh-huh. Emmaline McHenry." Mom almost always knew the name of everyone she met as soon as possible, a talent I lacked but would like to develop.

I made a face as we got into the elevator. "Not enough time to get the car and go anywhere, and I'm ready for lunch." I'd been padding around in the high-heel beach sandals all afternoon, getting used to them (it was nice to be taller), but didn't feel like walking several blocks to find a cafe, especially in the afternoon sun without my hat and sunblock.

Mom pushed buttons. "I'm told there's a snack bar on the third floor."

There was—prepared sandwiches and salads, hot soup, sodas, chips, cookies and other snack food, in vending machines and from a tired-looking Asian guy in an apron. About like the snack bar option at school, though, the smoked turkey sandwich was at least a whole grade better. And there was a balcony to eat on.

The plastic table and chairs outside were even clean, so Mom and I happily sat out there with a view of the Hollywood hills. A row of potted ficus trees shaded us from the sun, and I was careful to pick a chair in full shadow, not needing any more new freckles.

While I ate my sandwich, I looked toward Newport Beach, thirty or forty miles away, wondering how Rory was doing in his game. He'd said he was going to pitch today, which he did only every third or fourth game, playing right field on the days he didn't pitch. I assumed that was because they wanted his bat in the game. He had the size on him to be a slugger.

I had a mental image of him in his baseball uniform, waving his bat around, but Mom interrupted any further fantasy.

"Uh-oh," she said.

"What?"

"You got all starry-eyed and started giggling."

"I did not—giggle!"

"You did. Who were you thinking about?"

"Uh," I blushed. Where is this mom-school she must have attended? I bet she got straight-As in mind reading. "Rory," I admitted.

She looked relieved! "At least it wasn't Mr. Katz or that Pritzger woman," she said. "I guess you're normal."

We both laughed at that.

A bit early, we dumped our trash and headed back to Dr. Forbes's office, getting there in plenty of time to be told to wait another fifteen minutes. I sat there, maybe a little sleepy from the turkey, wondering how it was, only moments from learning something that might change my life, in the middle of what was already a crisis—how could it be that my main feeling was boredom.

I picked up one of the magazines on the table and idly paged through it. And there in an advertisement for an investment bank was a short-haired redhead with a black and white polka-dot bow in her hair. Mom had only been kidding, but it didn't look bad. 

The woman in the picture had to be Marjie's age or older, though. On me, it'd probably make me look ten instead of twelve. I needed more shape, I decided, before I could wear something that made me look that much younger.

Finally, Emmaline called us back to an office we hadn't seen before. Dr. Forbes sat behind his desk, surrounded by shelves of medical books and wall plaques, declaring that he had achieved some degree or certification or was a member of some professional association.

"Ms Parker, Miss Parker," he greeted us standing, then sat back down. He pronounced the name the French way, just like Mom. "I got some of the preliminary blood work back, and I've taken a look at the ultrasound. You don't have any worries about genital anomalies or bone density, and the growth zone survey appears to confirm what the blood tests indicate."

"Um?"

He folded his hands. "We can't find anything very far out of norms. You appear to be simply going through a very slow puberty. You're seventeen, almost eighteen, but your body is more like that of a young person—boy or girl—only thirteen or fourteen. This is why your voice hasn't changed, why you don't have any beard, muscle development, or body hair consistent with a male your age, and why you aren't any taller than you are."

"That's a relief, I guess," Mom commented.

"It's probably an under-active central hormone system," he mused. Then he started getting technical with alpha-hydroxy this and androgenic that, and I zoned out a bit. Mom would give me a summary later.

The bottom line was, I simply hadn't finished growing yet. There wasn't anything wrong with me that a little more time wouldn't fix. For instance, the doctor explained, a bit of nipple growth in young boys in early puberty wasn't anything unusual. I wasn't somehow turning into a girl.

In fact, if everything were allowed to develop the way it was going, I would turn into a man, just like almost every other boy in the world. A short man, perhaps, but my dad was barely 5'9" himself.

Dr. Forbes reached some sort of closing. He spoke to me, not Mom. "The result of our investigation is that I don't see any reason that we can't start hormone therapy to help your puberty along, if desired. Today if you like."

He looked at me pointedly. "But the question for you—David, or Kissy—is what kind of puberty do you want?"

"Promise me ice cream," I said, making my chin quiver.

What did I want?

I looked from Mom to the doctor then back at Mom. Neither was offering much in the way of clues as to what I should say.

"Uh—," I cleared my throat. "Are you saying I can start taking hormones today to—to become Kissy? Or stay David and become a man?"

The doctor nodded. "Or do nothing and let your body work slowly as it has been. Ultimately to have a male puberty, though it will probably be a less complete one than a little intervention could provide. You're getting a late start, and you would still be moving slowly," he said, almost as if apologizing. "It's possible to run out of time to make major changes in the body."

"Huh," I said. I looked at my hands with my painted nails, then down at my feet in my green and pink flip-flops, again with painted nails. And my bare legs, smooth and hairless, and, like the rest of me, lightly freckled.

None of those things had any place on anyone who wanted to be a man; well, maybe the freckles. Tank top, shorts, earrings and padded underwear all said the same thing: this person is a girl.

I turned to Mom. "If I choose to, can I be Kissy all the time?"

"If you want to, hon," said Mom. "Sure. Would that make you happy?"

"I guess so," I said. I shook my head. "That didn't come out right. See, I'm not unhappy being Davey, though it would be nice not to—to be sort of in the middle. Be one thing or another."

"That's an option I hadn't mentioned. To become what they sometimes call these days gender-fluid or non-binary."

"I don't think those are the same thing," Mom said.

"Perhaps not," agreed the doctor. "And there may be other choices we aren't seeing because we think of just male and female."

"Wait, no," I interrupted. "I think—I mean—I want to be who I am." I took a big breath. "And, I think I'm Kissy." I closed my eyes and waited for some reaction from them.

"You don't have to make a decision right now," Mom said.

I opened my eyes. "But Dr. Forbes said I could start—therapy right away." My voice was a bit higher than I intended. Don't start whining, I told myself.

The doctor looked at me and smiled. "I'm prepared to make what I call a diagnostic prescription."

"Meaning?" Mom asked.

Doctor Forbes looked at me. "If you like, and if your mother agrees, I can start you on female hormones—just enough that you will begin to see some sort of results in a week or three. Hmm?"

"Uh—?"

"This is my experience; if you are truly sure of your decision, that you are Kissy and not David," he waved a hand, "then even minor results will make you more sure. And if that doesn't happen, then you're probably not ready or may even end up deciding the other way."

I looked at Mom. She sighed. "It's really up to you, hon," she said. "But for what it is worth, coming from me, I think there's more of Kissy in you than David. And even though you started down this path only yesterday, I think you've always been Kissy."

Then why is this almost painfully embarrassing, I wondered?

Mom went on, "I just don't want you to rush things if it isn't necessary."

"It isn't a final decision," the doctor pointed out. "Even after a month or two of therapy, effects will still be reversible at the doses I'm proposing."

Mom nodded, looking at me.

"What—what effects can I expect?"

"The principal effect you're going to see—or feel—in that period of time is not going to be physical. Perhaps some minor breast growth, very minor. The big thing will be emotional."

"I—what?"

"You'll experience the quick flow of emotions that young women go through during puberty. This is why I call this a diagnostic prescription. If you're not ready to feel like a girl, a woman, you're going to hate it."

Mom frowned, and I blinked. For my part, I thought about the roller coaster of emotion I'd been through in the last thirty hours or so. Would it be worse than that?

Mom had a different thought. "I remember that," she said, "and I did hate it. How is that going to be diagnostic?"

If the doctor were an anime character, he would have steepled his hands. Instead, he just put one elbow on his desk and gestured. "I've done this perhaps two dozen times. The girls who are determined to press on, to become the women they want to be, welcome the changes. Even the uncomfortable, unpleasant changes. Some girls," he smiled, "can even get euphoric over feeling bloated."

"Bloated?" Mom looked doubtful. "But Kissy isn't going to have a period."

"We simulate the female hormone cycle, mildly, but enough to produce some of the same symptoms women from birth experience."

"Oh, lord," said Mom. "Kissy, run!" she said, but I could tell she was kidding. She shook her head. "Doctor, I'm not sure whether you're a genius or a devil."

"Let's do this," I said. I felt a nagging anxiety that they were going to keep talking and finally close this opportunity off.

Mom reached out and took my hand, and we gripped each other tight.

But the doctor had conditions. "In order to do this, you have to agree to see a therapist, a counselor. I can give you referrals. Also, at first, we'll be doing weekly blood tests to avoid certain possibly serious complications."

"Like blood clots or liver damage," Mom put in.

"Exactly. But I believe in avoiding stressing the liver as much as possible, so hormone doses will be delivered by intramuscular injection, once a week. We can add oral anti-androgens if needed or desired." He went off into a technical discussion of options, and I stopped listening.

This was real. The doctor could provide me with medication that would produce the same sort of puberty natural girls experienced, as much as possible. And I wanted it. I wanted it so bad. Forty-eight hours ago, I might not have had a thought in my head about the possibility. But now….

Now, it turns out I've wanted this for a long time and just didn't know myself well enough to see it. Marjorie had opened my eyes to who I really was and who I wanted to be.

"I'm ready," I said when the doctor paused in his info dump.

He looked at me then at Mom. She nodded.

"I'll go prepare the first injection," he said, standing up.

"Injection?" I said. I had missed that.

Mom laughed. "She hates shots. If you get her to take one willingly once a week, that's pretty diagnostic right there."

The doctor looked at me.

"Is it going to hurt?" I asked.

He nodded. "It's intramuscular in order to have an effect spread out over days. So, yes, it will sting. It may even ache for a bit."

"He means hours," Mom supplied.

I glared at her.

"She's right," said the doctor. "Discomfort can last for hours but seldom as long as a day."

I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. Do it."

Mom smiled at me and squeezed my hand again. "Proud of you, baby," she said.

"If I start whimpering, promise me ice cream," I said, which was how she used to get me to take shots when I was little. We both giggled a bit.

The doctor told us to wait, handed Mom a list of counselor referrals, then left to prepare his torture instrument.

"Really, truly," I told Mom, "I do hate shots."

She patted my hand. "I know, honey. That's why I'm proud of you."

I nodded, hoping that the doctor would return and get this over with. "Thanks," I said. "I'm going to need a lot of help with this." I got up to pace around the room.

"I'll do what I can," Mom said.

"I expect to be a terribly spoiled Hollywood princess, y' know," I said, trying to sound like the part. "I mean, we live only a block off Hollywood, so it isn't an unreasonable expectation." I couldn't keep that up, but we got more giggles out of it, and it distracted me.

Suddenly, I had an image of the three Amazon shipping boxes we'd found on the doorstep that morning. They had to have come from Marjorie. And if there were three at nine a.m., how many were there at home waiting for me now? I pictured a stream of boxes arriving, filled with expensive gifts from my stalkery "girlfriend."

At first, I wanted to share this idea with Mom and harvest another round of giggles, but the more I thought about it, the less funny it seemed. I remembered the messages on my phone from her. Those would have to be looked at too.

I suddenly knew how Marjorie had gotten my number and how my phone knew hers. One of several times yesterday, when I had seen her thumbing a phone, it had been mine. We both had iPhones with white plastic cases, though hers was a later model.

I shook my head. "Sneaky," I said out loud.

"She is," Mom agreed.

I looked at her startled. "You've been reading my mind again!"

She waved a hand vaguely. "It wasn't hard, honey. Who else do we know who really would like to make a spoiled princess of you?"

She had a point, but I couldn't just leave that alone. I bit my lip and made my eyes wide, looking off in the direction I hoped was west, toward the Philippines. "Daddy?" I said in a little-girl voice.

We had another good laugh about that. "Harold is going to shit bricks when he finds out," she said, shaking her head. "He always claimed I had turned you into a sissy."

"Good job, Mom," I said. "But I think I helped with that. According to Rory…." I began, but just then, the doctor returned with Nurse Donovan carrying a tray with a syringe on it.

"Nurses give better shots," said the doctor.

"We certainly do, especially for 'fraidy-cat patients, hmm?" She grinned at me. "Sit down, honey. It's good you're wearing shorts because this works best given in the thigh."

I sat. "Sitting down? It goes in front?"

She did the ritual with making sure the syringe had no bubbles in it. "Uh, huh," she said. "Third largest muscle in the body, the quads, and even easier to find the right spot for an injection on than the glutes. Ms Parker, do you want to hold her down in case she tries to get away?" She put a hand on my bare thigh.

I glanced at Mom, who hadn't moved but was grinning at me. I started to say something, but Nurse Donovan had swabbed a spot with an alcohol pad and given the shot as soon as I looked away from her hands.

"Ow," I said. It did sting, and I felt an ache beginning, like a bruise. I wanted to rub it.

"Tsch," said the nurse without any sympathy at all. "Who needs a lollipop?"

Everyone wants to talk to Kissy. Rory wants a date, Armand wants a game, Marjorie wants....

I rubbed the place where I got the shot until it stopped hurting, then we got out of there with an appointment for the following Thursday to get another shot and a new blood test, plus a visit with a counselor the same day and right in the same building. This would be a continuing set of appointments until I either transitioned or decided not to.

I couldn't imagine not completing the journey I was beginning. Just standing there beside Mom while she made arrangements, I felt a sudden thrill go through me, not quite like anything I'd ever felt before. I made a noise, more of a gurgle than a giggle. Mom looked at me, and I grinned and shrugged. I took it as evidence that the hormone shot was already working. It felt—nice.

They actually did offer me a lollipop—Ms McHenry let me pick out a green one from a big glass jar. In case I haven't mentioned it before, green is my favorite color because mostly it looks terrific on me. Green lollies are usually lime, but this one was different. I decided after a few licks that it must be kiwi fruit. Interesting.

We took the elevator down, and as soon as it began moving, I felt that thrill again. I looked at Mom with a grin.

"You're smirking," she said.

"That's a smirk?" I asked. "I thought a smirk was like this," I made a face at her, and she laughed.

"I don't know what the heck that was!"

When we got to the lobby, Mom greeted the guard. "Hi, Mr Williams, you've had a long day. It's after five."

Mr Williams? How does she learn everyone's name? Oh, he had a name tag all along, and I didn't notice before, duh.

"Hello, ladies," he hurried to open the door for us. "Yes, I work six to six, three days a week, Thursday to Saturday."

"Oh," I said. "Then I'll see you every week on Thursday." I beamed at him, and he grinned back.

"I'll be looking forward to it, miss."

We got out on the sidewalk, and I wanted to skip toward the valet stand. I didn't, but I wanted to.

"You're in a good mood," Mom commented.

"Uh, huh." I did a little dance move, shaking my hips.

"I've never seen you do that before," she said.

"I never tried to do it before. Mom, can I get dance lessons, and, and—y'know things I probably should know? Like, cooking, maybe?" Stereotype much, I sneered at my inner girliness.

She sighed. "We need to find out how much of this medical stuff the insurance will be paying, but sure, we can probably afford some classes for you."

"Acting, maybe," I mused.

She snorted. "Well, there's no shortage of schools for that around here."

"I'm sorry about the expense," I said. "I'll get married in a few years, and my husband will pay you back."

"What!?"

I was joking but saying it had caused another thrill to go through me. Getting married had never been something Davey ever thought about. Now? Hmm, it seemed possible.

Mom snorted. "You're too young to think about getting married."

"Not for thinking, Mom, not for thinking."

I waved at the valet guys, and they waved back, and one of them left for their underground lot to bring Mom's car around. When we got there, the car hadn't arrived yet, but Mom went ahead and started to pay for the parking using the card I got from Marjorie.

Paul, the valet who had kept me from falling twice before, asked, "You need help?" He stood beside the extra step off the too-high curb.

I giggled. "Judging from past experience, evidently I do."

He held out his arm, and I rested one hand on it while I negotiated the steps. Once I was safely down, I looked up into those brown eyes with the curly golden lashes, and I felt all bubbly for a moment. We talked about something until the car came around, but I have no idea what. Then he helped me into the car, holding and closing the door for me.

I waved as we drove away, and everyone waved back. I sighed. Somehow that had been exhilarating, confusing and a little disappointing.

"Did he ask you for a date?" Mom wanted to know.

Oh, was that what I'd been hoping for. "No, darn it," I said.

"Remember, you're on restriction, so no dates without my approval."

"Yes, ma'am," I said meekly. I'd already agreed to those terms; I'd just forgotten.

"In fact," she said. "You're almost eighteen, but with new hormones in your blood, you may be acting more like thirteen. So, in addition to your other restrictions, you've got a curfew."

I groaned.

"Ten p.m., negotiable to midnight," Mom said firmly.

Oh. Well, that wasn't too bad. Crap, I wasn't sure I even trusted myself past midnight. But I said, "Ah, Mo-om!" just because any kid would.

"And you still have to call or text in at least every two hours." She reminded me.

"Okay," I grumped, to keep up appearances. Then we smiled at each other, having completed that necessary bit of theater.

"I'm thinking you can come in with me next Thursday. Your appointments are at nine and eleven, then you can get the bus home, or I'll run you home on my lunch hour." Mom suggested.

"Maybe I'll ride the subway," I mused.

Mom seemed to think about that awhile.

"It's not like the New York Subway, all dirty and smelly, like in the movies," I pointed out.

"There's a difference between a scruffy teenage boy riding mass transit and a beautiful teenage girl doing the same," Mom countered.

When she put it that way, I could see what she meant.

"Did you ever get a chance to look at those messages on your phone?"

"Oh!" I said. We were in the crush of some of the heaviest traffic of the day. "I guess I can do that while we're in the car."

She nodded. "I'm on alert for morons on wheels," she said, meaning bad drivers.

"Mm, hmm." I dug my phone out of my purse and opened up the message app, turning the phone back on to receive calls when I did. Huh? How was it off in the first place? Marjorie again, probably. She wouldn't have wanted anyone to interrupt our fun yesterday. Damn.

I had more messages than before, now: Marjie (2), Rory (2), Marty (3), Armand (5), Dr. Forbes (1) and Dr. Lynch (1). Dr. Lynch was the counselor, I remembered, so I checked the last two first: appointment confirmations, just as I expected. I added the appointments to my calendar, though Mom had already added them to hers. Then I went back to the list.

Armand seemed to really want to talk to me with five messages, so I checked his first. I hadn't heard from Armand since last summer, but it was probably about gaming if he were back in the area. The two earliest were voice mails, and from the length of them, they were likely to be nothing-burgers, so I got them out of the way first, holding the phone to my ear so as not to bother Mom.

The shortest turned out to be Armand saying, "Davey?" in his squeezed baritone voice. Then he hung up. The second was the same, except he added, "Gaming, my house, Friday night?"

Friday was today. Uh—?

Crap. What would the guys do if I showed up as Kissy?

I glanced down at myself. Painted nails, padded curves, tank top and shorts—they would shit purple bricks. I giggled.

Armand may have already seen me. And Rory was of the opinion that he had definitely recognized me, Pachyderm memory and all that. Had he told the rest of the guys? Whatever, the rest of the messages from Armand and Marty were probably about the game unless they were about Armand recognizing me.

I decided not to open those until Mom was uninvolved in traffic and could talk to me. For one thing, Friday night games often went late into the night, like 1 am or 2 am or even later. And if even my negotiated curfew was midnight…. I felt a little conflicted about the curfew and didn't want to examine my feelings at the moment.

I went on to Rory. Both his were text. The earlier one said, "saturday noon, pick you up, game at 5, probably over at 8, crab legs at joes on PCH unless you're allergic, text okay if not."

That confused me. Oh, he meant text okay if not allergic. I sent okay before looking at the next message. I'd never eaten at Joe's, but it was a popular place, so we probably wouldn't sit down to dinner before nine. I'd better negotiate a curfew extension with Mom since we would still be more than 30 miles away after eating.

Crab legs, mmm. Joe's was beach casual; you could dress up or dress down. I'd ask Mom what I should wear, not that I had a lot to choose from. Unless…. Later.

The second message from Rory must have been sent during his afternoon game. Text again, "struck out 3 guys on 11 pitches thinking of you." Huh? I wasn't sure what to think about that. It was either sweet or just weird.

Still skipping the messages that were probably about a game I might not be able to attend, the only ones left were from Marjorie. I hoped at least one was about the packages that had shown up at my door this morning.

I opened the early one, sent yesterday afternoon sometime. She'd used the voice-to-text option, so I could hear her voice and read an auto-transcript of the message at the same time, except—I didn't want mom to hear, and I hadn't brought my earphones. So I muted the voice.

"I spent … … … Amazon buying you a few things you might need or enjoy. Keep them or send them back. … … … meant as an apology. You might be setting packages for a few days."

Kind of what I expected. Knowing Marjorie's attitude toward money, there might be thousands of dollars worth of stuff in those boxes. Probably were, if not more, and no telling what. Clothes, beauty products, jewelry? Mom would have to decide how much, if any, we kept. I was inclined to say 'yes' on the clothing cause I literally had almost nothing to wear.

The next message was sent this morning and, boy, was it different while being kind of the same.

"You'll be getting an envelope from my broker sometime next week. I bought some bonds in your name. Diamonds are for … but securities pay compound interest. … … an engagement gift should be six months' salary. Will you marry me, busy?"

I think I screamed.

Marjorie's bombshell proposal leads to ice cream and other complications...

I know I screamed because Mom jerked the wheel, then jerked it back to avoid crashing into somebody, while shouting, “What!? What!”

I covered my face with my hands and my phone, shouted back,. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Mom was really angry with me, “Don’t ever do that!” she almost snarled.

I kept saying, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“What the shit! Davey!” she was still shouting. People were honking horns at us and probably yelling too, but we couldn’t hear them.

“Pull over! Pull over! Park it somewhere!” I held out my phone. “I have to show you something!”

We were on Western so Mom went into the parking lot of a strip mall and parked. We both sat there trembling a bit.

“What is this?” she asked as I passed her my phone.

“Message—message from Marjie,” I gasped. I shook my head. “Just read it.”

She did and her reaction mirrored mine. “What the hell?” She turned to look at me. “She’s—she’s still trying to buy you!”

“Well, she’s offering a pretty good price,” I mentioned.

Mom glared at me. “You’re not for sale.”

I put my hands up. “If she’s done what she says she’s done, she’s put up money for an option.” My heart was pounding, I was shocked but I was having a hard time, too, with an urge to giggle.

Mom sat quiet a moment, steaming a bit. The sun was coming in on my side of the car, so I was beginning to bake. Too much sensitive skin not used to the sun—five more minutes and I would begin to burn. For some reason, it’s always hotter along Western in the summer than it is along Vermont. More pavement, I guess.

“Can we find some shade to park in?” I asked. I was suddenly hot all over, though I didn’t think the temperature had really changed.

Mom pointed across the parking lot. “There’s a Rite-Aid Drug Store here.” She hadn’t turned the engine off, so she just put the car back in gear and pulled on through the parking space, aiming to re-park closer to the entrance. “We can get you some sunblock and maybe another big hat.”

I did giggle then. “And a cone.” Ice cream sounded really good because I was still feeling kind of overheated. Rite-Aids in California all used to be Thriftys and still have an ice cream bar inside, serving Thrifty ice cream, a near-premium brand at a discount price. Just because you’ve been bought, I reflected, doesn’t mean you have to change who you are inside.

“You don’t need a cone,” Mom commented. “You just had a lollipop.”

“But it’s gone,” I said. Actually, I had taken a bite of it just as we got to the valet booth and thrown the rest into their trash, not wanting to get in the car while eating something sticky.

“You’ve got to watch your weight now, kiddo,” Mom pointed out. “Female hormones will cause you to pack it on.”

I ignored that. We hadn’t quite left Koreatown yet and there was a Korean BBQ restaurant next door to the Rite-Aid. The smells of savory meat and veggies cooked right at your table made me wish I were hungry enough for a meal. At 5’4” and 102 pounds, I could easily stand putting on some weight. In fact, I looked forward to adding some in the right places.

Mom re-parked and we hurried inside. There’s a Rite-Aid at the end of the block where we lived and this one was laid out much the same, so we knew where to find stuff.

I walked the aisles thinking about money. Mom seemed to be on the same wavelength because she asked. “How much is she talking about? I know she’s a Pritzger and told you that she owns a piece of a building on Wilshire.”

“She said her investments paid her about $300,000 a month. So, six times that?”

“Guh,” said Mom. After a bit, adding, “She’ll have strings attached.”

I nodded. “Probably in one of those trust funds where she can still control it.” I didn’t know how such things worked but I knew they existed.

“Manipulative bitch,” Mom commented.

I nodded. “Very.”

Another bottle of sunblock, small enough for my purse. Not the house brand but a national, I could afford to splurge. I grinned, feeling my own attitude toward money beginning to adjust. Holy crap. It’s entirely possible that I’m rich.

On another aisle, for seasonal merchandise, I picked out a white straw hat with a wide, multi-colored ribbon tied in a big bow. An extravagantly huge bow, in fact. I put it on my head and smiled at Mom.

“Cute,” she said. “Suits you.”

I found a mirror. I did look cute in the hat and the big ribbon was part of that. Pleased, Mom and I wandered the store a bit more, looking at cosmetics and cheap jewelry but not picking anything out. Then we went up front to pay, using the card that had Marjorie’s original five hundred behind it.

“Ice cream,” I reminded her and we went toward the little kiosk inside the store.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” I asked Mom.

“Anything chocolate,” she answered. “I know you like pistachio, but try some chocolate. It might be different for you now.”

“Huh?”

She shrugged. “Try it.”

I ended up with mint chocolate chip and Mom got chocolate malt, we traded licks and bites and both were very good. We finished the cones sitting on a shady bench outside the store, then cleaned our faces and hands and I put on sunblock before getting back in the car.

“That was good,” I mention. “I might get something with more chocolate in it next time.”

Mom grinned. “Chocolate is the lonely girl’s friend, so be careful. It can be addictive.”

“Huh?”

She shook her head. “Later,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about Marjorie and I believe I need to talk to the woman.”

I pointed at her and laughed. “You called her ‘Marjorie’. First time.”

Mom smiled. “She’s obviously insisting on having some relationship with you which means with me. Since you’re still a minor, I have some leverage. Might be tricky to use it.” She thought a moment. “Message her back and ask her to meet you at our place—,” she glanced at the time on the dash, “—I guess around seven? It’s already almost six.”

“Really? Okay.” I had my phone out still with her last message loaded so I just hit reply and chose text. I had to backspace and start over when Mom said not to mention her. The message I ended up sending read, “Meet in apt, at 7?”

I wondered if this was a good idea but Mom seemed sure of herself.

I pulled up the other messages just as the phone rang, right in my hands. Startled me so bad I almost dropped it. Caller ID said the call was from Armand.

“That her?” Mom asked.

I shook my head and pressed answer, putting the phone to my ear. “Hi, Armand,” I said.

“Davey—,” he said.

“It’s Kissy now.”

“Uh-huh,” that had probably made no sense to him. “I’m running a game tonight at my place. Marty and I were trying to reach you.”

“I was just now getting around to looking at messages.”

“We want you to come, you missed the game last night. I was here.”

“I—,” I looked at Mom, “What time is the game?”

“I’m here. The guys will be here about seven thirty.”

“Starts at seven thirty?” I said for Mom’s benefit. “How late you going to play?”

“Probably after midnight, you know,” said Armand.

“I’ll call you right back, Armand. I have to check something?”

“Are you in a car? You could just come right over.”

“I’m not driving, I don’t drive. Call you right back.”

“Okay,” he said. “I saw you cosplaying in Melrose, yesterday. You looked good.”

Cosplaying? Is that what he thought I was doing? I giggled.

“You looked just like her, and you sound like her, too.”

“Who?”

“Samantha. I didn’t know anyone cosplayed as daytime TV show characters.”

“Um. Armand, I wasn’t cosplaying. That’s who I am now.”

“Samantha? Huh?”

“No, call me Kissy.”

“Kissee?”

Well, sort of, but I could see this wasn’t going anywhere. I rolled my eyes. “I’ll call you right back, gotta check with the driver.” Mom was grinning at me.

“Okay, call me back,” said Armand.

I hit hang up and looked at Mom. “Same old Armand,” I said. “Bright as a searchlight, thick as a brick.”

She laughed. “I remember him. A very nice boy, if a bit strange. Big as a moose with a huge appetite, too.” Once, at our place, Armand had mistaken a quart of cottage cheese as a single serving and eaten the whole thing. His size and hunger became legendary that day.

“Okay, you heard?” I said. “Game at seven thirty, play to midnight?”

She nodded. “Do you want to go? I think you should, they’re your friends. If Kissy is who you are now, and you don’t want to just cut them off…. How do you think they’re going to react?”

I pulled down the vanity mirror and looked at myself. Okay, I guess I am a little vain. From short, skinny, boy dweeb to glamorous, hot girl in thirty hours with this one weird trick. Heh. And I may be rich, too. I said it aloud this time, “They’re gonna shit purple bricks.”

Mom laughed. “You know your friends. And if you get out of the way shortly after she arrives, Margarine and I can have a heart to heart.”

I grinned. Margarine. “You gonna try to butter her up? But if you’re talking to her, how am I going to get to the game? Armand lives ‘way cross town, between the school and the reservoir.”

“Have him come pick you up. He’s a handsome kid, it won’t hurt any negotiations I get up to if she knows you have a boyfriend.”

“I—what?” Armand as a boyfriend? I giggled. Well, he was good-looking, though up until today, I would have avoided thinking of him that way. Hmm. “She’s met him, Mom.”

“Even better, he’s not someone from just out of the blue. You have a past connection.”

“Mom, you just may be more manipulative than Margo.”

“Who?” She grinned.

The phone rang in my hand again. Thinking it was Armand calling back, I answered without looking at caller ID. “Hey,” I said. “I think I can go if you can come pick me up?”

Rory’s voice answered. “Wow, babe, I didn’t even know if you were free tonight. Ball game’s over, I thought I’d call. So, where should we go?”

A new date? But Kissy doesn't have a thing to wear...

Oh, crap. “Uh, hi Rory,” I said into the phone.

“Hey, babe,” he laughed. “You didn’t know it was me, right?”

I was impressed. “I didn’t look at phone I.D.,” I admitted. “I was just about to call somebody back.”

“You’re popular,” he said. “So you’ve already got a date tonight?”

I paused to think about me having a date. Wow. “Well, not a date-date,” I said, blushing. “Just gaming with the guys. I guess Armand is running his Friday night games again for the summer.”

“Huh. At his place?”

“Uh, yeah, I was going to call him back to tell him—uh—I’ll need a ride to the game cause Mom is meeting someone.”

“Your mom is hot, too,” Rory said. “I’m not on speaker, am I?”

I giggled. “No. Am I a moron?” Mom was listening to me, but she couldn’t hear him.

He laughed. “Not compared to the girlfriends of some of the guys on the team. So what time is the game at Armand’s.”

“Uh—seven thirty.”

He was quiet a moment. “How are you going to dress going to the game?” he asked.

I knew what he meant. “The guys have got to get used to seeing Kissy now.”

He laughed. “This the first time?”

“Uh—well, Armand saw me out shopping. But he thought I was cosplaying as some soap opera star.”

Rory laughed again. “Same old Armand. Oh! Samantha Welty, I forget if that’s the character or the actress. You do look a bit like her. Only Armand would make such a leap of logic. When he’s right, he’s dead on, and when he’s wrong,” he made a falling off the cliff noise, “he’s just dead.”

I giggled.

“So you need a ride to the game?”

“Uh-huh. Where are you?” I asked him.

“PCH. Just left the high school where we play. I could probably be to your place in forty minutes, an hour?”

“Are you offering me a ride?”

“Sure, babe. Hell, yeah. Give me a chance to see Armand, too. Pick you up between, uh, seven, seven-fifteen?”

I had the strongest urge to squeal for some reason. I suppressed that but my feet in the flip-flops beat a tattoo on the floor. “Okay, sure!” I chirped.

“It’s a date,” he said. “Our second. Got to let you go so I can figure out how to get to the freeway from here. Mwah.”

Was that last sound supposed to be a kiss? I glanced at Mom. “Uh—see you, Rory.” We hung up.

“And?” said Mom.

“That was Rory, he’s coming to pick me up to go to the game,” I explained. “I have to call Armand to tell him I have a ride.” I picked him off the previous calls list and hit callback.

“Hey, Armband,” I said, using one of his nicknames, when he answered. “I got a ride to the game, that’s what I had to check on.”

“Okay—uh—Dudley,” he said. Armand was never that comfortable using nicknames but he tried. Dudley was surely not one of my favorites and certainly not now. “Guys will be arriving soon. My sister made a pot of chili for us and we’ve got pizza rolls for later. Popcorn. We could use more sodas, if you want to bring some.”

“I can probably do some Dew,” I offered.

“Good. If you can make it early, you’ll get a better choice of characters to play. This is gonna be in my Supers world, the Prometheans. New team, new characters, new powers. New villains. Haw.” He added a fake villain cackle.

Armand never let people make up their own characters. He did the work of figuring out all the math and numbers and just let players customize things with a name and background and a few skills. It worked because he was so thorough.

I giggled. “I’m not driving so I get there when I get there.”

“Okay. See ya.” And he hung up. Same old Armand, no time for niceties he didn’t really get unless he thought to make time. He could fake being a standard-issue human being but he was really wired differently.

My dad described him, back when Armand and I were both in grade school and we all lived on Massachusetts Ave, “That boy must run on direct current, ‘cause his AC converter makes a peculiar sound.” I snickered at the memory.

I looked up and around, we were only a few blocks from home.

“All set?” Mom asked.

“I guess so.” I put my phone away. “Rory will pick me up to take me to the game, probably around seven fifteen.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “That’ll work.”

I kicked at the floorboard. “Um—Mom?”

“Somethings bothering you.” She was observing, not asking.

“I—uh—Can I look through the boxes Marjie sent? Just for clothes—I don’t have any of my own stuff to wear.”

“Gawp,” said Mom, stopping a laugh. In a higher pitched voice she said, “I don’t have anything to wear!” Then she did laugh. “Why did I want a daughter again?”

I probably pouted, but I was certain I hadn’t sounded that whiney. “I don’t, just this,” what I was wearing, “and what I wore yesterday and a bunch of sloppy Davey clothes.”

Mom sighed. “And none of my stuff is going to fit you, you skinny-minnie. Okay, when we get home, go through and pick something out you like. In fact, we’ll keep all of it, or give what you don’t want to charity.” She had made a decision.

She went on. “Just because Marjorie is crazy doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a gift.”

She’d called her Marjorie again, but I didn’t mention it. “She might, she might have included some pretty expensive things.” I thought about the money Marjie had mentioned, too. Did that count as a gift we could enjoy? Maybe not, that felt more like a bribe.

I got suddenly dizzy, actually contemplating marrying Marjorie. What kind of life would I live? Clothes, parties, travel?—though Marjie herself didn’t seem to go that far into the rich life. She wore stylish but ordinary clothes, drove a nice expensive car but drove it herself. She shopped on Melrose, not Rodeo Drive.

Where would we live? With her income, anywhere we wanted to, I guess. Would we have friends? What kind of friends? What about my friends?

She was a lesbian. I frowned. I think she told me that herself. Would she want sex from me? The way I am now or would she want me to have an operation? My knees clamped together, a last reflex form being a boy for seventeen years?

I almost laughed. Something I’d heard in a cartoon, probably Daffy Duck. “I’m different from other people. Pain hurts me.” I really did not want to think about an operation; getting shots was bad enough.

“You have the most peculiar expression,” Mom commented as we pulled into the carport. Before we parked, we both noticed that there were more packages on the front steps. Mom rolled her eyes.

We went in through the kitchen door, through the apartment and opened the front door to bring the packages in. “Take them all back to your room,” Mom directed. “I’ll let you open them, she sent them to you.” There were seven of them now.

I leaned the two biggest against the wall, put the smallest on my dresser, and piled the others next to the bed. The little one was about one foot square by six inches high. It wasn’t very heavy and for some reason, I was afraid of it.

I started with the middle-size box, opening it. Lingerie on top, bras and panties in clear plastic bags. Two more corsets, much fancier than the one she bought me at Le Trend, both lined with something soft and silky. A peculiarly heavy box turned out to contain two perfect-looking fake silicone breasts complete with nipples. They looked more than twice the size of my chicken fillets, still small but bigger.

I noticed that I was giggling and clamped down on that immediately. I checked the bras, they were all 32B. Marjorie wanted me built a little larger up top?

Under the lingerie were purses and shoe boxes. A glance at the clock stopped me from opening every one of them. I didn’t have time. I’d never be able to get ready to leave with Rory at this rate.

I pushed that Amazon box aside and opened the next one down. Jackpot. The top half of the box was full of dresses, most in clear plastic bags. I looked through quickly. Yup, all dresses, very hip, stylish, some casual, some dressy. No skirts, pants or tops though. All of them pretty girly, too, feminine, and in my colors: greens, browns, cream, and the colors of red and blue I could wear.

I shook my head. Marjorie knew what she wanted, a trophy girlfriend, for sure. The bottom of that box had smaller boxes with beauty products, a hair dryer, and other stuff for the bathroom and dresser, including a beautiful jewelry box.

I glanced at the small box I had put aside. Probably jewelry.

One of the last two middle-size boxes held plush animals, dolls, games and books like any girl in America might have in her room. I felt a bit touched by that, Marjie knew I wouldn’t have any of this stuff because I’d been a girl for only two days.

The last middle-size box was too heavy to contain more clothes, so I skipped it. The two big boxes were probably furniture.

I went back to the dresses, looking them over. Which would be the most impressive to Rory and—and the other guys? Half of them I rejected for being too long or for me not knowing how I would wear something like an off-the shoulder cocktail dress.

I picked one made of cream and two colors of green in panels. It had capsleeves, a full skirt and a green leather belt. It looked sleek, silky and sexy.

I glanced at the clock. I might have time. I looked at the tag on the dress, size 4. “Marjorie, you rat,” I muttered. I’d never be able to wear it without a corset.

I went to the door of my room. “Mom!” I called. “Mom, I need some help in here!”

Wearing a corset can be fun? Who knew?!

Mom tried to talk me out of wearing the corset but I wanted to dress up for Rory and the gaming guys and the only way I would fit into any of the dresses I owned was if I wore a corset.

“Mom, please,” I said. “All of these lace up in back. I need help to put them on.”

“If you were experienced you could put on and take off even back-lacing corsets like these,” she said, examining the three samples I had.

“Really?” I couldn’t imagine how. With the corset I wore yesterday on, I couldn’t even reach the laces to undo a bow.

Mom discarded that very specimen. “Junk,” she said. “Probably $30 at some trendy shop for emo teenagers.”

I giggled since that described Le Trend pretty good. “You probably couldn’t wear it more than half a dozen times before something gave out, or a stay came through the lining and stabbed you.”

“Yike?” I glared at the offending article.

“Now these two,” she said looking at the two newer corsets, one creamy white satin with teeny tiny sunflowers and the other equally silky black with tiny roses. “These are about as good as non-custom made corsets get. See? They have several adjustments, not just the main laces. Did Margo have all your measurements?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Are you going to be wearing the green dress on the bed?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay,” Mom said. “Get your bra and panties on that you’re going to wear and I’ll loosen the laces in the white one so we can easily get you into it. It’s well-lined, you won’t need an undercorset to keep it from pinching. I’ll bet this will fit better, be easier to wear and get your waist down an inch smaller than the other one.”

“Thanks, Mom!” I said. I took off my bra and peeled off the little silicone filler pads, which felt weird, by the way. Then while Mom worked on the corset, I found the larger breast forms that came in Marjorie’s package. Like the smaller Chick-Fil-As (ha!) these had a peel-away facing that revealed a sticky back.

They were very life-like, pale realistic breasts with nipples. I used the mirror to place them carefully over my own nipples. They were a close match for my own skin color, darn near vampire-white except for freckles higher up on my chest and neck. I giggled seeing them perched there, the weight pulling on my skin being noticeable.

Mom commented, “If you keep taking the hormones, you won’t need fake boobs much longer. When I started developing, I went from not-quite A to a full C cup in two years.” She glanced down at herself. “After having a baby—you—I went up another two cup sizes. So careful about what you may be wishing for.” She grinned.

I grabbed up one of the bras Marjie had sent and put it on, giggling even more. I wouldn’t mind at all having Mom’s figure, I thought. In a few years, maybe. I noticed what she was doing and asked, “Why are you using a damp sponge?”

“Makes it easier to get a good fit. You don’t want the corset wet, or really even damp. Just moist. The laces, the busk, places where it might bind. You’ll see. It will be easier to tighten and more comfortable for wearing.” She handed me a small, pink roll-on thingie. “Use some of this, everywhere the corset will cover. It’ll help it go on smooth and prevent chafing.”

“Just roll it on like deodorant?”

“Uh-huh. Belly, sides, under your breasts, I’ll get your back.”

“Where did you get this stuff?” I asked as we applied it everywhere. It had a dry but almost waxy feel to it and a faint flowery scent. Once it warmed up on my skin, it felt more oily.

“It was in the box under the lingerie. This is an underbust corset, I guess because an overbust one might damage the fake boobies.” More giggles from me. I’ve got to get over giggling about stuff like that. Mom gave me a severe look, then helped me slip into the corset which was very loose.

“I’ve got a feeling these are not the last corsets Marzipan is going to try to buy for you. Tell her to get undercorsets next time, otherwise skin oils and stuff like this anti-chafe cream will damage the fabric.”

“Uh-huh?” I thought of something. “Mom, you seem to know a lot about corsets.”

“Mm-hmm,” she agreed. “You and Marla are not the only people who like how they make a girl look. And I used one to help me get my figure back after having you. It’s easier to stay on a diet, too, when you’re wearing one.”

“Oh, yeah.” I remembered my experience at the restaurant yesterday. It had been hard to eat more than about half as much as I usually ate.

The corset felt cool against my skin, the satiny fabric so smooth and silky that I shivered a bit, pleased by the feeling. Then she tightened the laces to a snug fit. “How small do we need to get your waist?” she asked.

“Twenty three inches?” I said.

Mom produced a measuring tape. “Twenty-six and a quarter, someone should not have had that ice cream. We can do this. Take a deep breath, let it all out and hold it.” In just a few minutes of repeating such maneuvers, she had it tightened up to where my waist measured less than twenty-three inches but I didn’t feel nearly as pinched as I had the day before.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Very comfortable,” I admitted. I could imagine wearing something no tighter than this for hours, which I would have to do if I went to the game. Well, I’d done so yesterday with an even less comfortable corset.

The doorbell rang. “That’s either more packages or Marblehead is early,” Mom remarked.

Mar—?—oh. “That’s a reach, Mom.” I laughed, glancing at the clock on my dresser. “Can’t be Rory, way too soon.”

Mom was already heading out to the hall. “Finish dressing. Wear some pantyhose, try the pink-patterned pair.” She paused in the doorway.

“Pink? I look terrible in pink, Mom,” I reminded her.

“It’ll be far enough from your face and the pink will make the green of your dress really pop. Besides, you’re going to want to wear something so you don’t feel so naked.” She disappeared down the hall as the bell rang again.

“Huh?” I wondered what she meant by that until I slipped the dress on. It was like eight inches above my knees! “Effing Marblehead!” I exclaimed when I looked in the mirror. I had t-shirts longer than this dress. If I raised my arms above my head, I might be giving a show! “Damnit,” I swore. “But it’s so cute!”

I found the package with the pink patterned hose. They weren’t as thick as tights or as opaque being made of two layers of pink and salmon woven material with little flowery details. I tried them on, the built-in panty snugged up against my padded briefs. I had to go down the hall to the bathroom to get a full-length view.

Mom had been right. I looked adorable. Giggling, I dashed back to my bedroom to deal with my makeup, find some shoes and jewelry, and figure out if I could do anything with my hair.

I could hear Mom and Marjorie talking in the living room. At least they weren’t shouting or cursing at one another.

Grabbing my makeup kit, I stared at the clock beside the unopened package on my dresser. It was 7:02. That was so unfair! I began a quick job on my face, I didn’t have enough experience to do a thorough job quickly, so mascara, a bit of blush, and lip-color would have to do.

I brushed my short red hair this way and that, but it still looked like a recovering case of bedhead. I found a bag of colored ribbons in one of the opened boxes but I had no real idea how to tie a ribbon in my hair. My first try made me look like the redheaded girl from the Happy Meal commercial.

No time. I took the ribbon off, and started opening shoeboxes, quickly finding a pair of heels, black with green accent panels. I tried them on. A little higher than I had worn before but an afternoon of prancing around in the high heel thongs made me feel brave. Also, taller.

No one was calling down the hall for me to make an appearance and I didn’t hear Rory’s truck outside so I opened the small box I thought contained jewelry. I took a breath and wiped my forehead.

I’d been right. There were eight pieces and these did not look like cheap glass and 14k gold plate. I couldn’t wear the earrings yet, so I set them aside, my ears would heal in a week or so. But a bracelet made of interlocking gold and silver hearts went immediately on my left wrist. A necklace with a chain similar to the bracelet also had two much larger, sparkly hearts intertwined each with a gem in the middle, one red, one green.

According to the card with the necklace, the gems were semi-precious beryl but they looked fantastic. That went on, then a ring with a similar motif. The other pieces would have been overkill, a second necklace, choker style, and a gaudier bracelet. Nope. But the last item baffled me until I realized it was a hair clip. I tried to figure out how to wear it, but again was defeated due to having been a girl for just over one day.

I heard an engine in the drive. Rory. The clock said 7:28. He was late but he’d given me almost enough time to get ready. I put things I might need in my new beaded purse and grabbed the cloth bag of gaming stuff to set beside the door.

The doorbell rang. I heard Rory’s rumbling baritone at the door then he apparently came inside. I should wait for someone to call me, I decided. A girl is never ready when the guy is, she must make him wait a bit. It sounds silly but it’s really part of the power dynamic. She makes him wait so they both know she’s worth it.

I remembered perfume and put that on then checked my makeup again.

Mom called down the hallway. “Kissy, your boyfriend is here for your date.”

I grinned in my room where no one could see. Mom had just put one across your bows, Marzipan!

Suppressing giggles, I went out to see if there had been any more blood shed.

Kissy's dress is a knockout, or maybe it's the girl inside.

I stepped out of the hall, only a tiny bit wobbly on my heels, into the living room to see Marjorie and Mom standing near the arch into the kitchen while Rory stood up from sitting in the big chair. “Wow, Kissy,” he seemed to want to laugh. “I haven’t seen you in a dress before, you look great.”

From the kitchen area, Marjorie commented. “She should always wear dresses. Hello, Kissy. You look wonderful.” And she was also smiling. “I knew that color would suit you.” She stepped closer.

Mom also took a step. “Well, you kids are running a bit late? I guess you have to leave pretty quickly. And yes, hon, you look really nice.” And she was smiling, too!

“Is everyone getting along well?” I asked a little mystified. I had expected Mom and Marjorie to be going at it hammer and tongs with poor Rory likely to catch some crossfire. But no, it appeared everyone was bosom buds.

Marjorie said something but Rory had come right up to me and took my hands. The guy is so big, he kind of took up a lot of space that might have held more conversation. He bent down and gave me a kiss on the forehead, whispering at the same time, “Let’s get out of here.” But he said aloud, “I kinda wish I had stopped to change on my way, but, yeah, we’re already late, huh?”

Mom gave me a look, and being partly behind Marjorie, my would-be fiancée couldn’t see her signaling me to go with Rory, who was already pulling me toward the door. “Um g’night?” I said, waving after pulling one hand free of Rory’s grasp.

“Eleven p.m. curfew unless you call,” Mom said.

“Okay,” I replied.

In one long stride, Rory reached the door and pulled it open, towing me behind him with me taking itty bitty steps because of the heels. I caught a glimpse of Marjorie’s expression. She looked—bereft. Like a kid in a pet store watching someone else buy the puppy they wanted. Had fallen in love with.

I’m the puppy, I thought as Rory pulled me out the door, calling back behind him, “‘Night, Ms Parker, Ms Lords. Kissy’s safe with me.” Once the door was closed behind us, Rory pulled me closer. “You’re short,” he complained as he bent further to give me a kiss on the lips. “And you’re only as safe with me as you want to be.”

That kiss had left me all melty inside again. I snuggled against him, even in heels I wasn’t taller than his shoulder but I turned my face up for another kiss, determined to kiss back this time. “Uh-huh,” I said. “I’ll let you know how safe that is.”

He laughed. Then we kissed and when I opened my mouth in response to his tongue, I wasn’t thinking of safety at all. We’d done kissing like that the night before but it was still new to me and left me breathless and a bit wobbly when he broke it off. I blamed that on the corset and heels, mostly, but I kept hold of his arm in order not to fall down.

He laughed again softly. “You kiss like a virgin,” he whispered. It wasn’t dark yet and he could clearly see me blush. “Kissy’s a virgin,” he sang in a whisper, “Kissy’s a virgin.”

I wanted to hit him. My face was on fire. I tried to wriggle away from him, not wanting to say the only thing it occurred to me to utter. No, asking, “Who’s fault is that?” would not improve things.

“Shh, shh,” he said, still whispering. “All teasing and flirting aside, we ought to get out of here. The tension between your mom and your—” he gave me a look, “—your girlfriend was like 50,000 volts.”

I nodded. I really wanted to know what Mom and Marjorie were doing in there but getting away from ground-zero also seemed like a smart option.

Mom’s car was in our carport, Marjorie’s Mercedes on the apron behind it and Rory’s testosterone-fueled pickup on the street. Illegally since there wasn’t enough curb for legal parking in this part of the street, another reason for us to move quickly.

Rory clicked his keyfob and the big Toyota chirped in answer as he led me up to the passenger side door. He grinned at me, “You had enough trouble climbing in wearing pants and deck shoes, it might be entertaining to watch you try in a skirt and heels.”

I pouted at him and he laughed, After opening the door, he simply picked me up and put me inside. “Thank you,” I said with as much saccharine as I could find. He laughed again, closed the door and raced around to his own side of the monster truck.

I watched him in the mirrors, he was wearing faded jeans, a tank top, and over that a white, open, untucked, baseball shirt with the number 53 on the back with Titans under that and Beeson over it. I buckled up while he clambered in and we were on our way. Kissy Beeson, I thought, but no. Kissy Lords? No, no, no.

“Do you remember where Armand lives?” I asked, trying to change the mental subject. Kissy Gower? Yikes.

“Sure,” he said. “Mando Packysaurus lives practically around the corner from where we lived on Massachusetts. Where my parents still live.”

I nodded, “Seems weird that you and Armand were friends, you’re such a jock and he’s like king of the nerds.” I giggled.

He kept grinning. “Armand was on the wrestling team. Won a lot of matches but didn’t make CIF, because he just didn’t have enough competitive spirit. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.” He shook his head. “He was on the frosh football team too, his first year at Marshall.”

CIF was some kind of award but I wasn’t sure what the letters meant. “I didn’t know that,” I admitted. I really hadn’t paid much attention at all to sports in school.

“While you were in middle school,” Rory explained. “Time you and your buddies showed up, Armand split the Games Club off the Chess Club and all the nerds joined Armand’s Army.”

I giggled. We had called ourselves that. We were the nerdiest of the nerds. Everyone played video games but we played games with pen and paper, thick rulebooks and odd-shaped dice. Still, with Armand as our leader and sticking together, we no longer had anything to worry about from bullies. There were as many as twenty boys in the club, but only four or five girls at any one time.

But there had been one more girl than anyone had known about. Me.

“Are you hungry?” Rory suddenly asked. “I ate at the buffet with the guys after the game, but if you’re hungry we could stop or drive-thru?”

I shook my head. “There’ll be food at the game and I’m not really hungry anyway. Oh! But Armand asked me to bring some sodas. Can we stop and get some?”

“Sure,” he said. He pulled into a 7-Eleven at the next corner. “You wait here, I’ll be right out. Uh—any particular kind you like?”

“Mountain Dew,” I said. “But the guys will drink anything with caffeine.”

He was out and gone with a, “Be right back,” before I could offer to pay. I watched him leave, smiling and thinking it was nice to have someone who would fetch things for me. I giggled a bit. I wouldn’t have wanted to try to carry a pack of sodas across the parking lot with my nails, a short skirt and heels.

Three boys on skateboards went through the lot, pausing for a moment to look at me sitting up high in the passenger seat of the huge truck. They might have been middle schoolers. I smiled and waved at them with my fingers and they grinned and waved back, then got into some kind of contest to see who could jump the curb in some complicated way.

They kept looking back at me and I realized that they were stunting on their boards to attract my attention. Goofy, but sort of sweet. I watched them and smiled when they looked my way.

Rory came trotting back with two twelve packs of soda balanced on one broad shoulder. Dr. Pepper and Diet Mountain Dew. I hadn’t said diet and the guys at the game would probably sneer at it but watching calories was something girls did (and I’d probably better start), so Rory was thinking of me that way. Which I appreciated and gave me another giggle.

“Hey, Babe,” he said after stowing the booty in the back seat and climbing behind the wheel again. He grinned at me. “I saw your fans.”

I laughed. Rory leaned toward me and I leaned toward him and we kissed. His lips were warm and firm and he smelled of a recent shower but with that hint of raw spicy musk that seemed part of him. Something stirred inside me at the scent and for a moment, I regretted going to the game when what I really wanted was to get Rory somewhere we could be alone.

And do what? Neck, I suppose. I really wasn’t ready to go further. Well, I was ready, apparently from the way I felt about him, but I wasn’t going to do it. Yet.

“I’d better get to the game,” I said, pulling away from what had turned into a lingering set of kisses. “I’m already half an hour late.”

“Yeah, Babe,” he said and got the truck rolling. He kept glancing sideways at me as we cruised through the neighborhood, somewhat more affluent than the one where I lived. And his grin kept getting wider.

“What?” I finally asked.

“I don’t want a compliment to go to your head, Kissy,” he said, still grinning. “But you’re a knockout and clearly not in the league of any of the guys in Armand’s Army. They’re going to be expecting one of their own to come in, this is the first time they’re going to see you—and you’re like this?” He waved a hand.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” I asked, a little concerned.

“No, I think it’s going to be fucking hilarious!” He laughed out loud. “Sorry. I think it’s going to be funny to watch them try to impress you, like those idiot kids on their skateboards!”

Thinking about it when Rory stopped at a stopsign, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or get the heebie-jeebies. Rory must have sensed my indecision because he turned to look at me and raised an eyebrow.

I rolled a twenty on my resolve and pointed forward. “Drive,” I said.

They don't call her Kissy for no reason at all.

Rory parked his big truck outside Armand’s house amid the expensive homes near the west edge of Los Feliz. The sunset lit up a few clouds in the western sky with red and gold. An onshore flow had already begun, ruffling the leaves of the tall California palms lining the street.

I sat and waited for Rory to run around the truck and help me out. We got a couple more kisses out of the deal. “They don’t call me Kissy, for no reason at all,” I told him. He laughed as he dashed back around the truck to retrieve the sodas we had bought.

I waited on the sidewalk for him. I hadn’t been to Armand’s house since he ran a game on New Year’s day when he was home from college for winter break. He was attending CalPoly in Pomona and living in the dorms there when school was in session, except I think he might have graduated a week or two ago. But he’d most likely be going back for a post-grad degree unless he transferred to Stanford or something.

Armand’s place, or his parent’s place, was a two-story craftsman revival dressed in pink stucco and white trim with three gables facing the street, one of them over the two-car garage. That’s where Armand’s old room had been and probably where he slept now that he was back home. But the game action would be in the add-on family room in back.

My dress wasn’t stopping the breeze from the miles-away ocean, and I shivered a bit. First I’m hot then I’m cold. My patterned hose weren’t thick enough to make up for a skirt that ended six inches or so above my knees and I had nothing but very short sleeves on my arms. Even late June isn’t quite summer in LA. Stupid to be fashionable and freezing, I told myself, next time wear a jacket or sweater.

Rory returned with the two cases of sodas perched on his shoulder and steadied with one big hand, but when he saw me with my arms wrapped around myself, he put the cases down and stripped off his baseball shirt. “I didn’t know you were cold,” he apologized. “Put this on.”

He held it for me as I slipped my arms inside, it fit me like a tent but it was already warm from him wearing it. And the smell of him on the thick cotton fabric made me a bit weak in the knees. I had to switch my purse from one shoulder to the other and ended up a bit off balance.

“Whoa!” Rory grabbed me as I almost tumbled off my heels. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Thanks. But won’t you be cold?”

He laughed. “It’s only forty feet to the front door and it ain’t that cold to me. You’re so thin the wind goes right through you.” He glanced down at the soda. “I’ll come back for those, let’s get you inside.” He took my arm and we started up the walk. The short sleeves of his shirt came down to lay in folds at my elbows.

“You make me feel tiny,” I said to him.

He laughed. “My mom says the same thing and she’s taller than you.”

“Moose,” I said as we reached Armand’s door.

“Chicklet,” he said as he knocked with one hand and squeezed mine with the other.

Armand’s sister Jenny opened the door and I gave a fakey moan, “Another tall person.” Which made Rory laugh.

Jenny looked down at me curiously and blinked. “Hi?” she said. Armand’s size ran in his family and Jenny was at least 5’10” with lots of curves and dark brown hair almost to her waist. “Oh, hey, Rory! Long time no see.” She looked back to me.

“We’re here for the par-tay,” said Rory and he pronounced it that way, like a cartoon character. “This is my date, Kissy Parker.”

“Hi,” I said, getting inside as soon as Jenny moved out of the way..

“Hi—uh, Kissy? Do I know you?” She hadn’t seen me in more than a year, having been elsewhere at New Years. Jenny was, in fact, a year older than Rory. They had likely known each other in high school. Not being a soo-ooper genius like her wily brother, she was still a junior at UCLA I thought.

“I have to get the sodas,” said Rory. He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead and ran back to where we had left the cases on the sidewalk.

Jenny watched him go as I took the baseball shirt off. “Wow,” she said. “He’s better looking than ever.” She eyed me with speculation. “Does he treat a girlfriend nice or is he an asshole?”

I considered that. “All of the above,” I said and she laughed.

“You said party? What party? Are you guys here for the game?” she asked as Rory returned with the soda balanced on his shoulder. “When did you turn into a gamer?” addressed to him.

“Baseball’s a game,” he said as he took his shirt from me and tossed it over the other shoulder. “So’s football.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “They’re in the back.” Then to me, “You look familiar.”

“Your brother thinks I look like that actress on a soap opera,” I said, using a little misdirection. I really didn’t want to get into who I was with Jenny.

She snapped her fingers. “That’s it, Heather Bock, plays Samantha on ‘Days of Our World’. She was in that band with her brothers when she was a kid. You related?”

“Not that I know of.” I needed to find a picture of this Heather if I resembled her that much. I hadn’t seen much of ‘Days of Our World’ because it was on at the same time as Ellen.

I took Rory’s hand as we went through the living room and the short wide hall to the family room. My stomach turned flip flops. Why had I wanted to do this? I gripped Rory’s hand tight and he squeezed back.

“You’re okay,” he said softly.

The family room had been a covered patio before being closed in and made part of the house decades ago. About fourteen-foot-wide and twenty-foot-long, it had huge windows facing west on the backyard side.

One of the old house windows had been turned into a pass-thru into the kitchen and another became an arch into the dining room. Light from the setting sun painted the curtains gold and purple, competing with lamps and ceiling lights in the room itself. Couches, chairs and a huge television lined the walls.

In the middle of the room, a full-size pool table had been converted for table-top gaming with a wooden cover to protect the felt. At one end, Armand stood, his big face unemotional as he stared at us. Four other members of the Army sat on stools with their gaming stuff in front of them, all dressed, more or less, in nerd chic: jeans, sneaks and hoodies.

I had a sudden image in my head of my own gaming supplies in their cloth bag sitting beside the door in my bedroom back home. “Doh!”

Everyone looked at me.

“Hey, big guy,” said Rory. “I brought the sodas. This is Kissy Parker, my date to adventure.” He laughed. “She needed a ride to the game and I came along. Where do you want the drinks?”

The corners of Armand’s eyes twitched but kept looking at mine.“‘Fridge,” he pointed back toward the pass-thru where a restaurant-size refrigerator sat against the end wall. Super-nerd wore the same mustache and beard I had seen him with on Melrose—which was what had delayed me from recognizing him in an instant there.

Rory let go of my hand and carried the sodas back as indicated. The guys didn’t notice, they were still looking at me.

Sitting around the table clockwise from Armand’s position, Miguel San Salvador, nicknamed Melvin, was first. A skinny kid, Mel played wizards or blasters and had been a junior at school last year. Next to him, his pimply-faced classmate, Norris, was our rogue or other sneaky type as needed. First or last name, Norris the Nobody they called him at school and his characters were often named Noman or Nemo or something like.

On this side of the table, two more gamers twisted around to look at me. Dan Tenhouten, known as Hoot in our group, was an anomaly. A good-looking blond kid, Hoot had been vice-president of the sophomore class last year and played barbarians or other close-in fighter types. The last kid, Bob, almost fell off his stool trying to turn around. Bob was overweight and not much taller than me, playing paladins and doing party heals.

Marty, our other GM, wasn’t at the table but he often had to work Friday nights and showed up late.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “I forgot my dice and binders and stuff.” Norris and Mel were standing up now and leaning forward, to get a better look at my legs, I guess. I did the finger wave thing, then noticed the layout on the table. It looked like the usual beginning for a superhero game: a bank job in progress. “I’m sorry I’m late. Have you already started?”

“No,” said Armand. “We’re just doing a run-through on the movement and combat rules since this is a homebrew. But it’s similar to other d20 systems. Except, having a sticky zone-of-control is a feat you have to take, and movement is in pulses.” He started to list the differences. Basically, a lot of it was adapted from the old City of Heroes online game.

I felt my attention wander. I never had been that big on knowing the mechanics of any game, I just liked playing my characters. All of whom had been female. I suppressed a giggle. Now I know why?

Rory came back from putting sodas in the fridge. “Hey, big guy,” he said to Bob. “Can you sit at the end so I can sit by my girlfriend?”

I know I was blushing.

“Sure, sure,” Bob agreed and he and Rory moved things around to make room and provide a stool for me. I stared at it, how was I supposed to get onto a tall stool in a short skirt and heels? I guess women did it all the time in bars, but I had never practiced such a move. I tried to think of a movie where I had seen the maneuver done.

Armand watched me, his expression slowly changing to a tiny smile. “I knew it was you on Melrose,” he said. “I thought cosplaying a soap character was brilliant.”

I did giggle then. Only Super-nerd would have thought of that explanation for what he saw.

Norris was the one who came out and asked. “It’s Davey, right?”

“She goes by Kissy now,” Rory answered for me. “C’mon, does she look like someone named Davey?”

At the end of the table, Armand asked, “Are you going to be playing, too, Beeson? We’ve got room at the table and Marty won’t make it, he’s working Friday nights till midnight these days.”

“McJob,” Norris explained.

Rory shook his head. “I guess not. You guys play every Friday? I’m usually playing ball.” He gestured at his baseball shirt. “It was a day game today so I was free to bring Kissy. We had a date she canceled to be with you guys.” He grinned, the liar.

We had not had a date. But probably only because he hadn’t asked.

Norris again, asking me. “Are you transitioning or something? Like someone on TV?”

I blinked. It occurred to me that not one of these guys had ever been in a P.E. locker room with me. “Well, sort of,” I said. “I just decided to stop pretending to be a boy.” I smiled at them and they all smiled back. That was actually true and not a lie, just a bit of misdirection.

Rory helped me onto the stool on the corner, near Armand, just holding out a hand to steady me, and it was as natural as anything. I turned my face up and we kissed. I looked at the guys again, five open mouths. “Besides,” I said. “Being a girl is way more fun.”

Kissy and Rory become superheroes in the Promethean Metaverse!

Armand shook off the spell I had cast first. For a moment, his dark face had gotten darker, but he quickly got to the business of running the game.

“I’ve made up characters for everyone to choose from, two or three for each of you,” he said. “I’ve even got extras that you can choose from, Beeson, if you want to play for at least tonight. This isn’t going to be a game where you have to be here every time to play your character. If you show up, I’ll work you in.”

He started dealing out character sheets that he’d obviously created on a computer and printed on card stock. He’d even found photos or illustrations for each of the characters. “The character you play tonight is not necessarily the one you have to play each time. We can be pretty flexible with a supers game.”

The three he gave me were labeled Damselfly, Phantom Angel, and Aura. Aura was a tank with forcefields and power lances, not my style at all. Damselfly was a scrapper who could fly, sting and do minor heals. Interesting. Also interesting that all of my choices were female, even though these had been made before I showed up in a dress. I grinned; Armand knew me better than I knew myself, apparently.

But Phantom Angel was my kind of character; I’d actually played her in previous games. Flight, invisibility, control of winds and a party heal: a classic defender type, the supers equivalent of a cleric or paladin. The illustration was cute, too. A blonde teenager with wings dressed in a tank top, cutoff jeans and high heel sneakers. High heel sneakers? Where would I find a pair of those in real life? Me want!

I looked up to discover that all of the guys, except Rory, were watching me and not looking at their character sheets at all. Even Hoot, who had to lean forward to look around the bulk of Rory sitting on my right side.

I glanced at Armand and saw his nostrils flare. Uh-oh. He sometimes did that when he was about to go off on a rant about something, like people not paying attention in a game. But he leaned toward me, too, and said. “You smell nice.” He tried to smile as he said it, and it was one of his friendly smiles, not one of those he made when he thought he should smile but didn’t know why.

Rory looked up and saw what was happening. Grinning, he nudged me. “Hey, babe? Little help? What do all these numbers mean?”

I turned to look at his cards. “The numbers are like baseball stats, except you start from the numbers to figure out what you can do, instead of figure out the numbers from what you did.”

“Huh?” He stared. “These abbreviations are as bad as the ones on the scorekeeper’s pads. What’s AGI?”

“Agility,” I explained. “Useful for moving fast, getting out of the way, and hitting what you want to hit. Look, the easiest character type for a newbie to play is a tank. Tanks are mostly defense so you can wait for the enemy to attack you and counterpunch.”

“A tank, huh?” He pulled one character out of the three. “Like Dreadnaught here? He’s covered in rocks and metal, and it says he has variable armor from 10 to 90.”

“A 90 armor? You’d almost need a critical hit to hurt him unless you have a really strong attack. Yeah, he’s a classic tank.” I agreed, looking the card over. “And see here under Affiliations? He’s a member of both the Cometeers and The Good Guys, just like the character I picked, Phantom Angel.”

“Cool. We can be each other’s main squeeze.” He grinned but had more questions. “AGI 8, I guess he’s not very fast. What’s DoA? Dead on arrival?”

“Damage over area. It’s one of his attacks—he can spray rocks at a target or in a circle all around him. Anyone nearby gets hit unless their own armor stops it. Or if he has a feat that lets him miss friends.”

He kept grinning. “Sounds like a hard guy to get close to.”

I glanced at the other cards offered Rory. Seven-Star was a blaster with a gimmick—a seven-shooter that fired trick bullets. Not an easy character for a newb to play. And Zed-FX was worse, a techno-wizard with a cloak full of gadgets. “I think you better go with Dreadnaught.”

Armand had got the other players to make their picks, too. Melvin would play Daedalos, a gadgeteer who specialized in party buffs and enemy debuffs. Norris chose Shadojak, a sneak with teleport. Bob would be Justifier, a scrapper/tank with a hammer and a self-heal. And Hoot took Man-Tiger, a classic scrapper, all attack and avoid, with HtK and high vitality.

Like me, they had all played their characters before in Armand’s super campaign, except for Bob whose last character had been Doc Spectral, currently a captive in an undersea harem. Long story.

“HtK?” Rory asked.

“Hard to Kill. It’s a feat, a special ability. He gets to keep fighting after he should be dead until he misses a save based on his vitality.”

“Which is high,” Hoot pointed out.

“I would hope so,” commented Rory. “I think I could get into this. It’s like a team sport, huh? We all help each other against the bad guys?”

“Exactly,” said Armand. “If you let your teammates down, everyone will suffer.”

“Can I change Justifier’s name to Justiciar?” Bob asked. “Justifier is hard to say.”

Armand shrugged.

“And Justiciar isn’t?” asked Norris, shaking his head.

“Hard for me to say,” amended Bob.

“Do you talk to yourself a lot?” asked Melvin. “Or about yourself, in the third person?”

“Justiciar does not have to answer that,” said Bob smugly.

Rory laughed. “I like you guys!” he said. “But why not just call yourself Justice?”

Armand commented. “There’s an old Marvel character that used the name. We try to avoid that.”

“What? They might sue?”

“With Disney owning Marvel, you never know,” said Hoot, smiling.

“Aesthetic integrity,” Melvin added.

“Yeah, it’s just better to have our own names,” said Bob and they all nodded.

Melvin pointed something out. “There was an old Centaur Comics character called Dreadnought back in the ’40s. He could turn himself into a pocket battleship.”

“Obscure characters from defunct companies in the Golden Age are fair game. Besides, I spelled it different,” said Armand.

“Especially stoopid characters,” said Bob. “What the heck is a pocket battleship?”

“Marvel and DC do it all the time. Daredevil, Ghost Rider, Amazing Man, Catman, Bullseye,” Norris added.

“Those last two are villains,” Hoot pointed out.

“Phllbbtt,” Norris counter-argued.

I couldn’t stop grinning. These were my people. I’m still a gamer nerd, I just smell better now, I thought.

We made short work of the nermal (non-super) bank robbers and Armand soon had us in the middle of another mission. We were all members of the Good Guys, an umbrella national organization of regional super teams, and C.O.S.H.R. wanted us to investigate a suspected super-villain secret base in the Malibu hills.

“Kosher?” asked Rory.

“Combined Office of Super Human Resources,” Armand explained to him. “It’s a DOJ/DHS project to keep track of supers.”

Rory grinned at me. “I love it! The bureaucrats found super-villains in Malibu!” he said, causing me to giggle. The rest of us had played in Armand’s Prometheus campaign before and already knew some of the inside jokes.

Hoot was our natural tactical leader, but he had to roleplay the savage Man-Tiger coming up with a plan that made sense. “Rrr!” he said around his imaginary fangs. “Sthince Dreadnaught can’t eashily be hurt, he shyould draw any fire while Shyadojak reconnoitersh.”

Bob and Norris wiped imaginary spittle off their faces.

“What do I do?” asked Rory.

I pointed to a line on his character card. “You’ve got a tunneling speed. You can travel through solid earth almost as fast as ordinary people can walk. And you can choose to leave an open tunnel behind you for us to follow. Tunneling into their base is sure to raise alarms.”

“Holy shit,” said Rory. “I’m awesome.”

I giggled and kissed him. “Your character is pretty hot, too,” I said.

Okay, that delayed the game for a minute until the guys stopped staring again, but Armand got us going by asking Norris, “Shadojak, what do you do?”

“I go invisible and search the Shadow Realm for some shadows inside their base I can teleport into. Since their lair is underground there should be plenty of convenient darkness.”

Armand shook his head. “You might think so, but efficient artificial light leaves fewer shadows than natural sources.” Nevertheless, a darkened storeroom provided Shadojak entry into the secret base and his thief skills and invisibility allowed him to do a quick and fairly safe scouting of the place.

He and Armand communicated by notes during this since the rest of us couldn’t know what was going on while we were following Dreadnaught through his tunnel. Armand had ruled it would take Dreadnaught twenty minutes to tunnel from out of sight of the base up to the underground walls.

***

“It’s bad,” Shadojak tells us when he catches up.
 
I’m busy using my winds to make sure we have breathable air in the tunnel. Dreadnaught makes all speed with his rock-moving power, about five feet a second after a buff from Daedalos. But that causes a lot of incidental dust that I channel into the forest outside so we don’t have a visible dust plume above the ridge. Freddy (DN’s real name) pauses while we take SJ’s report.
 
“How bad?” Daedalos asks. “Who are those guys and how many are they?”
 
“I spotted red glass pylons holding up the ceilings and bracing the walls.”
 
We all gasp. Well, I do.
 
Red glass meant the solid permanent forcefields of Dr. Bellerophon, a top-ranked super-villain gadgeteer and mastermind. Doc Bell was a nasty enemy to face, even in a group. He had powered armor made of his forcefields, and a force blade, named Bad Axe, that would cut through almost anything. Plus he was a psychiatrist in real life and adept at choosing loyal minions.
 
“He’s supposed to be dead!” Justiciar protests. “No one’s seen him in at least two years.”
 
“I didn’t see him, either,” says ‘Jak. “Just about forty minions wearing his double-bladed axe insignia. And all that red glass.”
 
“One good thing,” Justiciar notes. “Doc Bell seldom works with other supers—he doesn’t trust them.”
 
“Have we got five minutes for me to build a beam that will cut his force fields?” Daedalos starts pulling pieces of golden gear from his pockets and backpack.
 
Everyone looks at Dreadnaught. He nods. “At least, if I get back to tunneling. I can feel the emptiness in the stone ahead about 1800 feet. Call it six minutes, though they might hear me if I’m still going full speed just before I get there.” I beam at him, Freddy is good at this stuff.
 
“Where’s Khan?” ‘Jak asks, meaning Man-Tiger.
 
“Topside as lookout,” says Daedalos. “In the forest up there, he’s almost as invisible as you. And probably quieter.”
 
“I can whistle loud enough he’ll hear when we need him to lead the assault,” I say. “A long and two shorts, we set up a code.”
 
“Good,” says Daedalos, still choosing modules to build his gadget. “But ‘Jak, go topside and let him find you so you can fill him in that this is a Doc Bell minion base.” He grins. “Khan goes through minions like bad potato salad through an American Legion post on the Fifth of July.”
 
Freddy starts tunneling again and I go back into air conditioning mode. We all have something to do except Justiciar who stands there caressing the handle of his hammer. Daedalos had built it for him and it was designed to channel Justiciar’s mystic forces. “Bad Axe versus the Hammer of Justice,” he mutters. “We’ll have to see how that comes out.”
 
I hoped Dr. Bellerophon wasn’t home. We could clean out forty or a hundred minions before they knew what hit them. But if any of our team have to face Doc Bell alone…. I swallow hard. Heroes can die, Freddy and I knew; we had already lost one partner in the Fimbulwetter War.

Kissy is trapped by Dr. Bellerophon!

I was thinking of poor Doc Spectrum, who wasn’t really dead, just turned into a mermaid by the underwater despot called Damian and inducted into his Lemurian harem. But Angel didn’t know that, so in character, I could grieve. But then Hoot came back from the bathroom, still zipping up his pants. “Did I miss anything?” he asked.

“Dood!” said Bob, indicating me with his head motion.

“Oop!” Hoot spun around, his back to the gaming group while he finished his task.

I turned my face away, catching Armand grinning and shaking his head. “I hope you missed the floor, dood,” said our gamemaster.

“Huh?” several of the guys looked mystified, and I had to stifle giggles.

Hoot sat back at the table, and Norris, as Shadojak, told Man-Tiger all about Doc Bell’s base and his minions.

Rory stood. “Tunneling is thirsty work. I’m going to get a soda. You want anything, Jelly?”

“Jelly?” I said.

“You call Dreadnaught, ‘Freddy,’ I call Phantom Angel, ‘Jelly,’” he explained, which got laughter and thumbs up from the other guys. “You want anything?”

“Oh, the Dews won’t be cold yet. Can I just have a sip of whatever you have?” I asked.

“Sure, Babe,” he said. Then to the table, “Princess has an 11 p.m. curfew guys, how long is this likely to go?”

I blushed. Melvin mouthed ‘princess?’ at me, and Norris commented out loud, “Davey never had a curfew.”

“No Davey here,” Rory pointed out. “And Kissy already got in trouble for staying out too late last night.”

“That sucks,” said Bob. “I mean, it sucks you’ve got a curfew, I mean, just—.” He threw up his hands. “You know what I mean.”

I giggled and nodded. “I know what you mean. I’m on restriction until I’m eighteen ‘cause I didn’t let Mom know where I was.” I explained.

Hoot looked astonished. “Until you’re eighteen? That—that’s harsh.”

Melvin laughed. “Da—K—Kissy’s birthday is the middle of next month. The fourteenth?”

Armand and Rory, who had just sat back down with his soda, both said at the same time, “The seventeenth.”

They both remembered my birthday? But talking about it reminded me, and I took out my phone to text Mom and tell her I was still at the game. She texted back, “Come home at eleven, something to show you.” Mom always puts periods at the end of her texts. It looks rude. I sent a “k” back.

Norris slapped Melvin on the shoulder. “The fourteenth is Bastille Day, doof.”

“It’s what?”

I took a sip of Coke when Rory offered it. “Thank you,” I told him.

“More?” he asked, but I shook my head.

Armand looked at something on his tablet, maybe the time, because he announced, “It’s nine-fifteen. I can finish this encounter in an hour and a half, Cinderella and her prince can leave, and I can torture the rest of you heroes all night.” He added a villain laugh and quirked a Spock eyebrow at me.

I can’t do that, so I lifted one eyebrow manually with a fingertip and winked with the other eye. Armand grinned at me and winked back.

The guys began arguing about whether a Bastille was a prison or one of the carts the prisoners rode to the guillotine. Rory insisted it was a pile of severed heads but with a twinkle in his eye.

“It’s a prison,” said Armand. “Back to the game. Fred is ready to break through into the base—anyone got anything else?”

Melvin announced Daedalos had finished building the glass cutter beam into his wand and had a party buff ready. He mimed punching a button on the golden rod. “Let’s do the Time Warp again,” he sang. “Now, you’re all a quarter second into the future. It gives you a bonus to your dodge and to your attack against anyone trying to dodge.”

“That’s cool,” said Rory. “But I think my dodge sucks so bad that even with a plus one, it ain’t worth it.”

I looked at his sheet. ‘You’re right. You’re getting the hang of this, huh? But it will make your enemies easier to hit with your DoA, so you get some benefit.”

Rory waggled both eyebrows at me, and I giggled.

Armand said, “Dreadnaught breaks through. The minions are not completely surprised, so four of them are able to open fire before any of you can react.”

“Can I get a stone wall to come up and block their fire—I was already using my power to move rocks?” Rory asked.

“You can try,” Armand offered. “IQ or less on a d20.”

Rory made the roll, canceling out the minions’ advantage, and the fight was on.

***

I use my wings to do a wind slam attack then go invisible to fly above them. ‘Jak teleports to the closet he’d used before to take a flanking position. Khan leaps into the middle of the crowd, roaring and slashing with his claws. Justiciar and Daedalos attack the nearest red glass pylon with hammer and beam. Things are too mixed for an area effect, so Freddy swings his rocky fists, and each punch takes out a minion.
 
Invisible as long as I don’t attack anyone, I decide to do my own scouting of the underground lair because the guys are certainly taking care of the minions, and so far, no one has needed any healing at all.
 
I dodge around several of the red glass support beams, wondering if there are so many because the underground space was just that poorly planned or if there might be another reason. I reach the end of the largest space, not having spotted anything too unusual.
 
All the minions I see are grabbing hand weapons and running toward the big fight, like minions do. Freddy, Khan or Justiciar could probably handle all of them, each by himself, and even Daedalos could hold his own in that kind of fight.
 
I turn around at the end and start back. It suddenly occurs to me that there seem to be even more red glass supports around me than before. In fact, up ahead of me, they look too close together for me to fly between without touching them with my wings. If so—how did I get in here?
 
“Air is invisible too, but we can feel it when it moves,” a voice says, and suddenly, there he is, stepping out of shadows, not by teleporting like Shadojak, but just using darkness to hide in. His red armor is black in places, helping to break up his outline. The haft of his double-bladed Bad Axe is longer than he is tall, and he’s almost as tall as Freddy.
 
I move to get away, but the pylons are closing in, and now they are crossing, linking to each other to make a network of bars—a cage. A nozzle appears on one pylon, and the area is sprayed with clinging red dust. I’m covered in it, and some of it gets into my eyes and nose and mouth. I try to scream but end up choking.
 
“There you are,” Dr. Bellerophon says with satisfaction. “One of the surviving Cometeers, aren’t you?” He looks around. “Which means your friend Barney Rubble is probably nearby.”
 
Having lost my invisibility, there’s no reason not to attack him, so I try to batter him with wind-slams and air-lances, but his armor value is even higher than Freddy’s. He leans into my wind attack, and red glass tentacles emerge from nearby pylons, groping toward me. They make a sizzling, crunching sound as the crystals grow and bend.
 
I change tactics, trying to use the edge of my wind-force to get under his armor and pry it off him, but there are no gaps. He seems to be made of red glass himself. Knowing this was likely to fail, I’ve already sent out a whistle for help—short-long repeated over and over.
 
It amuses Bellerophon. “Is that a scream, my dear? AAAAAA? How appropriate.”
 
Then suddenly, Doc Bell is fighting someone he can’t see because shadows have wrapped themselves around his head.
 
“‘Jak!” I can see him dimly, striking from the same darkness Bellerophon had been hiding in. But ‘Jak’s shadowy weapons can’t penetrate the red glass armor any more than mine could.
 
Swinging wildly, by chance the flat of Bellerophon’s Bad Axe connects with the side of Shadojak’s head and down goes the Dark Defender, unconscious. The shadows blinding Doc Bell evaporate, too. He snarls and moves to raise his blade above ‘Jak’s helpless body.
 
But the distraction has kept the red tentacles from immobilizing me. They have my arms and legs in rope-like tangles, but my wings are too strong and agile. I still have my powers over the wind. I can see Bellerophon, despite the grip of the red glass holding me upside down. I move the source of my whistles to either side of the villain’s head.
 
Short-long blasts, a little like Euro-sirens, directly into his ears!
 
And here they come!
 
I hear Justiciar giving our battle cry, “We’re the Good Guys!” and I see them charging to my rescue. Freddy has wrapped himself so deeply in rocky armor that he stands most of nine feet tall with a stride to match. He roars like an avalanche. Daedalos is waving his wand and traveling on what appear to be jet-powered roller blades. Khan fights a rear-guard action against more minions.
 
And they’re here!
 
The beam from the wand cuts only red glass, so I am in no danger of being sliced as Daedalos disposes of the tentacles holding me.
 
Freddy stands toe to toe with Doc Bell, trading blows but neither able to do much damage to the other. Bell’s red glass is too hard for mere rock to penetrate, and Dreadnaught’s rubble-like armor is too deep, and self-sealing, for the axe to reach Freddy’s own flesh.
 
Justiciar arrives to try his hammer against Bad Axe, and Daedalos readies his beam. I’m still blasting sirens in Bell’s ears, but I pause for a moment as Justiciar screams a challenge, “Yield to Justice, villain!”

***

“Okay,” Armand said. “He gives up. You got him.”

“Ah,” Bob complained. “I don’t get to smite him?”

Rory, already standing in excitement, grabbed me right off my stool and planted a kiss on my lips. “That was intense!” he said, almost shouting.

I’m laughing as I hug him, and everyone else is laughing, too.

Well, Armand is only smiling. He seldom laughs out loud. But he’s smiling right at me, and he gives me another Spock eyebrow.

I just nod, smiling back.

Kissy and Rory flirt with the gods of curfew.

We left about ten-thirty, me wearing Rory’s baseball shirt just draped across my shoulders this time. “Some great guys,” he remarked. “Dweebs but a lot of fun in their own context. I see why you like playing those games.”

I giggled at that. The dweeb remark didn’t even sting because I’m not a dweeb now. I’m a gamer grrl, and we’re rare like unicorns. I giggled again when Rory helped me into the passenger seat.

“I’m not even tickling you,” Rory said, kissing me on the nose.

“Hey!” I didn’t let go of him. “Proper kiss?”

I got one, then he buckled my seat belt for me, cause I couldn’t find the loose end, before closing my door and racing around to his side.

“You want to ask your mom for a curfew extension?” he suggested as he climbed inside.

I shook my head, “She already texted me to be home at eleven to see something. I’m half afraid she and Marjorie have cooked up a surprise together.”

He sat there nodding, apparently thinking about something. Then he started the truck up with the usual roar. “Those two together are kinda scary,” he remarked.

“Mom’s not scary,” I scoffed. “Unless you leave the milk out on the counter, or worse, the mayonnaise.”

He laughed.

A moon showed above where the sun had gone down, just about the thinnest crescent moon you ever saw. It looked enormous and made me think of a katana blade, slicing the sky. No stars—the city lights washed them all out but that white-gold bright spot above the moon might be Venus. Mercury? I didn’t know.

Neither of us said anything as Rory navigated toward Hollywood Avenue. He glanced at me a couple of times with an odd look on his face.

The second time, I asked. “What?”

He grinned. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes, we could find some place and neck.” But he shook his head. “Too much hassle, we’d have to unbuckle and climb into the back seat or something. If this was my granddad’s old Chevy with a bench seat in front, you’d already be over here next to me.” He sighed. “Fucking progress.”

He didn’t use that word often, so I didn’t say anything about it, but there was some sort of message he was sending.

I made a face and came right out and asked him. “Are you trying to get into my pants?” I didn’t mean to sound so hurt and shaky.

He slowed down to let a light turn red in front of him, then looked over at me when we stopped. “I could have done that last night, Kissy. You wouldn’t have objected but I asked and you said no.” He put out his hand and I put mine in it.

“We may get there eventually,” he said. “No rush. But I like kissing you and cuddling and—” he lifted my hand and kissed it—“you’re fun to be with. Who else would introduce me to gaming with those scruffy nerf herders?”

We both laughed softly and I squeezed two of his fingers, all I could get my hand around.

We got moving again. On a Friday night, Hollywood Boulevard could be busy but we drifted through a sleepy-feeling city, or maybe it was just me. It had been a full and exciting day. I covered my mouth as I yawned.

A few blocks from Mom’s condo, Rory made another comment that caused me to wake right up. “It’s not like I don’t know what’s in your pants,” he said.

“What—what’s that mean?” I asked, shaky and unsure all over again.

He shook his head. “I’m an idiot, that’s what it means. I meant that to be funny, but it’s not.” He looked at me. “I’m sorry, Kissy. What I guess I’m trying to say is that the difference of what’s in your pants from other girls is a small part of your attraction for me.” He held his hand up, finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Only a very small part.”

“Well,” I said. “Well, it’s not that tiny.”

He took a beat to stare at me then busted up laughing.

I smiled. It had a sour edge but I was smiling, wasn’t I? “You’re such an ass, Rory.” I told him.

He agreed. “Oh, no doubt, no doubt. All my girlfriends tell me that.” He laughed some more while he negotiated the sleeping policeman guarding the turn onto Vermont.

We pulled up onto the apron of driveway in front of Mom’s condo. Marjorie’s car was gone, one relief. Rory put the brake on and turned the engine off and we just sat there a moment. I still felt a little miffed at him and I wasn’t going to be the one to speak first.

“Pick you up at noon tomorrow?” he finally asked. “We can get lunch on the way.”

“I guess so,” I said, pouting at him.

He sat there in the darkened cab, only a few dash-lights and the one above the carport showing his face. He grinned so slowly that I had to look away to keep from smiling. “Better wear some pretty good cover-up if you’re going to be outside all afternoon,” he warned.

Actually a good reminder. “Uh, yeah. What’s the weather going to be like?”

He started getting out of the truck. “Supposed to be hot and sunny, wear a hat.”

Well, I had several to choose from now, but Marjorie hadn’t really bought me anything that could be a cover-up. I looked at my hands—heck, I probably needed gloves but not those stupid yardwork ones.

Rory opened the door on my side and I tried to undo my seatbelt but it was stuck. “Ow,” I said, “it bit me!”

Rory examined my hand. “You broke a nail.” He kissed the finger and I giggled—it felt better already. He easily undid the seat belt latch and scooped me out of my seat. He kissed me twice before putting me down.

I still had his baseball shirt over my dress but it wasn’t as cold here as it had been at Armand’s. Lots more buildings blocking the wind. “Your shirt,” I said.

He reached into the cab, almost over my head and pulled something out. “Your purse,” he said.

“Oh! I guess I’m still not used to carrying one.”

“Nah,” he said. “You’re a bit dingy is all. And short.” He bent to kiss me again. “Why don’t you get yourself some six-inch heels?”

“Because I would fall off them and break my neck,” I said. “And what do you mean, dingy? I’m not dingy.” I kissed back.

“A dinghy is a small boat, and you’re not very big.” He kissed me on my forehead.

“Talk sense,” I told him. I kissed him on the neck, contemplating giving him a hickey like he’d given me behind my ear. “Rrr,” I growled.

“All redheads are dingy,” he said, laughing. “Don’t you watch television?”

“That’s blondes,” I said. “Redheads have bad tempers.” I growled again, trying to get a good mouthful of flesh I could leave a mark on but he was so tall and I was already on tiptoe.

“I’m a blond,” he pointed out. “And I’m not dingy, I’m more—clueless?”

That made me laugh. He bent down and we traded more kisses.

“Platform shoes,” he said, just as we heard Mom opening the door of the apartment.

We didn’t spring apart, we were on the other side of the truck and she wouldn’t be able to see us, even after she got the door fully open, but we did start around the front. “Hi, Mom,” I called out. “We’re in time, aren’t we?”

She waited for us by the door. “A curfew does not mean the driveway is a good place to neck. It means getting in your door on time. If I left you out here, two more minutes, I’d have to ground you twice.”

Okay, that didn’t sound like she was angry, just twitting us.

“Sorry, Ms Parker,” Rory apologized. “We were discussing tomorrow’s plans.”

“Uh-huh,” Mom said grinning. When Rory got into better light, I saw what had her amused. Apparently, I had marked him with a faint purplish love bite under his chin.

“I should give you your shirt back,” I said, trying not to stare at the first hickey I had ever given anyone.

“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s yours. It’s last years home jersey, I brought it just to give it to you so you can wear it at the game and the guys will know you’re with me.”

“Huh?” I said.

“It’s got my name and number on it.”

“Oh, yeah.” I had noticed that. I could feel a blush beginning, so I tried to think of something to say to distract myself from thinking to hard about wearing Rory’s name.

But before I could ask him if there really were 53 players on his team, Mom offered, “Do you want to come in, Mr Beeson?”

“Uh, no,” he said. “I really ought to be going, I’m not staying with my folks, so I have to drive back to Torrance, tonight.” He opened the driver’s side door but I got another kiss in before he climbed up out of reach. “Good night,” he called as he started it up and backed down the driveway.

Mom and I watched him till he went out of sight around the buildings. Then we burst into giggles. “He’s not going to see that until he’s shaving tomorrow,” Mom commented.

“I know, huh?” I said. I pointed at our building’s dumpster, visibly full of Amazon-labeled pasteboard. “More boxes came?”

“Uh-huh.”

I followed Mom inside, asking, “Marjorie went home?”

“Oh, yeah, but only just.” Mom headed toward the hallway. “Come see what we’ve done with your room.”

Oh, boy,” I said. “Am I going to like it?”

“I think you’re going to love it, sweetie,” Mom said.

Kissy explores her new bedroom. Sweet!.

I stopped at the door to my room and took in the changes. No, they hadn’t had time to repaint it but my walls had always been a neutral shade of off-white. But they had removed some of my posters and added several carved and painted, woven bamboo screens, flat pieces of colorful art that made the room look completely different.

One of the larger screens showed a red-haired princess, complete with gown and tiara, in an open carriage being pulled by a unicorn. In the background, a castle sat on a hill above a lake or sea. Two other smaller screens showed the same girl with the thigh-length red locks looking at the sea over a castle wall, or combing the unicorn’s mane in a wooded glade. The other new art mostly showed nature scenes that seemed to match the world of the lake and wood.

I know I gasped and may have squealed. “Where did she get all these pieces? And in only a few hours?” We both knew I meant Marjorie.

“From an installation in Hollywood. She knows the artists. Each of these is handmade but it’s kind of an assembly line with student interns doing most of the work.”

I stepped up close to the—paintings? The screens had a mesh of about a half-inch between the wider, flatter, horizontal strips and an inch or more between the narrow vertical ones. Except some places, they had been carved away to show the neutral wall color behind, or the opening filled with a more solid piece of bamboo. Thankfully, the face of the princess did not look like me, but was more anime-cute, like Disney’s Ariel.

Still, I stammered, “I—she—but! This must have cost thousands! I can’t accept this from her!”

“You don’t have to, I did,” Mom said. “So I get to keep it when my princess moves out. You like it?”

Okay, I saw her grin. I nodded. “You were right, I love it.”

The rest of the changes in the room were less extreme. New bedding in girlier colors. Lamps that surrounded the mirror on my dresser. A trifold standing mirror six feet tall that I realized must have been in that longest Amazon box. And all the clothes and other items had been put away and the empty boxes removed.

I opened the closet to check, and just as I expected, all of my male clothes had disappeared. I felt an odd charge at having this confirmed, as if, since I’ll have no choice but to dress in the feminine clothes Marjorie has provided, it’s not my fault. And yet, I know that if I insisted that Mom help me restore my wardrobe, she would do it—just like I know she’s watching me to see how I react.

I take a look at what is there, the dresses that I had seen before, gifts from Marjorie, but there are new items, too. Two in particular catch my eye. One is a sleeveless, strapless mini made of faded-blue stretch denim, and I’d bet that somewhere in my new stuff would be the bra I would need to wear with it.

The other was a poofy beach dress of white and yellow fabric with gold threads running through it. Contrasting with the skimpy denim mini, the beach dress had an ankle-length skirt, long sleeves, and even a built-in hoodie. The sleeves in particular had a feature I had never seen, a variable length controlled by an adjustable strap on the arm. The missing cover-up I would need tomorrow; Marjie had bought one for me after all.

There were two new pairs of shoes too. One was a pair of suede sneaker boots that appeared to have a hidden high heel and the other was a pair of sandals with a platform heel totaling about five inches. This last made me suspicious, “Has Marjorie some way of listening in when she isn’t around?” I asked Mom. “Shoes like these came up in talking tonight and here they are.”

“Honey,” said Mom. “You’re dating a guy who’s a foot taller than you. High heels of various types occurred to both Marjorie and me. Though the idea of high heel sneaker boots caught me by surprise.”

“Okay,” I said. But I still wouldn’t put it past Marjorie to have bugged me somehow. In more than one way. I checked the drawers of my dresser, too, and discovered more of my Davey things had disappeared, replaced with Kissy appropriate items, like bras, panties, and other things I didn’t quite recognize.

I yawned. “It’s all very nice, Mom,” I said, “but a little overwhelming.”

She nodded. “Marjorie is a bit like a force of nature. I did rein her in a little but it was hard to do.”

“I’m surprised that the two of you got along so well.”

“Well, we didn’t all the time,” Mom explained. “But when I made her understand that helping you be yourself was really what we both wanted, things went more smoothly. Oh, she wanted to put her bid in for a date with you Sunday afternoon, to get another makeover, I think.”

“Mmph-mm,” I said. “I’ll think about it.” Another yawn caught me by surprise.

“You’d better get to bed, sweetie,” Mom warned me. “Don’t forget to take off your makeup. Marjorie left you some new cleaning supplies in the bathroom.”

“Nuh?” I said sleepily.

Laughing a bit, Mom helped me wash my face and get undressed. “Do you want to take your corset off? Or just loosen it up a bit?”

Odd as it sounds, I’d forgotten completely about having the thing on. “I can sleep in it?”

“If it fits well,” Mom said. “I’ve done it often enough—saves time getting ready in the morning.”

I must have agreed because Mom loosed the laces, allowing me to expand an inch or two. After choosing a flowered nightgown from three Marjorie had left for me, I crawled in between my new pink sheets under my embroidered coverlet and was soon asleep.

*

I know I had several dreams that night, in some of which I participated in my own life all over again but this time as Kissy. Some things came out much different. Instead of a bit part in the senior class play, I had the lead role in a musical apparently based on the life of Amelia Earhart. I have no idea where that came from.

And especially not the next dream that made even less sense.

* * *

I sat at a old-fashion desk, doing my own nails, in a sleazy little office. I wore an emerald green dress, very form-fitting, with a bit of flounce at the hem and a fake skirt just at my hips. The kind of dress you might see in a movie about the forties or fifties. I knew I looked good in it, too.

The monstrous phone sitting on the desk rang, a horrible noise like strangling a herd of musical cats. I said a bad word. No, not that one—the other one. I put the cap back on the polish so it wouldn’t dry out then carefully picked the phone up. Not the whole thing, just the bone-shaped part you listen and talk to. I had to be careful because my long nails weren’t dry and they were a beautiful shade of true red. It would be a shame to mess them up.

“Valentine Detective Agency,” I said into the phone, smiling because people can hear a smile. “How may I help you?” I waved my other had around in the air to dry my nails faster.

“Hey, doll,” said Detective Sergeant Rory Beeson. “I wanna buy you a steak dinner.”

I giggled. “That would be nice,” I said. “But you wanna talk to Sam right now?”

“You got it, doll. If I can talk to Sam now, we’ll be eatin’ filet at Morton’s Friday night.”

I almost strangled on another giggle. Morton’s is expensive. “We’re both in luck,” I said. “Sam just walked in.”

Marjorie stood just inside the room, looking pained that I had told someone she was there. She wore a tailored suit, pin-striped pants and jacket, cut to fit her female shape with a cute Trilby hat on top of her blond hair. She mouthed, “Beeson?” at me and I nodded. Rolling her eyes, she came to the desk and took the phone, heisting her round butt onto my desk. “Yeah?” She said with that cautious insolence that private eyes learn to use when dealing with the cops.

I noticed that her nails, cut shorter than mine, had that elegant French style with the white tips. It looked lovely, but Sam prefers mine long and red and sharp. I waved them at her, still trying to get them dry, and she gave me a thumbs up. Then she put a fingernail to her lips and pointed at me. I took her meaning and got out my compact mirror to apply lipstick while she watched. The color gleamed crimson, Sam’s favorite color.

“You still tryna seduce my receptionist, sarge?” Sam asked the phone. “Yeah?” She looked at me and winked. “A steak dinner at Morton’s just might do it.”

I turned as red as my hair. I looked down so Sam couldn’t see my smile. They talked business about the Gower case but I had gotten distracted by my own cleavage. When had I grown breasts as big as my mother’s? From my angle, I could see bits of the lace of my bra. I needed to put some powder on my girls, I decided, my freckles there were a bit too evident. Sam had gotten me the perfect powder for the job, it would soften the outline of my spots but not change their butterscotch color.

*

The scene dissolved into a restaurant. The maitre d’ held a chair out for me and I murmured my thanks as Sergeant Beeson seated his long, lean body opposite. I wore a clingy silk dress in a shade of blue like the sky after a spring rain. I didn’t look at the menu, but Rory asked if I wanted my steak rare and I agreed. He was wearing the sort of suit he couldn’t possibly afford on a police detective salary but he looked very handsome in it.

*

The scenery changed again, a hotel lobby. Rory was getting us a room. I must have been standing in a draft because I shivered in my silk dress. Sam came up behind me and put a fur stole over my shoulders. She kissed me on the neck and whispered in my ear. “Remember, darling, if he does anything you don’t like—I’ll kill him.”

* * *

I woke up briefly in the night, chilled a bit by the dream but I soon drifted off again and dreamed of being a cartoon chipmunk. That’s much more my speed.

Kissy has a new nickname.

Mom let me sleep until eight a.m., and I woke up certain that I’d had significant dreams but unable to remember them.

At the door, Mom called to me again. “Are you awake?”

“Sure, why not?” I called back.

Mom laughed. “Egg on toast in ten minutes—bacon or sausage?”

“Bluh,” I said. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” she said and moved away.

I’d slept very well, and only as I started to turn over to get out of bed did I remember that I still had my corset on—also, my flowered nightgown with the bits of lace at neck and sleeves and hem. I stretched and wiggled as much as I could, marveling that the corset didn’t restrict my movement more than it did and that I still felt comfortable wearing it.

I had a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, and in the bathroom, I felt the urge to spit up something. Not really sick at my stomach, but not pleasant either. Afterward, I brushed my teeth and rinsed with mouthwash, which I’d already done the night before, but the taste in my mouth was awful.

I found Mom pouring juice into a glass in the dining corner. “None of that for me,” I said, feeling like if I drank anything as sour as orange juice, I’d end up spewing it out.

“Do you want coffee?” she asked.

“Uh, no,” that sounded worse. I’d never gotten used to the stuff myself. “Just—water, I guess.”

She poured me a glass from the decanter in the refrigerator door, then we traded hugs, and she poured coffee for herself.

“Do you want to tighten your laces before you eat? I always did,” she suggested.

I smiled. “An encouragement to dieting, huh?” She handed me the measuring tape, and I checked first with the corset just snug the way it had been while I slept. “Twenty-seven, barely,” I said. “Already smaller than I started with yesterday.”

Mom nodded. “You’re likely to lose some real inches there with the hormones, but that probably hasn’t happened yet.”

I turned around to let her pull them tight. While she pulled and tugged the laces tighter than they had ever been, I took as deep a breath as I could and let it all out. “Let’s see how tight we can go. That denim dress Marjorie bought me is a size 2.”

I felt my stomach being compressed and looked at the tape. I got short of breath before I told her to stop, and she backed off a bit. I read the tape. “Twenty-four and three-quarters. Will that be enough?”

“It should be,” Mom said, tying a knot and tucking the laces into the top of the corset. “The denim is a bit stretchy. Can you breathe okay?”

“Sure,” I said, demonstrating. “It feels quite comfortable, really.” I sat down, though. It was kind of strenuous, getting squeezed like that.

“I left you enough room for some breakfast,” Mom joked.

“Uh, no,” I said. Just thinking of eating brought back the memory of the sour taste I’d woken up with. “Maybe just—half a banana?” I didn’t really want more.

She had a slice of buttered toast, topped with soft-scrambled egg, a rasher of bacon and the other half of my banana. I couldn’t watch her eat it.

She noticed me turning my head away. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I’d say you were having a bit of morning sickness. But I do know you’re still a virgin.”

I made a noise.

“You are still a virgin, aren’t you?”

“Mom!”

She laughed. “Tell me you are.”

“I am! Jeez!” We both laughed.

Then we sat for a bit, just enjoying the morning while Mom sipped her coffee. She took my hand to look at my torn nail. “How did you do this, princess?”

I know I blushed for her to call me that, but I kind of liked it. “Uh—the seatbelt doohickey bit me.”

She grinned. “Well, we’ll get it fixed this morning. Have you decided what you’re going to wear?”

“I wondered, could I wear the white cover-up over the denim dress? Then, if we go out somewhere after the game, I can just take the cover-up off and—why are you laughing?”

Mom suppressed her chuckles enough to tell me about a similar situation she had contrived for herself in high school. “But then I had to explain to my mother how it happened that I had left my blue dress in my boyfriend’s car. At least, you’re telling me about it beforehand.”

I giggled. “Well, I’m not going to be changing clothes in the back of a Mercury, whatever that is. I’m just going to remove an outer layer, and I’ll probably do it in a bathroom or somewhere.”

“Mm-hm,” Mom agreed. “But you’ve got no more sense than I did at your age. Knowing that I was going to be changing clothes in his car, Joel could think of nothing else the whole evening.”

“Joel?” I asked giggling.

Mom shrugged. “This was high school before I met your father. But Joel was a lot like Rory, a big jock-type.”

We both laughed. “I’ll just not tell Rory until the appropriate time,” I said.

“Yeah, right.” Mom shook her head. “Tell me you don’t want him speculating about what you have on under that cover-up?”

Well, when she put it that way….

“Tell you what, princess,” Mom said. “Go get dressed with your layers, and you can see how it works this morning before trying it out later, hmm?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

In my room, the first order of business was to find the right bra to wear with a dress that did not cover the arms or shoulders. And sure enough, Marjorie had included just such an item—a bra that could be worn in several different configurations, according to the illustration on the package. And one way was strapless.

I had not only worn my corset to bed, I’d worn my bra, too, because I didn’t want to remove my breast forms. I carefully took off the standard-type bra, and the forms stayed in place, held by their adhesive. In a few months, perhaps longer, I would have my own breasts and not have to deal with such artificial aids. My nipples were very sensitive already. I put the new bra on in the strapless configuration, and after adjustments, it even showed cleavage, squeezed together from the loose flesh on my chest.

I slipped into another pair of my padded panties, something else I hoped to be able to do without soon. Then the denim dress which fit me like a glove, clinging to every curve, natural or otherwise. A stay-up rib at the top kept it from pulling down easily but let my tiny amount of cleavage show. And the faded color even had a pattern to it that emphasized my shape. A size 2, and with the corset, it fit perfectly.

I posed in front of the trifold mirror. “Wow.” Did I want to go out in public looking like that? I turned to get several different views. Um, yeah, I did. I grinned at my reflection. Rory would love it.

One thing though, did I need hose with this outfit? I reasoned that if I did, Marjorie would have included something perfect for the purpose. Instead of pantyhose, I found a pair of thigh-high sheer white stockings with lacy stay-up tops and tiny black bows. I put those on, too. Maybe no one would ever see those bows, but they made me feel very sexy.

Shoes. I tried on the platform sandals. They looked perfect, and the solidity of the heel made them easy to walk in. The hose were open-toed, and my painted nails showed below them—I’d still have to be careful not to get runs in them. I decided to go show Mom.

Mom called me into her bedroom where she was getting dressed, too. At first, I was startled to see her in her underwear, then startled again for another reason. “Mom, you’re wearing a corset, too?”

She shrugged. “I do now and then. And I’m not going to be your fat old mother, princess.” I noticed that hers laced up in front, unlike mine that had only back laces. Mom had an independent streak as wide as Wilshire, while I kind of liked the idea of my laces being hard for me to reach.

She went on, “You look nice. It’s not going to be super hot today, so you should be able to get away with wearing the cover-up over all that.” She pulled a shimmering green dress over her head and shimmied it down around her hips. “Just be sure to have the water bottle handy to spray that tomcat of yours with when he sees you in that.”

I giggled. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I tried to get serious. “Uh—Mom?”

She sat down at her vanity and brushed out her hair, quirking an eyebrow at me.

“If—if—he—I,” I stammered.

“If something happens with you and Rory, will I be mad?” She asked.

“Um—yeah?”

Brush, brush—her hair reached only a little past her shoulders, but it would be more than a year before mine would be that long, I knew. I felt a pang of jealousy. Abruptly quashed by her answer. “Of course not, princess. Doesn’t mean you won’t face the consequences of not showing good sense.”

“Uh—?”

“You’re not going to come home knocked up, of course,” she said. “But as long as you’re living in my house, you’ll follow my rules. No sex while you’re on restriction. After you turn eighteen, we’ll discuss changes in those rules.”

I blinked.

“Clear on that?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said quickly. “And that’s fair, I think.” I discovered that I did think it was fair and probably wise, too. I was brand new at even having a serious opportunity to have sex. Best take that step cautiously.

“Now, go get that cover-up on, princess, so we can get out of here. We’ll go to my salon, and you can get that nail fixed and maybe do something with your hair.”

“My hair?” I put a hand to my head. It was short and shaggy, and I didn’t know what could be done with it. But I had another question. “Why do you keep calling me ‘princess,’ Mom?”

“Four reasons,” she said, beginning to apply her makeup. “That would be your father’s job, but he isn’t here, so I have to do it.” I giggled at that. “Two, your girlfriend and I have agreed to conspire to spoil you terribly, and I want to be sure you know it.” Another giggle and a bit of a startled one. “And three, it’s not something I could have called you before now, is it?”

“Uh—no,” I admitted. Though back in middle school, some bullies did call me Princess Deedee, but they had insulting nicknames for everyone.

She quirked an eyebrow at me again. “I notice you’re not objecting to any of my reasons. Are you?”

I shook my head, clamping my lips on another giggle.

“Go, then,” she said. “Finish getting ready. I’ll come in and help with your makeup, your highness.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I grinned at her before dashing off. “I’m looking forward to being totally spoiled!” I called back.

Kissy visits the salon and Rory meets a Princess.

The soft, light-weight fabric of the coverup dress supposedly stopped 98% of burning rays, equivalent to an SPF 50. As a redhead, I could appreciate that. The dress was a size 4 and fit snugly over my denim mini-dress. A bit of corded lace at the waist could be pulled tight and tied off to serve as a belt. The skirt fell so long that it covered my toes and without the platform heels would have touched the ground.

The sleeves could be shortened to wrist-length or shorter by pulling tapes on the upper arms because at full length, they would hang past my finger tips by several inches. And the built-in hoodie could be pulled down over the face where a screen panel could be left open to see through. Talk about full cover-up—I wondered if it had been designed in Dubai! But it suited me, too, and just for fun, I did the full cover-up, head and hands, just to see how it looked.

Mom came in while I was examining the look in the mirror and had a good laugh. “You could send someone else on your date, and Rory would never know,” she joked. “Now come out of there and I’ll give you another makeup lesson.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling the tapes on the arms and throwing the headpiece back which left most of my neck, shoulders and forearms bare. “I’m going to wear it like this with one of my big hats.”

“Mmm, hmm,” she said. “Let’s do an afternoon look for you but with a little more drama and I’ll show you how to change it for an evening look, too.” With instruction and practice, that took most of an hour but we made it to the salon by 10:30, enough time to get nails done and get back for Rory to pick me up at noon.

Mom introduced me to the girls in the shop. “Hi, Rhoda, this is my daughter, Princess.”

“Mom!” I protested.

Rhoda laughed. She was a short Asian lady, probably Vietnamese, “You don’t look such a tomboy you wanted to be called Davey, huh?” she asked.

Astonished, I turned to Mom again. “Mo-om!” I squealed. “Did you tell everyone about me?”

The other ladies in the salon laughed, too, including some of the customers. “No, dear, just—” she motioned vaguely, “—just you always tell your manicurist things you don’t tell anyone else.”

Confused—just when had she told them and what, exactly?—I looked back at Rhoda who winked at me. “So now you all girly-girl, huh? Princess! I think someone discover what boys are for, huh?” More general laughter and blushing by me.

“Such pretty dress, all white and yellow and gold. Sparkly. You look like pineapple sundae with cherry on top.”

I knew I was being teased, still it wasn’t as mean as it might sound, everyone was laughing but not at me. They wanted me to laugh too. “Ha, ha,” I said weakly. I needed to talk to Mom.

Rhoda directed me to a chair. “Let me see nail, you broke, good, huh?” She made a face. “It hurt?”

I nodded. “Well, not right now but when it happened.”

“How you want fixed?” she asked. “I take all nails off and redo and they match good, or I try to repair just one broken nail?”

“Uh—” An idea came to me from somewhere. “Could you take them all off, and make them longer, sharper and—and red?”

“Sure,” she said. “How long you want? We do nail, long as you want.” She started getting her tools ready.

“An inch long?” I asked.

“Inch!” she gestured, holding a finger out about an inch from the end of my finger. “That pretty long.”

“No,” I said, blushing again. “I meant, an inch total,” I said measuring from the base of my nail.

“Oh,” she said. “Still pretty long, you not gonna break it again, right away?”

“I—I’ll be more careful,” I said.

She laughed. “Okay, we start and I show you how long that is. You decide.” Pretty soon, she had the older French nails removed and glued new nail extensions on that were about two inches long. She cut the one on my index finger to one inch past the end of my finger to show me.

I was tempted but shook my head. “I know I’d break that again right away.”

She nodded. “You princess, but you need practice.” She laughed.

I shot a glare at Mom who shrugged. “Tell, you what, Princess. Get your nails however you like, at least half-an-inch, and as long as you don’t break one, you’re excused from housework. But if you do break one, you do all the work for a week.”

“I—huh?” Was this part of the plot to spoil me? I grinned. Shared housework wasn’t that onerous, but what the heck? “Okay,” I said. “Half-an-inch, Rhoda.”

She was grinning, too. “Okay, we do them ballerina-style then, less likely to break than all-pointy. You want pretty design painted on them?”

“Okay!” I’d seen nail art before and some of it was amazing.

While she worked, Mom and one of the other ladies in the shop tried various ‘falls’ to see if one matched my hair color. A fall, I found out, is like a partial wig and is used to make your hair thicker or to add a ponytail to a short hairstyle which was the idea with me. “I’m going to be wearing my hat,” I pointed out.

“During the day,” Mom agreed. “But if you go out in the evening, don’t wear one of those big hats to dinner or dancing.”

I giggled, thinking that a big hat was how I got into this whole being a girl thing.

They found a fall, a tiny bit more red than my own hair, and styled it into a thick low ponytail that hung to the middle of my back and could survive being under a hat for the afternoon. It looked terrific and I was pleased to have long hair, even if it wasn’t all mine. The crowning touch, literally, was that Mom went next door to a costume jewelry shop and came back with a sparkly tiara which was used to attach the fall.

“Now you look like a real princess,” Rhoda teased.

The design she painted on my nails was even more than amazing. Basically, yellow and white flowers with green stems, but on my right thumb a tiny multicolored butterfly and on my left thumb two even tinier yellow and brown honeybees. I got the giggles all the way home, just looking at them.

“Do you think you can keep from breaking them?” Mom asked.

“I think so. I’ll be extra careful because of the designs.”

“What do you think Marjorie is going to think? You got rid of the French nails she had done for you.”

“Well, I liked those but I think this is better.”

“Hmm, mmm,” said Mom, smiling.

“Now,” I said. “What’s this about you telling them my name is Princess.”

She laughed. “Well, in a way, it is. My side of the family is French-Canadian and while our name is Parker in English, that’s just a dit name.”

“Dee name?” I was more confused than before.

“Think French, d-i-t, meaning ‘said’. Our family name—my family name, your family name—in French is Dauphíne.” Pronounced doe-feen. “Which means dolphin and is the name of a place in France. The family just used Parker in English.”

“Uh—? How did that happen?”

“Never mind, how. It’s a Canadian thing. But Dauphíne is also the title of a princess, the one married to the crown prince. Of France. Who is called the Dauphin.” Pronounced doe-fong, more or less.

“That doesn’t explain anything, Mom,” I complained.

She sighed. ”Well, it’s one of your middle names. Or was, and will be. You were David Alex Dauphíne Parker Kissee. We haven’t decided yet what your new name is going to be.” She sighed. “A long time ago, I described you to Rhoda, including your whole name. And she speaks better French than I do. She recognized Dauphíne as the title of a princess….” She grinned. “And I guess I started talking to her about the daughter I didn’t know I had.”

I thought about that story for a bit. “I’ve been a princess all this time and I didn’t know it?” I said. “Mom, don’t quit your day job, you’ll never make it as a screenwriter.” We both laughed.

I shook my head. But I kind of liked the name Kissy Dauphíne Parker. Maybe add two more middle names….

We got home and had time for another makeup lesson, along with one on how to put on and take off the fall.

“So much to remember about being a girl,” I said, pretending to complain but Mom laughed at me.

“You know you love it,” she said. “Now, do you want me to snug up your corset again? Or loosen it? I can show you how to do that without getting undressed.”

“Really?” I asked. That might be something useful to know.

“You still have that crochet hook?”

I got the implement out of my purse, a green piece of aluminum rod about eight inches long. Mom adjusted my cover-up dress then worked the smooth hook down the middle of my back, into and under the denim dress layer.

She fished out the ends of the laces and remarked, “The cords have stretched a bit, I can tighten it up again—or?”

I took an experimental deep breath. “Okay,” I. said. “I like the feel when it is pretty tight.”

She nodded. “So do I. And I thought you would too.” She worked slowly and carefully, undoing the knots and pulling gently, taking several minutes to retrieve another inch or so of lace. I took a deep breath—as deep as I could, anyway—then let it all out, forcing as much air out as I could. Mom pulled the laces tight then backed off a bit before retying the knots.

I took a few experimental breaths. I wasn’t at all uncomfortable or short of breath and the constriction felt…hard to explain. Like being in a safe warm place? I liked it and I liked knowing how small it made my waist look.

“Marjorie wants to take you for some custom-fitted corsets tomorrow,” Mom said. “I’m sure they’ll be even more comfortable and—efficient.”

“How long can you wear a corset for?” I asked.

“The only reason you have to take one off is for a bath or if you get sick. As long as you’re not doing something to get hot and sweaty, and stay healthy….” She shrugged. “Three or four days at a time? I’ve worn one for as long as a week, bathing what I could reach without taking it off.”

“Okay.” I knew I would probably keep mine on until the next time I felt I needed a real bath. Which with a day in the outdoors planned, might be as early as tonight.

Rory arrived ten minutes before noon and I hid in my bedroom while Mom gave him the third degree. I picked out jewelry to wear, including the gaudier bangles and rings Marjorie had bought. They seemed to go with the tiara. Mom had got two more charms for my necklace when she got the tiara: a green-eyed golden dolphin and a red glass crown, and those went with the chipmunk.

Mom relented on torturing Rory and knocked on my door. “Are you ready, Kissy?” she asked.

We’d rehearsed this. “Almost,” I called back.

Mom slipped thought the door and grinned at me. “He’s done to a turn,” she said and we both giggled. Then she tied a green ribbon around my neck and let me go meet my date.

He looked amused until he got a good look at me. “Amazing dress, Kissy,” he said.

I pointed at my tiara, “Call me Princess,” I said.

Is this any way to treat a princess?

The big hat went on over my tiara completing my look with the loose coverup. “Now only people who know you will recognize you as a princess,” Mom joked.

That set me off into a fit of giggles. The idea of being a princess already had me so giggly that anything seemed funny, but going on a laughing jag while wearing a tight corset makes you dizzy. Which also seemed funny.

Rory didn’t help things by making faces at me when I would almost recover. “Stop that!” I protested.

He grinned at me. “No one will need to spend money on liquor for you, Kissy, just a few good knock-knock jokes and you’re done.”

Mom put in sternly, “No one better be planning on buying any liquor for her, she’s underage.”

“No problem, Ms Parker, so am I. I won’t be twenty-one until October.”

Neither of us mentioned the tiny bit of wine we had had at Rory’s cousin’s restaurant, but imagining Mom’s reaction to that set me off into more giggles. It wouldn’t be funny if it happened but thinking about it was so hilarious, I really thought I might pass out.

Mom swatted me on my padded butt to get my attention then put a paper bag over my head, after removing my hat. I kept going “Hee, hee, hee?” but it did seem to help after a bit.

“Do I need to take a supply of paper bags?” Rory suggested with a grin.

I made a choking sound but Mom said, “Go wait outside, you’re not helping, Mr Beeson.” And that almost set me off again.

“We need to fix your makeup,” Mom told me after Rory closed the door and she removed the bag.

“Hoo, boy,” I said. I felt happy and a bit silly but I could tell from inside that my face was a mess. Laughing like that is always going to squeeze out a few tears.

“It’s mostly the mascara, we need to see if we can get waterproof in that shade.”

“Uh, huh,” I said. “I really like the emerald green.”

Mom looked at me critically. “Let’s get you back to your dresser.” She took my hand like I was a little kid and led me back to my own room. This struck me as funny, too, and I had to suppress more giggles.

In front of the mirror with the big lights, Mom used makeup pads to remove some of the makeup and then carefully reapplied lower eyeliner and mascara. I watched what she did and wondered how soon I would get to be that quick and sure with the tools. I knew I couldn’t have done it just then.

She gave me a kiss on the cheek when she finished and said, “Now, behave cause if this happens again, you’ll likely have to take everything off and start over.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said then took her hand in both of mine and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

She led the way back to the front door, towing me like a barge. She put the hat back on my head, gave me another kiss on the cheek and opened the front door. “Mr Beeson?” she called while handing me my purse. “You’d better get going if you’re going to be in Newport by one. And take Gigglebox with you.”

Rory hopped down from the cab of his truck where he may have been listening to music and grinned at us.

Mom pushed me forward, whispering, “Watch yourself but have fun.”

“Kissy, you look great,” Rory commented. “Without the paperbag, I mean.”

“You’re still a doof, Mr Beeson,” I replied, pretending to scowl at him.

“Have her back by ten p.m.,” Mom ordered him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed leading me around to the passenger side. I could feel the heat of the sun on my face and hands and another kind of a heat from Rory. He opened the truck door and easily lifted me up to the elevated seat with his hands around my waist. I slid into the cushioned leather and tugged on my skirt to make sure it was all inside with me as he closed the door.

I felt light and happy, watching Rory race around to his side of the truck. Mom said something to him as he passed her and I saw him laugh. I waved at Mom as Rory climbed in then put my face up to be kissed once we were moving and around the corner.

“You haven’t fastened your seatbelt,” Rory chided when we stopped at the next intersection.

“Those things are vicious,” I complained, meaning the seatbelt fasteners. “I don’t want to break another nail.

He reached across to snap my belt closed. “Yes, princess,” he teased. “I’ll protect you from all sorts of vicious machinery, just make sure I don’t get a click-it-ticket.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll remind you. But Mom says if I keep my nails nice, I can skip some of the housework I usually do.”

He blinked then shook his head. “You really are a princess. I can’t imagine my mother making such a deal with me or my sisters.”

“Well,” I said, “if their nails are as bad as yours, I can see why.”

He laughed. “Are you hungry?”

I shook my head. “Not really, but stop and get something if you like.”

He made the turn to go through the line at the Fatburger where we had met on Thursday. He ordered himself a large burger combo and a strawberry shake besides, then gave me the shake when it came.

“This thing is huge,” I said. “I’ll never finish it.”

“Don’t worry, drink what you want and I’ll finish it off.” He headed toward the Santa Ana Freeway but stopped in another parking lot to eat, practically inhaling his food. And he happily took the rest of the shake when I gave up on it, less than one third of the way down.

Moving again, he took Hollywood over to the I5 and we headed toward Orange County. Saturday traffic was light and we were making good time. Once we got into the flow, I relaxed a bit. I don’t drive and driving on freeways scares me, so I don’t talk to the driver until it I think it’s safe. I don’t feel the same about surface streets, so go figure.

Anyway, once we’re up to speed on the freeway, I asked Rory, “What did Mom say to you just before you got in the truck that made you laugh?”

He laughed again. “You sure you want to know?”

“Now, I have to know,” I insisted.

“She told me to spank you if you got another giggle fit,” he said, glancing at me with a big grin.

I’m sure my mouth hung open for a moment because he laughed some more. “She did not!” I protested.

“She did,” he said. “I quote, ‘Give her a few swats on the butt if she can’t stop the giggles again—or if she gets out of line.’”

I know I turned as red as my hair. Mom had given my date permission to spank me if I got out of line? I didn’t say anything and Rory glanced at me again, looking amused.

I tried to process Mom saying such a thing. She had taken a swat at my padded butt earlier—and, that was it. She knew I was wearing padding and that probably Rory did not know. A spanking was not going to hurt—and—and what?

Well, it might be embarrassing but it—it sounded exciting in a distinctly odd way. I couldn’t possibly get any redder so Rory wouldn’t know, but I was embarrassing myself with my own thoughts. Did I want to get spanked? If it wouldn’t hurt, so it was kind of just play-acting? I resisted the urge to squirm.

I giggled. Rory quirked an eyebrow.

“What could I do that would be getting out of line?” I asked, trying to look innocent. That never worked on Mom but it seemed to have some effect on Rory.

“Oh, ho,” he said. “Um—let me think? Uh—doing something dangerous? Or trying to get me into trouble?”

“Poo,” I said. “I would never do something like that.”

He tried to grin sideways without taking his eyes off the road.

“Are you pitching today?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Uh, no, I pitched yesterday. Six innings and gave up only one run.” He looked pleased.

“So, where are you going to be playing, and uh, where do I sit?”

“Right field for me, unless they need me at third base. And you get to sit in the family and friends seats behind the visitors’ bench.”

I actually knew more about baseball than almost any other sport, so I knew that would be on the right hand side, behind first base. “We should be able to see each other pretty well, then.”

“Uh, huh,” he agreed. “And you’ll be easy to spot in that big hat with the white dress.”

I giggled. “Do any of the other players have their girlfriends at the game?”

“Yeah, some, some even have wives. This is a pretty young team, though, no one over twenty-two. Or they would already be in the minors.”

“Huh? This isn’t minor league ball?”

“No. This is a development league. The whole league is sponsored by colleges and the Major League organization…. It’s complicated. They’d have to pay us if we were in the minors.”

“You’re not getting paid?”

He shook his head. “Just a stipend for travel and food. I’m on scholarship and this is college work so it counts, and I get a bit of money for that, too. But NCAA rules say they can’t pay us to play.”

“That sucks,” I commented.

“Yeah, more for some of the guys than for me. I mean, my folks live right here, so I can go home or get money from them if I need it. They pay the insurance on my ride, too,” he tapped the steering wheel, “and that ain’t cheap.”

I nodded. “I bet.” I knew next to nothing about car expenses but Mom had commented more than once about how much she saved on insurance by not needing to have me listed as a driver of her car.

I changed direction again. “So, when you’re out in the field, there are still guys on your team on the visitor’s bench?”

“Yeah, we have like twenty-five players on the team, and only nine on the field. But it’s not like in the pros—in a development league, almost everyone gets to play every game, except guys who are just pitchers, maybe.”

“But you play in the field on days you don’t pitch?”

“Most of the time, sometimes not for the whole game. Like if someone else needs time in the field.” He thought about that for a moment. “It’s complicated,” he said again. “See, I might not make it in the pros as a pitcher so it’s good to have experience at other positions.”

“Oh.” Rory seemed so competent and confident that I was taken a bit back by the thought that he knew he might not make it to the next level of play. Him showing me a bit of vulnerability like that was sweet.

But I still wanted to deliver my zinger. “So,” I said, “any of the guys sitting on your bench as cute as you?”

He laughed. “Nope,” he said. “I’m easily the cutest.” Same old Rory, after all.

“Then,” I suppressed a giggle to keep on talking, “if I were to flirt with any of them while you were in the field, would that be getting out of line?”

Oh! Maybe I shouldn’t have said that part aloud.

Butterscotch
by Erin Halfelven
39. Gameday

“Do you want to get spanked?” Rory asked. He seemed amused.

“No, of course not,” I said quickly but I couldn’t help squirming a bit. Getting spanked wouldn’t hurt, with the padding I wore on my butt, still it could be embarrassing. “Certainly not if you were going to do it in public.” Oh! Maybe I shouldn’t have said that aloud.

“Ah,” he said, watching me from the corner of his eye. “Not too many private places at the ball park.”

“Hmph,” I said.

“Actually,” he said, “I think teasing me about flirting with other guys is already out of line, Princess.”

“Is not,” I countered.

“Better watch it, your heinie-ness.”

“Now that’s definitely out of line,” I protested.

He laughed and I made noises, trying not to giggle.

We teased and flirted the rest of the way to Newport Beach. My giggles were getting harder to control when we turned off the freeway and took a short drive into a bit of suburban wilderness ending in the parking lot of a huge sports complex. There were fields for baseball, softball, soccer and football stretching out all around us with courts for basketball, tennis, volleyball and badminton arranged neatly, closer to parking.

“Wow,” I said, impressed. I had somehow got the idea that the game would be played on a field borrowed from a high school or junior college or something. We went under a sign that read, “Orange County Championship Baseball Stadium,” and parked in a reserved area next to a door identified as “Visiting Team Lockers.”

I looked the building over while Rory ran around the truck to help me out. It was three stories tall with the top layer looking like broadcast booths and VIP boxes. Stadium-style seating ran down the field side of the building to just behind home plate and sideways out to first and third on each side.

There were guys out on the field already wearing baseball uniforms, white with blue trim and letters for the home team, the Newport Wave Riders, and gray with red trim and letters for the visiting Torrance Titans.

Rory just might be the cutest guy in sight but he definitely had competition. I giggled at him when he opened my door.

“What?” he said, grinning. “C’mere.” He tried to scoop me off the seat and into a kiss but I was still buckled in. “Oh, I forgot,” he teased. “Princess might break a nail.”

I held my arms up so he could reach the seat belt fastener, then he finished pulling me into a kiss. I had a lot of repressed joy and passion that I put into that kiss and we both needed a deep breath when we finished.

“You’re something else, Kissy,” he whispered to me, before letting my feet touch the ground.

“You, too,” I gasped. “Whoo!” I leaned into him a bit and felt his arousal through several layers of clothing, his and mine. I know I squirmed a bit myself as we stood there, swaying with emotions that wanted release.

“Stop that,” he said.

“Huh?” I looked up at him. He was trying to look serious but failing.

“Stop wiggling against me like that. It’s definitely out of line.” He grinned. “But thinking of giving you a spanking is not helping the problem.”

I got the giggles then and he turned me away from him, putting a bit of distance between us. Then he did swat me lightly on the tush, to which I gave a mild pretend-yelp because it startled me.

“Meanie,” I pouted at him as he retrieved my big hat and purse from the cab of the truck before getting a white canvas duffle of his stuff from the backseat.

He just laughed. “Let me put this duffle in the locker room then I’ll take you to where you can sit.”

“Okay,” I agreed and watched as he dashed over to the door to the locker room and went inside for a moment. I looked around some more while he was gone. A few fans were arriving—i guess they were fans—they presented tickets at one of the gates then climbed into the stands and found their seats.

It wasn’t as hot at the ball park as it had been in Los Feliz yesterday and, in fact, was quite pleasant with a breeze coming from somewhere. I actually felt glad for wearing the coverup over my denim dress, it would probably be cool in the shade. Some guys were looking at me as they passed and a few people smiled, so I smiled back.

Rory returned quickly and took my arm to lead me through a gate where he showed a pass to someone and they let us through. We went down through the stands to the box seats behind first base and Rory gave me a kiss. There were two or three other girls in the box and they watched us.

“Got your sunglasses?” Rory asked. “Better put them on, it’s a little cloudy now but it will get bright when the sun comes out.” I pulled out the big green-tinted shades Mom had loaned me and put them on and got another kiss.

“Mmhmm,” I said.

“Mm, hmm,” he agreed. Then he said, “Hey!” to the other girls and headed back to the locker room.

The other three girls looked me over. Two of them were blondes, the third a brunette but they all had tans and were showing them off in cutoffs, and tank tops, with a sundress on one of the blondes. And there I was with my coverup and big hat. At least, we all had on sunglasses.

“I’m Kissy Parker,” I said, trying to be friendly.

“Andie Feldsbruck,” said the blonde in the sundress. “Is Rory Beeson your boyfriend?”

“I hope so,” I said with a giggle. “Otherwise I’ve been taking terrible advantage of a complete stranger.”

Andie and the brunette laughed at that. “Tommi Cervantes,” said the dark-haired girl. “Rory’s a hunk. My guy is the skinny pitcher warming up in the bullpen.” She motioned down the right field line where two visiting pitchers where throwing soft lobs at guys in catcher gear. “Paco-Paco, they call him, but his name is Frank Delano.”

The sour-looking blonde in the cutoffs at the far end of the box admitted that her name was, “Bobbie Winters,” and added that her boy was the centerfielder taking batting practice, A.J. Langford, a compact guy with a sweet-looking swing who pounded every pitch in a different direction.

I did say baseball was the only sport I had any interest in and A.J. reminded me of some of the big league contact hitters I had seen so I watched him for a bit. Bobbi hissed at me, “I thought Rory was dating that girl was on American Idol? Cindy Something?”

Rory had been dating Cyndy Lafollet? Wow. How on Earth did he pick me to follow an act like hers? Cyndy was a singer and dancer and had been a beauty queen. I felt distinctly untalented by comparison. “They broke up,” I said. “Couldn’t find a vehicle big enough for both of their egos, I guess.”

That line got even bigger laughs from Andie and Tommi and at least a smile from Bobbie.

“Look at your nails! They’re fantastic.” Everyone had to ooo and ahh over my nails. Their admiration made me grin so hard my cheeks hurt.

“So what do you do? Are you a model?” Tommi asked.

“Uh, no,” I said in my own voice but then added in a cartoony whine, “Mommie says I’m a princess and I’m pretty good at it, too.”

“Damn, girl, you’re funny,” said Andie after more laughter.

“It’s true,” I add. “My middle name is French for princess, Dauphíne. Which also means dolphin.” I held up the charm on my necklace. “But the chipmunk is more the real me, I guess,” I said, holding up the other charm.

More laughs but Bobbie just shook her head. “Is your first name really Kissy?” she asked.

“Uh, huh. It’s a place in Scotland. It means meadow where the water lilies grow or something.” Rory, in uniform, emerged from a door we couldn’t see and waved at us before trotting out onto the field. I waved back then pointed at him. “Kisser,” I said. Then, pointing at myself, “Kissee.”

Giggles from everyone this time and Bobbie looked a bit less sour. Good.

We were sitting in the front row of a box of twelve seats facing northwest because of the orientation of the ballpark. Directly in front of us, beyond a railing and at a slightly lower level, the visiting players’ bench remained empty since everyone of both teams was out on the field warming up or practicing.

The sun was high in the sky behind us so the roof of the stadium gave us shade at the moment but the sun would go down and to the west soon enough. Andie who was sitting next to me asked, “Why are you all covered up? It’s a nice warm day.”

I pointed at my face, “I’m a redhead, I don’t tan. That Scottish heritage, I guess.”

She grinned. “You’ve got a cute set of freckles, though.”

“I’m not collecting them on purpose,” I told her. “There’s no market for the damn things.”

She laughed. “Does Rory like them? They look like little dabs of butterscotch.”

“Oog,” I said. “Someone tagged me with that nickname in high school—it’s in the yearbook and everything. Trust me, I’m not that sweet.”

Andie laughed again. “I bet Rory thinks you’re adorable.”

“Yeah, well.” I giggled. “We only started dating on Thursday, he’s hardly gotten to know the real me. Though we did know each other years ago, his big sister was my baby sitter.”

“Wow,” she said. “I wish I had some kind of connection like that with Frank. For us, it’s mostly been about the sex.”

Yipe! How did we get to this part of the conversation? I know my face showed something because Andie’s expression changed. She got a knowing twinkle in her blue eyes, “You haven’t done it with Rory yet?”

I shook my head. “Not with anyone, I’m only seventeen!”

“You’re a virgin?” Andie seemed more than amused. “I’m surprised. You’ve got so much confidence and charisma, and with your looks, you could certainly…. Never mind. Personal choices, I’m sure.”

I nodded, not wanting to say anymore. I looked back out at the field. Rory was taking grounders from some coach with a fungo bat standing on the line between first and second. He came up and made a powerful throw to the second baseman to limit the hypothetical runner to a single.

I sighed, having forgotten that Andie was sitting right there beside me.

She laughed softly. “Has he tried?”

I thought about Thursday when I had been all emotional and ready and… willing. And he’d offered me an out that I had taken. “He’s been a gentleman.”

“Uh, huh. But tonight is your third date. What have you got planned for after the game?”

Suddenly, I was very glad that I had a ten p.m. curfew.

I felt that melty feeling I’d felt in the Fatburger...

Butterscotch
by Erin Halfelven
40. Spectator

The game started right on time at 1:25 after the playing of the Star-Spangled Banner. The Titans came to bat first and right away, I started itching for a program. Did they sell programs here? It was kind of a rinky-dink league but the stadium was nice. And being affiliated with several colleges, maybe they had student interns to put out a program.

I asked Andie. “Do they have programs here? I don’t know anyone on either team except Rory.” They did have an announcer but he didn’t say much, just the name of the batter as they entered the box and what position they played.

“Sure,” said Andie. “There’ll be a butcher coming by to sell them pretty soon.” By butcher she meant the guys who sold things in the stands, programs, peanuts, hot dogs, ices. I don’t know why they’re called butchers.

I didn’t see Rory coming to bat or in the on deck circle but I did spot his blond head on the visitor’s bench. I stared at him, willing him to turn around, but my telepathy wasn’t working. It was kind of silly, he was maybe ten feet away. “Rory,” I called out.

He looked around then stood up and turned to lean on the railing. He grinned at me, moving so he was right in front of where I was sitting. “Hey, babe,” he said. “Good seats, huh?”

I nodded, grinning and resisting a wave of giggles. He looked so good in his crisp baseball uniform. The tallest guy on the team, with muscles and blond hair and that smile. I felt that melty feeling I’d felt in the Fatburger. I stood up and leaned toward him but the wall separating us was wider than it looked. “Poo,” I said. “I wanna kiss!”

He laughed and made as if to kiss the air. Two of his teammates had stood and turned around to watch me, too. “Wow, Hollywood, you got another model girlfriend?” said one of the guys. “Hey, miss,” he said to me, “you come to see Hollywood play?”

“That’s my—uh—my nickname on the squad,” Rory admitted. “Uh, Kissy this is my teammates Crawdad and Lumpy. Guys, my girlfriend Kissy Parker.” Several of the other guys stood to get in on the introductions and a hubbub broke out until one of the coaches ordered them to sit back down.

“Girls, don’t encourage them, I want their heads in the game, not—,” he didn’t finish that thought but just winked at us when the boys did as he asked and sat back down.

“Poo,” I said again before sitting down myself. “I didn’t get a kiss or even a conversation.” The other girls laughed at me but not in a mean way.

Andie reminded me, “They are here to play baseball. And the coaches can fine them if they aren’t paying attention.”

“Really? They don’t get paid but they can be fined?” I shook my head. “That’s not fair.”

Two other girls had joined us in the box, sitting in the second row rather than crowding up front with the four of us who’d claimed seats early. Jordan was the tall black girl wearing cutoffs with her hair in blond cornrows and Micki was another blonde in shorts with red streaks dyed in her hair. I didn’t catch their last names.

The visitors went down in order and the home team the same but the game got interesting to me in the second inning when Rory would come up to bat. He was batting sixth and I didn’t understand the logic of that. The program I’d bought from the butcher showed his stats and his numbers made him look good for the 3 or 4 spot.

I mentioned it to Andie, “He’s got the best slugging percentage on the team, why is he so far down the batting order?” Weirdly, I felt almost personally offended at this.

Andie laughed. “Wow, Princess, don’t have a snit! Look at the columns for extra bases and doubles.”

I took Andie’s teasing to mean I had whined in my complaint but I looked at the numbers she indicated but they didn’t mean that much to me. I frowned at her, okay, I pouted. “I don’t get it,” I said.

“Your guy is slow on the basepaths, his slugging numbers are based on home runs. See? He’s batting sixth because the faster guys are batting before him. He’s a big guy and he runs like one.” She laughed again. “But they want someone on base if he hits a dinger.”

“Oh,” I said.

“It gets even more complicated because he’s a pitcher, too, and even if he’s playing right field today, they might call him up to pitch an inning. Then they might pull him for another pitcher and that might make a hole in the lineup at 3 or 4 with a weak batting pitcher. See?”

“Poo,” I said and Andie laughed again. Now I was going to worry about Rory’s poor base running skills if he got on base. I used the program to fan my face, then lifted my hat and fanned the back of my neck, too. It probably looked awkward but I’d had another of those flashes of heat.

The first Titan in the second inning went down swinging and the second hit a weak grounder direct to the second baseman and was thrown out easily. Rory winked at me as he left the on deck circle to take his place in the box and I made a Kissy face at him, what else?

The Wave Rider pitcher had been throwing nothing but heat and an out-of-zone change-up but it had been working for him. The first pitch came in sizzling, letter-high and maybe outside and Rory reached out with his long arms and put it over the fence with a fierce crack from his bat.

We all watched it go, me giggling like a fiend and bouncing up and down. The Titans had the first score. I poked Andie gently. “He doesn’t get much practice running the bases, but lots trotting them, huh?”

Andie grinned and nodded. “That’s why they call him Hollywood. Not for the street or the movies but for his trot. Watch him.”

I did. Rory jogged around the bases, hat in one hand and both arms above his shoulders. And right between the bases on all four sides, he did a little pirouette, like he wanted the fans in the cheap seats to see his face. But in this small park, there were no bleachers beyond the fence, it was pure showboating.

Andie remarked. “It’s a good thing he’s such a likable ham. Someone could hate him for that shit.” He did one more thing, just as he touched home plate, he looked toward the home team pitcher and gave a tiny respectful nod. And the pitcher nodded back, both of them solemn-faced.

Then Rory disappeared into the hand-slapping crowd of his teammates. He seemed to be heading directly toward me. I was already standing so I leaned as far over as I could, holding out my hand on top of the wall between me and the visitor’s bench. Rory took a running step onto the bench, stretched that long arm and gave me a handslap too, along with a big grin.

“That was one for the princess,” he said.

Andie had to help me back into my seat, I had another case of the giggles and almost couldn’t breathe.

The next Titans batter grounded out to third and the visitors headed out to the field, ahead 1-0. I sighed.

The game turned into a pitchers’ duel, boring if you’re not really with it, baseball strategy-wise. The girls and I chatted while the boys stood around in the sun looking bored, or hid out on their benches where they could eat sunflower seeds and be bored. The pitchers and catchers were working their butts off but no one really cared.

Andie was telling us how her last boyfriend had dumped her via YouTube. He sounded like a 24-karat asshole but the story was devastatingly funny. Bobbie’s tale of ultimate rejection involved her crashing the boyfriend’s mother’s car. Jordan told her story in a fake Jamaican accent that left me gasping for breath again.

It occurred to me that these girls were probably all ex-cheerleaders and student government and maybe even jocks in their own sports. The sort of girls that never gave poor Davey the time of day and here they were, treating me as one of them.

“How about you, Kissy?” Tommi asked after sharing her story of being a dumpee. “Have you got a sad tale to share?”

“Huh?” I said intelligently. After four years of high school, I’d had exactly one date. And of course, that had been with a girl. But there had been something of heartbreak from an earlier time. “Nothing so dramatic as getting abandoned in Avalon,” I said, nodding to Tommi. “But I did get a painful rejection back in middle school.”

“Oh, sure,” Andie teased. “Nobody dumps the Princess.”

“Oh, it was worse than getting dumped,” I said. “I wasn’t allowed to date back then, not until I was fifteen!” True. “But back in middle school, this group of us always brought our lunches so we didn’t have to waste time getting cafeteria food no one wanted to eat.”

I waited for the knowing giggles to subside. “So, Mommie always included a cupcake in my lunch, one of those mini-cupcakes that aren’t any bigger ‘round than a quarter but it was just a nice bite of sweet for her princess, me.” True enough for current values of true but phrasing it like that made me giggle.

“Anyway,” I went on, “this one boy liked me, so he kept stealing my cupcake.” Edgar Most liked me? At the time, I had thought he was just a bully and a thief but now I wasn’t so sure. The girls all nodded at this detail and Mikey rolled her eyes, evidently remembering something similar.

“I didn’t know what to do about it. I mean, I liked the little cupcakes at the end of lunch. And Edgar was kind of a creep.” Laughter. “Usually, he would just pop the cupcake in his mouth and eat it right in front of me. I always took two bites, cause I’m a delicate flower and who wants to open her mouth that wide?” More giggles and a knowing smirk from Jordan.

“But I knew the romance was over the day Edgar took my cupcake but didn’t eat it. Instead he just walked away with his buddies. The little shit.” I stuck that vulgarity in there for the shock value, but seriously, you should have heard what awful names those girls had for their exes. More laughs.

“But the final insult was that later I found my cupcake, actually made for me by my mommie, sitting on top of an anthill and covered with bugs!” That got a chorus of ewws and a few gagging noises.

“So what did you do? Did he keep stealing your cupcakes?” Tommi asked.

“Huh-uh. I did three things. Our group of friends started eating our lunches closer to where the teachers hung out, which was sort of chicken but what else could we do since Edgar and his gang kept bothering us.” Nods. “And I got this other boy from a grade ahead of us, Armand,” who hadn’t yet skipped his second full grade, “to eat with us.” More nods and grins.

“Armand was a much bigger boy than Edgar,” I said remembering.

“And the other thing you did?”

“Oh!” I said. “I told Mommie that I needed two cupcakes for lunch. One for me and one for Armand.” I grinned. “That’s how I got him to eat at our table. He liked the butterscotch ones best.”

“This isn’t going to last is it?” I asked him.

When the seventh inning stretch came, with the score still at 1-0, Rory used the break to meet me where the fence was only a low chain link barrier and not a three-foot-wide structure.

“You seem to be getting along well with the other girls,” he said. “I heard them calling you ‘Cupcake’. Is that because they’re all so much bigger than you?”

“Um,” I said. I put my face up, begging for a kiss and I got one. “I guess so. I told a story that had those little cupcakes in it, so that gave them the idea I guess. I hadn’t thought about being the shortest one.” But yes, all the other girls were Marjorie’s height or taller.

He laughed and kissed me again. We just stood there for a bit, holding onto each other over the fence. It occurred to me how nice this was, having a boyfriend and getting so much affection. And being able to give it back. Then something like sadness hit me.

“This isn’t going to last is it?” I asked him.

“Hmm,” he murmured against my cheek. “It’ll last as long as both of us want it to. Or did you just mean the necking right here and now?”

I laughed. Rory had said just the right thing, as long as we both want it to. Who would want a relationship to last any longer? “I know you’re fickle, how many girlfriends have you had since high school?”

He kissed me again. “Don’t you know never to ask a jock a math question? I dunno, more than six, less than ten?”

Fair enough. “Meaning you can think of six names but know there were more?” I laughed. “That’s actually better than I supposed. So, four to six months for each lucky girl?”

“Ha!” he said. “Something like that I guess. Um, not counting one-time relationships? I’ve had a few one-off dates when I was between girlfriends, but usually—I guess three to six months is about right. Is that fickle? How many boyfriends have you had?”

I swallowed. “You’re my first,” I said. He kissed me hard.

When we had our breath back, he said, “I may be a bit fickle but I’m loyal as a hound when I’m with a girl. And I’m not usually the one to break things off.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, a little doubtfully. “So you’re annoying enough for other girls to kick you out?”

He laughed. “Okay,” he admitted. “You got me.” He kissed me again.

“What’s the usual complaint? So I can know what to expect?”

Two more kisses while he thought about his reply. I was enjoying this so much, I almost forgot what I had asked him.

“Inattention,” he finally said. “At least, that’s what Cyndy complained about. That I didn’t care enough about what she wanted. Which was pretty much that I drop everything when she wanted something from me. Uh—that’s my point of view.”

I gave him a hug which was difficult and left me more or less hanging off his neck, my toes barely touching the ground, the top of the fence poking me in my middle. I appreciated his attempt at honesty. So far, I couldn’t fault his attention to me.

We necked some more. Right out there in the view of everyone in the stadium, though I didn’t think of that until later.

The coaches brought our smooching time to an end when the game resumed and soon, the Titans’ pitcher was in trouble. Bottom of the seventh, he gave up a run on two hits. The score was now tied, though the Titans did manage to get out of the inning.

Both teams changed pitchers for the eighth. I found out that it was unusual for anyone to pitch more than five innings in this league. Scores and standings were kept with a one-game playoff between North and South Division leaders at the end, but the real purpose of the league was training.

Speaking of training, I got some ‘lessons’ from the other girls when I went back to my seat in the box. Some of it was hard to tell from outright teasing.

“I guess Hollywood isn’t the only showboat in your relationship,” said Andie, grinning.

“Way to go, girl,” said Micki, putting a palm out for me to slap. “You definitely made the highlight reel.”

“Next time, take a stepladder with you, Cupcake,” said Tommi.

“Yeah,” said Jordan. “Can you short girls stop taking all the tall guys off the market?”

“I’m not short, am I?” I protested. “Maybe just a little short.” I’d been short all my life but now I was almost average height. “The thing is all of you guys are giants.” It was true, they were all taller than Marjorie who was tall herself. Well, compared to me.

Tommi was tallest, probably over six feet and her short brunette shag made her neck look especially long. She grinned down at me. “Maybe, but you really are a two-bite cupcake. Or for someone like Hollywood, one-bite.”

“I bit him,” I said. I had too, leaving another hickey while we were fence dancing.

“Where did you bite him?” Andie asked, grinning.

“On the rightfield foul line,” I said. I got the laugh, but I touched a spot on my own collarbone. He had flinched when I made it because I used some teeth. I smiled, clicking them together and growling, which nearly sent the other girls into hysterics. Apparently, I have a cute growl.

“Like a toy kitten,” Jordan spluttered.

The game stayed tied at the end of the ninth, we would be going to extra innings. No joy for the Titans in their half at bat, but as the second half of the tenth began, the announcer came on to say, “Now pitching for Torrance, Rory Beeson.”

I bounced up and down clapping my hands as my guy strode to the pitching mound. The other girls laughed at me but they began a chant, “One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three.” I had no idea what that meant but joined in.

Rory spared our cheerleading only a glance, unsmiling. He had his game-face on, a blond intensity that made him look adorably bad-boy. He threw a few pitches to warm-up and we settled down to watch. Andie explained the chant to me while the first Wave Rider batter came to the plate. “Hollywood holds the collegiate record for most three-pitch strikeouts in a single game. So, One-Two-Three is his nickname when he’s pitching.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed, though I had never heard of such a stat before.

“He’s also thrown an immaculate inning, all three batters retired on three-pitch strikeouts, nine pitches,” Andie added with a sigh.

I glanced at her and she grinned back, shrugging. “He doesn’t get hurt, he’s going to the majors.” Then she pointed across the backside of the diamond. “See those three guys with the radar gun?”

I saw the three guys and took her word for it that the contraption one of them held was such a gun. “Uh-huh?”

“Those are scouts. The big guy with the ears is from the Angels. Used to be a catcher with Detroit.”

Sure enough, Rory retired the first batter on three strikes. I saw the three scouts pass the radar gun back and forth, shaking their heads and laughing. My heart was beating so fast, my inner chipmunk almost let out a squeal.

Andie commented again. “Rory also holds the league record for most consecutive strikes pitched in one game.” No wonder I love baseball, it’s the nerdgasm of sports!

Rory retired a second batter with three pitches, this time the poor guy didn’t even get his bat off his shoulder. I bounced up and down, got the hiccups, and started another, “One-Two-Three!” chant. The Titans’ coach stood near the team bench and glared at me, so I stopped. When he looked away, I stuck out my tongue. “Hic,” I said.

But the third batter was made of different stuff. He fouled off three pitches and ruined Rory’s chance for another immaculate inning. I put my hands behind my back for fear of chewing on my expensive nails. The batter drubbed the fourth pitch down into the dirt so it bounced high in the infield, and Rory snatched it out of the air to throw him out at first. Side retired.

I felt like I’d been through a ringer. And I still had the hiccups.

But it wasn’t over. The eleventh inning began and Rory would be batting third. The first Titan went down swinging but the second hit a dribbler down the third base line that might have gone foul if the Wave Rider baseman hadn’t snatched it up and hurried his throw to first, pulling the first baseman off his base so the runner was called safe.

“Hic,” I said.

Rory came to bat. And drew a deliberate walk. No way did that pitcher want to face him with only one out and a man on base. So now the Titans had two men on and soon the lead runner advanced to third on a passed ball. Being slow on the bases, Rory had not tried to get to second.

“Hic,” I said again. I sat down and drummed my feet on the wall of the box. The other girls were tense, too. Jordan’s guy was the man on third and Micki was dating the batter. They were both sitting behind me and someone was kicking my seat. I didn’t turn around though. “Hic.” It wasn’t worth it, I might miss something.

Both batters were taking long leads, Rory’s probably a little too long for a big slow runner. But he had a shit-eating grin and it rattled the pitcher. If he tried to throw Rory out at first, Jordan’s long-legged boyfriend on third might beat any relay and score at home.

It turned into a long moment full of more hiccups. The pitcher stepped off the mound and called his catcher out for a conference. A coach wandered out there too, and I read his lips as he advised the pitcher to “just fucking throw the ball.” I got the giggles and realized I was close to hyperventilating again, but at least my hiccups had stopped.

The catcher and coach retreated to their places, the pitcher took the mound and glared at Rory who just grinned, and again took a too-long lead. Another pitch, fouled off by Micki’s boy, and the situation had not changed.

I held my hand over my mouth, forcing myself to hold my breath so I wouldn’t pass out. One-two-three, I counted. Breathe out, one-two-three. Hold, one-two-three, breathe in. Hiccups vanquished, yay.

Suddenly it all happened at once. The pitcher threw to home, and Rory and the runner on third both broke with Rory yelling like a banshee at the same time. The batter stepped into the pitch and laid down a grounder between first and second, right behind Rory. A perfect run and hit play.

The first baseman, who had followed Rory, scooped up the ball, hesitated a fraction of a second, ran to first to get the batter out then threw a zinger to home to try for the runner there. The catcher’s glove developed a hole in it, the ball going by him.

Safe. “Hic.” The Titans were ahead 2-1 and my hiccups were back.

“Stop stressing, Cupcake,” Jordan told me. “Hollywood has not forgotten you. As if.”

“Last month I was... just a high school student. Rory’s kind of…a big thing in my life now,” I said.

Rory held up at second—with his lack of speed, it wasn’t worth trying for third. The Wave Riders initiated a pitcher change because their guy’s confidence was shot. The girls and I hugged each other and squealed.

I overheard the coaches near the Titan’s bench discussing whether to pull Rory for a pinch runner. But if they did that, he couldn’t pitch the bottom of the eleventh. And they’d need to replace the next batter, too, who was their catcher—to make it worth pulling Rory they needed a better bat at the plate. Finally, they decided to keep a winning team together and see what happened.

The catcher popped out, back to the new pitcher, and the home team came in to take their last at bat, unless they could tie it again or, better, actually win it.

Rory sent them down in order with two more strikeouts and a caught foul to end the game. Titans win, whew. I pinched my nose to get rid of the hiccups again.

The teams did the ritual where the losers walk past the winners on their way to the showers, giving fist bumps and nods and smiles. The locker rooms under the stands did have showers, apparently, but most of the players didn’t even use the lockers, but just headed to their own cars to go home.

The Titans’ girls, including me, hugged each other, traded phone numbers, talked about our guys and one by one left the stands to go home with someone. I kept anxiously watching the locker room doors for Rory until it was just Jordan and I, wandering down to the ladies’ rest room.

“Stop stressing, Cupcake,” Jordan told me, smiling. “Hollywood has not forgotten you. As if.” She stood in front of a mirror, touching up her eye makeup.

“I know, I know,” I said. “But last month I was just a high school student. Rory’s kind of…a big thing in my life now.”

“Huh?”

“Well, he’s good-looking, um, generous, his family is rich, and uh, he’s nice. Really nice to me.”

Jordan’s grin got wider. “Kinda bowled you over, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. To be honest, I haven’t dated as much in the last year of school as I have this weekend.”

She turned to look at me. “I find that hard to believe. A cutie-pie like you?”

I giggled and took refuge in the large end stall where I could remove my cover-up. I don’t know why I was misleading Jordan by letting her think—well, I didn’t know exactly what she thought, but she didn’t know I’d been living as a boy two days ago. I guess I got a kick out of everyone thinking I’d always been a girl.

“This is all a tremendous disguise,” I said through the stall door while pulling the cover-up dress off over my head. “I’m really a huge geek, and—and all my guy friends in school were even bigger nerds than me.”

“Computer geeks? Any of them named Bill Gates?”

“Worse, gamer geeks,” I said, trying to keep the dress from snagging on my tiara and pulling my fall loose. “No more useless sort. Even radio geeks can be helpful in a disaster.”

She laughed at that.

Once the dress was off, I rolled it carefully to stow in my satchel-sized purse. The thin fabric rolled up small, and fit easily in my bag. Mom had shown me this trick, rolled fabric wrinkles less than folded stuff. I left the stall and joined Jordan at the mirror, assessing damage to my hair and makeup.

“You were wearing that under your cover-up?” she laughed. “Rory taking you dancing?”

I felt my heart flip like a salmon on a fish ladder. “That’d be nice,” I said, trying to maintain cool. I got out my makeup kit and added some drama to my eyes.

Jordan started laughing again.

“What?” I asked.

She tapped me on top of my head. My tiara. “You really are a princess, aren’t you?”

“Toldja,” I said, smugly.

While we were still laughing, we heard Rory’s voice from the door. “Babe? You in there?”

Both Jordan and I called out, “Yes!” Then burst into giggles. Well, I giggled, Jordan laughed like a big girl.

I started jamming stuff back into my purse. “Be right out,” I called.

“No hurry, Babe,” said Rory. “I’m just here chilling with your friend Andie.”

I looked at Jordan and she looked back, lifting one eyebrow. I can’t do that so I knew both of mine were up. I grabbed my stuff and dashed out the door to find Rory saying goodbye to Andie and another Titans player.

“Hey, Princess, wow!” he said to me. “I like the new dress. I can’t believe you got changed that fast.” He bent over to put his face in range and I stood as tall as I could for a kiss.

“You rat,” I whispered. “You didn’t say Andie was out here with her boyfriend.”

“Well, that wouldn’t have made you jealous, huh?” he said. His short hair was brushed up with product into spikes, and he’d changed from his gray baseball uniform into black pants, leather sneaks with no socks, and a pale blue, short-sleeved guayabera-styled shirt. The fabric of the shirt was translucent and he looked hot and hunky in it.

I leaned against him. “Double rat,” I said. “I’ll get you for that.”

He laughed. “Where’s your big hat? The sun is still up. You need some new freckles?” He was right, it was barely five p.m.—I’d left my hat in the bathroom stall and had to run back in to get it.

“I’ll wait out here,” he said, unnecessarily. “Oh, hey, Jordan.”

But I heard her just laugh at him as I hurried back out.

We did some more smooching in the shade of the stands before heading out to where the truck was parked. “I thought we’d eat nearby and wait for traffic to clear some before heading toward home.”

“Okay with me,” I agreed as I waited for him to unlock the truck and help me into the over-tall seat. I was going to have to stay conscious of wearing such a short skirt, but the looks my legs were getting from Rory were worth it. And he did keep glancing at me.

I put the big hat on the back seat, no risk from the sun since all the windows in the truck were heavily tinted, and the hat interfered with my and Rory’s views. I didn’t know any of the roads around here and could enjoy being totally lost.

“What kind of food you want?” Rory asked. “We had Italian last night, so seafood?”

“What do they have around here that we can’t get at home?” I asked. “Wasn’t there something said about Joe’s?” Joe’s Crab Shack, I meant, a trendy seafood bistro.

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “We’ve got a Joe’s closer than Newport back home,” he said. “How about Santa Maria-style barbecue?”

Santa Maria was a town in central California, about halfway to San Francisco. “What’s that? It’s not messy like the rib place on Centenella, is it?”

He shook his head. “Nah. You add sauces at the table but the meat is slow-cooked over red oak in a big brick oven. That’s the name of the place, Brick Oven Barbecue. No place like it in L.A.”

“Okay,” I said happily. Eating crab it had occurred to me was always messy, and I didn’t want anything on my new dress. “What makes it Santa Maria style?” I asked.

“The red oak fire and what they barbecue. Santa Maria was settled by Portuguese, so they always have a few linguiça sausages and it’s real cattle country, so they do brisket and tri-tip, but they have pork and chicken, too. And homemade pies.”

“Sounds good.”

We got there with a short trip down Pacific Coast Highway, then through side streets in a town I never heard of before. The place turned out to be a tiny upscale diner in a strip mall with only three businesses; the barbecue was wedged between a storefront gym and one of those industrial-grade optometry shops.

“How did you find this place?” I marveled as Rory helped me down from the truck.

“Guy at school lives nearby,” he said. By school he meant UCLA where he had a scholarship to play baseball. “You want your hat?”

I shook my head, “We’re going to be inside, I don’t need it and I don’t want to forget and leave it on a table somewhere.”

He grinned as he reached into the truck and retrieved my purse. “Yeah, you are pretty forgetful,” he said without a trace of humor in his voice.

I hmphed at him then let him help me up a steep flight of stairs from the parking lot to the sidewalk. The restaurant looked even smaller than it had from the street, but there were tables available and we were soon seated.

The waitress seemed a bit giggly, but she couldn’t have been much older than me with that adolescent ‘I’m trying to find myself’ vibe. Like I had room to talk about that.

Rory didn’t even look at the menu. “I’ll have the three-choice combo plate, brisket, linguiça and pulled pork and she’ll have the two-choice combo plate, chicken and tri-tip. Uh—salad with blue cheese, and corn on the cob for sides. Water to drink.” He looked at me to see if I objected to anything but I didn’t. The waitress turned to go, still giggling for some reason.

“This way we can sample all of their entrees,” he explained. “No bread unless you ask for it; did you want bread?”

I shook my head, turning to watch the waitress talking with someone behind the counter. She kept looking back in our direction, and it took a moment for me to realize, she was looking at me, not my boyfriend. What the heck? A teenage American girl who was not mesmerized by a hunk like my Rory?

“What—?” he said at just about that time, and I turned my head back to see three kids approaching our table. One of them had a pen and a notebook ready. They looked like high school kids, younger than me.

The nerdiest looking boy spoke first, “Uh—Miss Bock,” he said. “It just made the news today that you’re going to be playing Jean Grey in Marvel’s reboot of the X-Men, and I want to say, I think you’re going to be terrific in the role!” The second boy tried to hand me the notebook and pen, and the girl made a noise that was half giggle and half asthmatic whistle.

Shit. They were making sort of the same mistake Armand made on Melrose. I must really look like this Heather Bock person! I didn’t know what to think about that!

My life is like a soap opera, sometimes. A story that’s not incomplete so much as it is never-ending. Heather Bock? Jean Grey? It’s confusing when someone mistakes me for someone else, but I think I like being me.

Rory stifled his laughter, but I frowned at him anyway. What would the real Heather Bock do in this situation? I reached for the offered autograph pen and notebook.

"Trust me," he said, grinning. "That's not even in the top 2000 of weirdest things on the internet."

I got rid of the autograph seekers in the simplest way possible—I forged Heather Bock's name in their book.


"You're even prettier in person," the taller boy gushed.


"I love your tiara," said the girl. "You should have tried out for Ariel."


I shook my head at that. More than just amused, I was struggling with hilarity. "They'd already cast that part, and with someone who's a real singer," I said. 


"You're a real singer!" she protested. "You sang with your brothers in that band they had."


Huh? I was getting in too deep here. I waved a hand. "Trust me. We did all that with auto-tune." Of course, I had no idea if that were true, I might be slandering the lady, but I had to get out of it some way. I signed everything they put in front of me, and they seemed satisfied. Of course, they took their phones out and took lots of pictures of me posing with them.


"Thank you, Miss Bock," they chorused before heading back to a big corner table with a couple pairs of parents, looking embarrassed but delighted.


I waved to all of them, then moved so that Rory's bulk hid me from view so I could relax into giggles.


"You have a secret life you never told me about," Rory accused me with a twinkle in his eye.


I suppressed more giggles. "I've never seen this show. Do I really look like her?"


"I guess," he allowed. "I've never seen the program, but I've seen the actress on talk shows and things. Maybe to some people, all redheads look alike?" He looked at me critically. "I think she's taller and bustier, but you get the win in number of freckles."


"Piffle," I said, and I meant it. "But mine are butterscotch flavor," I said with as much of an air of superiority as I could manage. "You know, Armand saw me on Melrose and thought I was cosplaying as this Bock person's character on her soap opera."


"Yeah," he agreed. "You told me about that. But I looked it up—there are conventions for soap opera fans, and some people do come as their favorite characters."


I boggled at that. "No kidding? For real?"


"Yup, maybe you should attend one. You could end up with a new career."


"Uh-uh. That's one of the weirdest things I've ever heard."


"Trust me," he said, grinning. "That's not even in the top 2000 of weirdest things on the internet."


We both laughed.


I hadn't realized that we were holding hands until the waitress brought our salads on little gray enamel plates like you see in a Western movie when people are getting a meal from a chuckwagon. She had nowhere to set the plates down until we got our hands out of the way. Rory gave me a little squeeze before letting go, and I returned it.


I don't know why but that seemed just totally romantic. How did I ever fool anyone into thinking I was a boy? The waitress winking at me was an extra little juice to my ego.


The salads were good, mixed greens and grape tomatoes set off by the sharp blue cheese flavor of the dressing. Standard but well done. The rest of the food turned out to be unique and delicious. How many times do you get to say that? The sausage and tri-tip were the stars, but everything else, including the corn and beans, were packed with smokey flavor and awesomeness.


I regretted not being able to eat more than a bite each of the chicken and brisket, despite not having had any breakfast. Besides, another hot flash took away what appetite I did have, but I didn't go away hungry, and Rory ate most of my leftovers. Pie for dessert was out of the question.


"I have to remember what a light eater you are," Rory commented while we idly nibbled on the remains and waited for the server to bring the credit slip back for signing.


"I'm tiny, remember?" I said to him. "According to the girls at the park, your last girlfriend was six inches taller than me."


He seemed to think about that for a moment. "I guess you're right. Most of the girls I've dated have not been small. You're sort of a pocket edition."


"Hmph," I said. "You're easily the tallest guy I've ever dated."


He grinned. "Aren't I the only guy you've ever dated?"


"Yeah, well," I said. "You're taller than any of the girls I've dated, too."


He laughed at that, and I discovered we were holding hands again. It was nice. 


After he signed the check and I waved goodbye to all my fans, he helped me down the weirdly steep steps and up into the truck, after a pause for some smooching.


Pretty soon, we were rolling again.


"Wonderful dinner," I said. "Thank you so much."


"Yeah, huh?" he said. "One of my favorite places, and I don't get the chance to come here often, so thanks for being willing to try something new."


"Uh, huh. Where to now? Are we going back to PCH?"


He grunted agreement. "I thought we could drive along the shore for a bit. We're not in so much of a hurry, and the concert doesn't start for a couple more hours?"


"Concert?"


"Yeah, I scored tickets to 'Y-Not Live.' They're a showband fronted by Aron Jones of I-NO-Y?"


I nodded. "Sounds like fun," I agreed.


"It's in West Hollywood. They built a stage and stadium-type bleachers in a vacant lot for a free concert, but you still have to have tickets," he explained.


"What kind of music?"


"Mostly 80s covers, what I understand, maybe even some older stuff. And some of Jones' own new music?"


"I think I'll like," I said. "Jones is an old guy, but I saw the HBO version of this show. It looked great."


He kept looking at me sideways when the traffic wasn't being painful.


"What?" I asked.


"You," he said.


I giggled and reached out a hand to him. He took it and squeezed, but he had to put his hand back on the wheel. "Silly," I said.


"Yeah, you're silly."


"No, you."


He laughed. "You're such a chick," he said. He signaled to turn left toward the ocean at the light—the only thing that direction was a parking lot that overlooked the beach.


He parked at the top of a low bluff, and we watched the waves come in. After a bit, he said, "We've got time. The concert doesn't start till nine because of the laser show. Wanna cuddle in the backseat?"


"That—would be nice," I said.


After helping me out and back in, he stretched out kind of sideways on the back seat and pulled me into his lap. We kissed—a lot. We talked about stuff that made no sense at all and made up cute names for each other.


"Backseat Slugger," I called him.


"Half-pint Cherry," he responded.


Like that. We enjoyed ourselves and kind of got inside each other's clothes without getting naked. His hand up my skirt was making me crazy when something in the front seat started beeping. I had my hand on his still zipped-up fly, feeling bold and naughty, among other things.


"What the heck is beeping?" I asked.


"Alarm. We need to leave soon if we're going to make the concert on time."


I said a bad word, and he laughed. "Yeah, we need to leave if we're going to do that, too."


That made it serious. I tried to sit up, and he let me, and we sat there and did a lot more kissing.


"Motel or concert?" he asked when we were both catching our breaths.


"Um?" I said.


He sighed. "You want to, but you ain't gonna?"


I nodded against his shoulder.


It felt steamy warm in the cab as we tried to straighten our clothes before climbing out and climbing back in. I claimed more kisses every time he touched me. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whispered several times.


"Don't be," he said. "I'm enjoying wearing you down." He kissed me hard then, and I felt like my lips were bruised, and my arms ached when he closed the right-hand door and ran around to the driver's side to climb in. All the windows down, we let the sea breeze bring some sanity back.


I heard him say "Intents" as he started up and rolled back through the parking lot to PCH.


That made no sense, and it took me a moment to work out what he'd actually said. "Yeah," I agreed finally. 


I'd never had an experience like that one before. Not the other night when we had necked in this same truck, not when Marjorie was getting me hot and bothered several times. It was easy to be the girl for Rory, and I knew he wanted me—even though….


"You're such a chick," he said again as he made the left and headed toward Long Beach.


I giggled. "Yeah, I guess I am, huh?" I felt good. I liked that Rory was so masterful and strong. But he was gentle, too, and when I even hinted I didn't want to go any further, he stopped.


We cruised toward the sunset, through the city that was like L.A.'s funky little sister, the one who shopped in thrift stores and flea markets. We stopped at a light just before the ramp to get on the 110 Freeway. He reached across and pulled me toward him, and he leaned close enough for us to trade hot kisses. Someone honked a horn, and he let me go.


With the windows rolled up, we cruised toward the downtown lights—not saying anything for a while. I tried to get my breathing under control, the corset not helping with that. It tempted me to breathe shallow and quick, and I was close enough to feeling like I might pass out without going into hyperventilation.


But how many more times could I tell him no? Not many, I felt sure. I didn't think either of us had enough patience to wait for my birthday in—I counted—nineteen days now. It might as well be forever, and I knew I couldn't hold out that long.


Rory touched something and put on some music. I-NO-Y, Aron Jones's other band, with Melody Alexander singing "I'm Alone Now." And yeah, I'm such a chick it made me cry. 


Never saw this coming
Never played that game
Never thought of winning
Just to change my name
Never planned tomorrow
So I could sin today
Never said I'm sorry
Just to get my way


Rory started to shut it off, but I stopped him. I had to hear the chorus.


No one can reach me
I'm alone now
No one can teach me
I'm all alone
No one can save me
I'm alone now
I have to do this
All by myself.


She started the second verse…


Never wanted nothing
Like I'm wanting you
Never said goodbye
And meant it like I do
Didn't plan on forever
Just waiting for my day
Never said, "I'll never"
To be on my way


…and I reached over and turned it off.


Rory drove in silence while I sobbed. He took a box of tissues out of the center console and handed it to me. I used several of them, but I couldn't stop crying. I wanted Rory, and I felt it was wrong, but the reasons made no sense to me.













"Tell you what," said my guy. "You charge me extra for the size of my truck, and I'll charge you the same for looking at my girlfriend."

"Do you want me to take you home?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Am I—" I gasped. "Am I too much of a chick?"

He laughed softly. "Girls cry easily; it doesn't always mean what it seems to mean."

I nodded, realizing he was right. Was I crying over the song? The song was about saying goodbye, and Rory and I were just starting our relationship. I sighed and wiped my eyes carefully, then smiled at him. "Do I look terrible?" I asked.

He laughed again. "No way am I dumb enough to answer that the way you asked it. You look like a very pretty girl who's been crying."

I pulled down the vanity mirror and took a look. Eesh. "I look like an old barn!" I complained.

That made him laugh more.

"I meant…" I began.

But he waved my explanation away. "You mean—you mean you need—a fresh coat of paint?" Now he laughed harder.

At first, I was annoyed, but then I laughed, too. "I'm so vain, aren't I?" I asked.

"You keep asking, and I keep dodging," he laughed.

I didn't feel like giggling, but I forced one out. "I need to make repairs," I said. I had my kit in my big purse. I even had a small bottle of water and some wipes.

He nodded, wiping his own eyes. "I am really glad," he remarked, "that guys don't have to do that stuff."

"Mmp," I said. "Can we stop somewhere? The bathrooms at the concert are probably just going to be portajakes."

He nodded, but gestured at the area we were driving through––what is euphemistically described as a depressed area. Abandoned warehouses, seedy strip malls, ramshackle housing––an unpainted barn would not have stood out. There wouldn't be a place to stop, and if there were, it might not be safe.

I sighed.

"There's a whole bunch of places, we get past USC," he said.

"Okay," I agreed. I didn't know the city the way someone who drove, would know it. I took out my water bottle, and after a sip, I soaked some tissues and held them over my eyes. I didn't know if that would work, but it seemed like it might help get rid of some of the puffiness.

Rory drove but managed to keep an eye on me too. "You're good at this," he said.

"Good at what?"

He laughed. "Being a chick. I've seen other girls do the water on the eyes thing. Your mom teach you?"

I thought about it. Well, she did put the tiny bottle of water in my purse, and I had seen her over the years deal with various feminine emergencies. "Some," I admitted. Then I grinned at him. "But mostly, it's just natural talent. Like, for any celebrity, you have to learn this stuff."

"Celebrity? Oh, you're channeling that Rachel Bock person, again."

"Heather Bock," I corrected him, in as snotty a voice as I could summon.

He laughed about that until we found a safe place to get off the freeway.

*

Rory helped me back into the truck after I made repairs in a bathroom of a MacDonald's on Figueroa. Mickey D's always has dependable bathrooms.

"Feel better?" he asked when he was back in the driver's seat.

"Lots," I said. I wasn't an expert at doing makeup repair yet, but I'd had some practice over the last few days, and some good teachers. I pulled down the vanity mirror to check, licking my lips for no reason at all.

"Well, you look better," said Rory in a fake joking tone. "Just saying."

I slapped him on the arm.

"Ow," he said, faking injury. "Watch the talons, lady."

I checked my nails for damage, but they were fine. I would have been pissed if they weren't, since I did have a bottle of polish in my kit, and could have fixed them if I'd noticed.

"You're fine. It's only a flesh wound," I said airily, after pretending to examine his arm.

He laughed again. "I saw you look at your nails first."

I giggled, nodding. "I have to look good for my public."

He snorted at that as we got back on the freeway. "We're in plenty of time. The sun is still up," he noted.

To the west of us, the sun was putting on a show. Like an old-time stripper in a Dance of the Veils, the golden orb peeked out between layers of pink and purple clouds, thin as promises, brilliant as lies.

*

We drove through the edge of downtown, first on one freeway then on another, ending up heading into the sunset on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was still early Saturday night, but some of the Boys of the Boulevard were already out plying their trade.

I didn't want to look at them. It made me uncomfortable. Considering how I was dressed and what I had between my legs, it was too ironic by half. The specific section of the boulevard where this goes on changes from year to year, but the boys in their trashy glamor are always out there.

"Sorry," said Rory, and I knew what he was apologizing for. I smiled to let him know he was forgiven. We weren't actually too far from Mom's condo, in miles, so I knew there really wasn't a better way to get to the area we were going to.

Traffic on Saturday evening through Hollywood was undependable at best, but we moved along at a good speed. Passing the Forever Cemetery, where lots of notables were buried, the hoors were doing business on our side of the street. I kept my eyes on the strip mall that hid the green lawns and artificial hills around the graves of people like Mel Blanc, Judy Garland, and DeeDee Ramone.

"Down, down to Goblin Town, we go," I misquoted from the old cartoon version of Lord of the Rings. If South Central was a depressed area, this qualified as a depressing one.

"West Hollywood is Goblin Town?" Rory asked, looking sideways at me.

"I'm in a weird mood," I admitted.

"I thought West Hollywood was Fairyland," he whined, making a crude joke about the city's reputation.

That got me to laugh, at least.

*

Since construction of the concert venue had taken up the largest empty lot in the area, parking was going to be a problem. We cruised around the neighborhood and, sure enough, found someone renting out their lawn as a parking space for only twenty dollars.

"Oughta charge you extra for the monster truck, bruh," joked the kid taking the money. He'd been checking out my legs as Rory helped me down.

"Tell you what," said my guy. "You charge me extra for the size of my truck, and I'll charge you the same for looking at my girlfriend."

"Fair enough," the other guy agreed. "Sorry, miss," he apologized to me. "You look familiar."

"I may act friendly," I said. "But I never get familiar on such short acquaintance."

Rory laughed at that, taking my arm. "Your fame precedes you. Where do you keep coming up with these putdowns?"

I shrugged. "Watching old movies, I guess." I looked around warily. "Do me a favor and shoot the first paparazzo you see. I don't want Heather Bock stealing my publicity."

That cracked him up, so we were in a good mood for the three-block walk to the concert gate. The platform sandals I was wearing weren't ideal for walking that far, but they weren't bad, and I had Rory to hold on to for balance.

I'd done without my big hat, since the sun was so far down, and I felt pretty and flirty in my denim skirt and heels. I got a lot of looks, and I appreciated them. Three days ago, no one gave me a second glance.

We had to walk down one long side of the chain-link fence around the lot, and could see and hear that they had a battle of the bands as a pre-concert show. Always a lot of local garage bands in L.A., and some of them are pretty good, but it reminded me of something.

"Didn't you say you were in a band?" I asked Rory. I had to repeat myself because some metalhead was making his guitar imitate a jet takeoff.

"Yeah," he shouted back at me. "And that's the kind of music we play!"

"Ah," I said, remembering. "You're a screamer." Which Rory had described as the person who screams out the hook so the audience can scream along.

"That's right!" Rory agreed. Then he demonstrated his screaming prowess. I was already giggling, so I had to hold onto him to stay upright when I started laughing for real. We got a few extra looks from Rory's antics, but my vanity said they lingered a little longer to get a good look at me.

*

Rory showed our tickets and found us seats, high enough up in the bleachers that we could see the stage, and far enough back we didn't need earplugs. The sun was competing against the battling bands––and winning on showmanship, anyway.

I snuggled against Rory and wondered if the expected onshore breeze would turn cold. It was the last day of June and warm enough for summer, but I hadn't brought a jacket, and LA’s famous ‘June gloom’ sometimes lasts into July. If nothing else, I still had my cover-up rolled up in the bottom of my purse, and I could put that on if it got chilly.

Or I could just wait for one of those hot flashes I'd been having. I'd sort of figured out they must be the result of the hormone shot I'd gotten on Friday. Kind of like what middle-aged women went through, but in reverse. They weren't pleasant, but they didn't last long, either.

For now, Rory's arm around me and us touching all along my side was enough to keep me warm.

"This guy Jones, he must be in his 50s or 60s," Rory was saying, "he had a career back when MTV was a new thing. And his drummer is even older."

"Uh-huh," I said, but my mind had gone sideways, wondering just when Heather Bock had been in a band with her brothers. What would it be like to have brothers? I had half-sisters and step-sisters, but they were in the Philippines, and I had never met them. Having or being a sibling was a foreign country to me—literally.

"Hey," Rory said. "Look." He pointed toward a big blocky guy just coming through the gate, holding his hands over his ears.

"Huh," I said. I knew that shape.

"Is that Armand Gower?"

We both stared. "Ma-ay-be?" I ventured. The figure did move like Armand, sort of in starts and jerks, with no smoothness. (Like his puppeteer suffered from nervous tics or something.)

Rory turned to look at me, and he seemed—concerned. "Is he following you around?"

I sighed. It seemed conceivable that Armand would do something like that. Completely innocently, but who knows? "Maybe he thinks he's stalking Heather Bock?" I suggested.

We laughed at that, but not as if we were sure it was funny.

“Sit there,” he ordered me. “Stay put. I’m going to go down and tell him to lay off!”

We watched the big guy at the gate for another moment or two, then Rory stood up suddenly, causing me to squeak.

“That is Armando,” he said. “He’s—he’s stalking you!”

“Rory?” I said a bit uncertainly.

“Sit there,” he ordered me. “Stay put. I’m going to go down and tell him to lay off!”

“Rory, don’t—”

“I’m not going to make a scene or anything. He’s a big doof and a friend of both of us, but he can’t be doing this.” Rory stepped over the bench in front of us to an empty row and made his way toward the aisle. “I’m just going to let him know, we’re onto him, and he should knock it off.”

“I—”

“No, no, shh, shh,” he called back to me before starting down toward the gate. “You stay put. I’ll take care of this.” And he was gone, disappearing into a crowd of people coming up the stairs looking for seats. I looked for the figure we’d both identified as Armand and didn’t see him either.

I kind of wiggled in place. I didn’t think Rory was actually angry; he had a pretty cool head. But he was disturbed, and Armand could be as stubborn as a speed bump. It might escalate. But what could I do? I wasn’t going to try to follow, not in my heels on these rented bleachers.

I’d been told to stay put; I imagined so Rory would know where I was, too. It suited me, but something else did not. The stands were filling up, and I discovered that I didn’t like being alone in a crowd. As Davey, I’d avoided crowds, I remembered, but as Kissy, they made me anxious in an entirely different way.

The chatter and noise were oppressive, even without the decibels from the stage where the Battle of the Bands continued. And several people tried to sit next to me—all guys. I put my hand out and laid my purse down, so it claimed a seat, but then I had to watch it. No use telling someone I was saving a spot; no one could hear me in the noise.

Someone did sit on the opposite side of me. I tried not to look at him because he was looking back at me every time I did. I regretted wearing a skirt. And my damn tiara. And perfume. And I had another hot flash so intense I was surprised the guy who’d sat next to me didn’t flinch.

How long were those going to be going on? Why didn’t anyone warn me about them? Now little bits of wind that got around and among the crowd made me feel cold and clammy. Then hot again. Good grief!

I sort of scooted into the middle of the space I’d saved, hands spread to make territorial claims. I had an internal debate going about who was the bigger doof, Armand for provoking the situation by stalking me, or Rory for leaving me alone with hundreds of strangers. Rory, I decided.

Armand might just be being Armand, brilliantly clueless, intelligently braindead when it came to judging socially appropriate behavior. But Rory was off on a testosterone-fueled tear. He might be able to talk to Armand later, but here at the concert? I could barely hear myself think.

I wiggled again in frustration then resolved not to do that again as I had attracted the stares of the guys on either side of me. And one guy in the row in front had half-turned around to look, earning himself an elbow in the ribs and me a glare from his girlfriend.

Maybe I could have laughed at that, but I started to feel afraid, and the fear was threatening to turn into pissed-offed-ness. The kind where you get up and do something stupid because you can’t think of anything else to do that isn’t equally stupid.

What’s the use of being a redhead if you can’t set something on fire whenever you feel like doing so? I had a brief fantasy of shooting flames out of my red-tipped nails.

About that time, the noise in the makeshift arena hit a new level. Half of the crowd decided to stand up, chanting something. Short little me, I couldn’t see a thing and wouldn’t have been able to do so if I did stand up. Which I did not want to do without someone friendly nearby to catch me in case I fell off my shoes.

I figured out what the crowd was shouting: “I know why!” Which I realized after a moment was probably really “I-NO-Y,” the name of Aron Jones other, more famous band. Why would they be shouting that?

Then I heard the unmistakable double-drumset sound of “I-NO-Y” followed by a guitar riff that could only be the legendary Bugs Benjamin—and Melody Alexander joining in with her soaring soprano vocal lead-in! I recognized the tune; they were going to do their cover of The Eagles “Hotel California”!

They would probably only do one or two songs before giving the stage up to “Y NOT.” Wasn’t Melody pregnant with her third kid? I had to see this. I’d never been to an I-NO-Y concert. No wonder the place was packed. Word must have leaked that they would be performing for their frontman, Jones.

I stood up, but it was hopeless. Even with five inches of platform heels, I couldn’t see over the crowd in front of me. Damnit. “Damnit, Rory!” Not sure why this made me extra angry at him, but I guess I thought he could maybe pick me up. Or… steady me while I climbed on the seat of the bleachers for an extra foot of height.

And there she was, tall strawberry blonde, as beautiful as a supermodel, the former Melody Jo Thiery, now Melody Alexander, belting out the chorus, first big and bold, then like the loudest whisper you ever heard. “..you can never leave!”

And when she turned sideways, you could see her baby bump! I’d watched her on TV; she has an exercise show on the Health and Fitness Channel; she was about five months along, barely showing. Oh, God! She was so beautiful! 

Why was I crying? Singer, dancer, musician, songwriter, TV star. Married to the band’s second drummer, Richard Alexander—the very definition of tall, dark and handsome! There he was behind her on drums. I was so-oo jealous!

Well, who wouldn’t be? Rich, famous, beautiful, talented and apparently happy, with the required 2.5 children for the perfection of the American dream. I couldn’t hate her, though. She had the voice of an angel who’d been to hell and back.

She segued into one of her own compositions, the disturbingly haunted song about the night she got shot at the band’s first concert:

Last night I heard an angel calling
Like the sound of our last delight
Still, you know I’ll wait for you, darling
On the Darker Side of Midnight.

It sent a shiver down my spine. She’d almost died, and she’d lost the use of her right arm for a year.

That was the end of her set, and the crowd went nuts with clapping and cheering as she and Richard left the stage while Bugs played howling riffs on his guitar. He looked like a cartoon character with his white mustachios and cowboy hat, but there weren’t five people in the world who were his peers on rock guitar.

He played a medley of the greatest hits of the five bands he’d been lead guitar for, finishing up with the quivering high notes of “I Know Why the Moon Is Blue.” 

Then Jones was at the mike, saying, “Why not?” And Y-Not replaced I-NO-Y on stage as they launched into the blues-rock anthem, “Beat the Devil.” A bunch of people in the stands tried to get down to the dance area in front of the stage, but others just began dancing where they were in the bleachers.

I don’t know what happened then. Maybe someone bumped into me. Maybe I stepped backward instead of forward. Maybe I tried to sit down and forgot I was standing on the seat. Suddenly, I was falling backward. The two guys on either side of me didn’t seem to see what was happening, even though I reached out for them.

I screamed. I know I must have screamed, but even I couldn’t hear me in the thunder of ten thousand feet dancing on wooden bleachers and Lemon-Eater Jones on the mike, growling, “Mercy!”

Nobody behind me tried to catch me, either. Maybe they didn’t see. Almost everyone was still standing up; if not dancing, they might be standing on tiptoe like I had been, trying to see the stage.

Did I hit my head falling? I must have because later, I had a heck of a goose egg just above and behind my right ear. I don’t remember exactly what happened.

If I fell into the trough between the bleacher seats onto the wooden planks people walked on, I must have then slipped between the seat and the tread. You shouldn’t be able to do that. There’s supposed to be a brace there to hold up the seat and help close that gap.

Maybe something was missing in the structure. Maybe I’m just so small and skinny that I fit through an opening that was only barely big enough. That’s probably when I hit my head.

And suddenly, I was falling through darkness. A much quieter place than the bleachers above, which still rocked and shuddered to enthusiastic dancers. A darkness full of pipes and braces, standards and anchors.

I kind of remember that. Or maybe I’ve only imagined what it must have been like. I think I saw a face just before I landed and got the wind knocked out of me. Maybe I only imagined that too.

Was it a face I recognized? Or did I just think I did? I called out a name, the name of someone who had rescued me before. The name of someone I now knew had loved me for years.

I slipped down and through the open space in the structure of the bleachers into a dark space full of the sound of the concert and the crowd.

I slipped down and through the open space in the structure of the bleachers into a dark space full of the sound of the concert and the crowd. Pieces of the structure slapped at my arms and legs as I fell, and something unseen bopped me on the forehead. But I had seen the shape of someone I thought I knew.

“Mando!” I cried out, falling. It all happened in an instant, in much less time than it takes to tell it.

He’d been closer to the front of the bleachers, standing with his hands to the sides of his head as if he’d been covering his ears. He moved in a familiar herky-jerk rhythm, not in time to the music, more as if his puppeteer were trying to fight off ants. But he heard.

He turned his head, and for an instant, our eyes met. Then I got the wind knocked out of me by an awkward landing that made a cracking sound when my ankle struck one of the ground braces of the stands.

He reached me in less than four strides where I lay on the summer-stunned grass of the vacant lot under the temporary bleachers. Something fell through the semi-darkness to land beside me. My purse probably kicked off the seat I’d just fallen from by the crowd, still dancing to Aron Jones singing, “Beat the Devil.”

“Got them no ‘count Dancin’ Blues,” Jones sang, and a Gatling-gun-drummer cut him down. “Mercy!” he screamed.

Armand knelt beside me, “D-D-Kissy?” he said wonderingly. “Are you all right? What are you doing down here? Did you fall?” His big face was all scrunched-up as he looked around in quick glances, searching for some explanation as to what I was doing under the stands at the concert.

My corset was making it hard to get my breath back. “Mando,” I whispered. “It was you we saw. Ow.” My head and neck hurt, and I had evidently hit my ankle on some structural part of the stands as well. That hurt so much I had trouble thinking.

“Who?” Armand asked. “I didn’t know you were here.” He looked around again. “Are you here with that big guy from the game?”

I tried to laugh, but it came out as gasps. Rory was taller, but Armand probably outweighed him by twenty pounds or more. All I could manage was a nod. “How—why—you?”

He guessed what I was trying to ask. “My aunt is Aron Jones’s lawyer. She gave me a ticket, ‘cause she knows I like the music. So I came down, but I forgot about how loud it would be.” He shook his head. “Even under here, it’s too loud.”

It was loud, but we weren’t quite shouting. Armand never could stand much noise— it’s why he dropped off the wrestling team back in high school. The echoes of even a small crowd in a gymnasium made him freak.

I got enough breath back to squeak, “You’re an idiot.” I meant it fondly, but it was true. Mando was always the last to remember his own peculiarities. I guess he thought of himself as just another one of the ordinary guys.

He flashed one of his grins and nodded. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Help me up?” I asked. He did, but I couldn’t stand on the ankle. “Ow, ow, ow!” I yelped. The pain went to the top of my head and came down the other side, leaving me a little sick feeling in my middle.

“You’re not okay,” he decided, and with that, he scooped me up into his arms. “Hmm,” he rumbled, clearly pleased with himself. “You smell nice, Kissy.”

“Thanks,” I said, putting my arms around his neck. The situation was absurd, and I giggled. I’d never felt the slightest bit of romantic interest in Armand before he picked me up. I guess I’m just—face it—turned on by big strong guys who can be gentle.

Knowing that Armand, at least according to Rory, had thought of me as female even before I started being Kissy had some effect, too. I lay my head against his wide chest and sighed. I liked this, I decided.

A voice interrupted my thoughts. “What the hell?” Rory had shown up. He sounded confused and angry, but I couldn’t see him.

“I fell through the bleachers,” I called out. “Mando was down here hiding from the noise.”

“Hey, Rory,” Armand put in. “You need to keep better track of your girlfriend.”

Suddenly Rory was there beside us, just as the sun finally fell below the horizon and darkness washed in like a tide. “Are you hurt?” he asked me.

“Uh-huh,” I said with a princessy little whimper. “I hit my head, and I landed badly on my ankle, and—and—,” I realized I was going to burst into tears just before I did it. Damn hormones, I thought.

“Give her to me, Mando,” Rory demanded.

“Nuh-uh,” Armand grunted. “It’s too dark under here. We might drop her.”

Responding to that, Rory pulled out his phone and used the flashlight app to light up the space we were in.

I had the hiccups again, and I was scared and still crying.

“Put her down,” Rory ordered. “Then you hold the light while I pick her up.” The words sounded reasonable, but I had never heard that mean tone from Rory, not even when Dr. Bellerophon threatened me with Bad Axe.

“Nuh-uh,” Armand countered, and he started toward the end of the bleachers where the temporary fence separated the impromptu stadium from the rest of the empty lot.

Rory grabbed his shoulder, but Armand shook him off without changing his grip on me. “Let’s get out of the dungeon before we start a party brawl,” I protested.

“Why is he carrying you?” Rory demanded.

“I can’t walk on my ankle,” I explained. I had stopped crying but still sniffled a bit.

“Turn off that flashlight or get in front of me,” Armand ordered. “The shadows you’re making are very distracting.”

“Stop then,” said Rory. Armand stopped, and Rory moved past him to take the lead, giving me a squeeze on the arm in passing. “Babe,” he murmured. He sounded concerned but maybe still a bit angry.

We moved toward the end of the bleacher section where it would be possible to exit into the concourse around the concert seating. Rory and Armand argued as we walked.

Armand asked. “Why did you leave her alone, Calhoun?” A nickname for Rory I’d never heard used before, or maybe one Armand made up on the spot. “She wouldn’t have fallen if you had stayed with her.”

Rory made a noise like an angry gargle. “I saw you stalking her and went looking for you to tell you to knock it off.”

“Woof,” said Armand. “I wasn’t talking or even following her. I got tickets for this concert from my aunt.” The words were mild, but delivered in Armand’s usual near monotone, they seemed fraught with menace. His flat affect could sound scary if you didn’t know him well.

We emerged from the under-bleacher darkness, and Rory flicked off his flashlight app. I had gotten over my weepiness and felt a bit pissed at both of them. The testosterone in the air affected me, too, and I didn’t like it.

“So it’s just a coincidence that you keep turning up?” demanded Rory.

Armand ignored his question to ask, “Do you think you can walk, Kissy?”

I nodded against his chest. “Put me down,” I told him.

“Give her to me,” Rory said, stepping up.

“No,” I insisted. “Just put me down.”

“Babe.” Rory sounded hurt. “You mad at me?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted. “But I’m not happy at the moment. And I want to see if I can walk.”

Armand put me on my feet but kept an arm around my waist. I tried to take a step with Rory on my other side, but the ankle protested with a flash of pain that made me sick at my stomach again. I whimpered, biting back a scream.

Predictably, they both tried to pick me up.

“I am not a chew toy!” I protested when they pulled on my arms, but neither would let go. “Guys! Cut it out!”

Suddenly, it wasn’t tugging and yanking but pushing and shoving. I staggered out from between them and found myself clinging to a bleacher support beam. Waves of pain from my misaligned ankle made me cross my eyes.

The boys grunted and snarled and called each other names. “Rainman!” Rory accused, prompting Armand to respond with a more visceral if less clever, “Jockstrap!”

“Stop it, stop it, stoppit!” I squeaked. I wanted to hit them with something, but I needed both hands to hold myself upright. A roar from the bleachers above us signaled the end of Y-NOT’s first set. I knew from having seen the show on HBO that the break would be filled with recorded music and a performance by the Jazz-in-Motion Dancers, so it didn’t really get quiet.

Armand had picked Rory up in a body hug and slammed him into another steel beam holding up the stands while my date chopped at Mando’s thick neck, big hands held like knives. A crowd had begun to form around them, adding encouraging yips and squeals to the noise.

I couldn’t even hear myself, so I was free to say whatever. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid heads!” I raged ineffectively. My tiara slipped over one eye, and my purse threatened to escape my grasp.

I couldn’t have heard her in all the racket, but somehow I knew she was there before she touched my arm. I looked at her in her skinny jeans, green polo shirt and tan Nike windbreaker. My mouth was open, so I may have been shouting at her. Had I been expecting her to show up? I probably should have.

She leaned close. “Let me get you out of here,” Marjorie said right into my ear.

“I came with Rory,” I said. “He’s going to wonder where I went.”

Marjorie got on my good side so I could hold my bad ankle up and sort of hop along while she kept me from falling. We headed toward the gap in the outer fence and then to the parking lot. I glanced back a couple times, but the guys were still fighting, with a crowd egging them on.

Damn! I was so annoyed with them both that I couldn’t speak but only made hissing and fizzing noises like an angry cappuccino machine. I punctuated those with little moans and yelps when my foot touched the ground, or someone jostled against me.

“I think you need an ER,” Marjorie shouted in my ear. I nodded, rather than trying to scream yes.

We didn’t get our hands stamped as we exited, but made our way toward the valet stand. Of course. Why would Marjorie park her own car? But I was grateful we would not have to stagger a Wilshire block or more to find her vehicle.

A young black guy who didn’t look old enough to drive dashed off to the valet lot as soon as Marjorie surrendered the claim ticket. Someone found me a plastic chair to sit in and asked, “Do you need an ambulance?”

I shook my head as Marjorie pushed in between us. “I’ll drive her to the clinic,” she told the man who peered around her to examine me, still looking concerned.

“Morons,” she muttered as she braced a hip against the chair I was sitting in.

“Who?” I asked. “He just wanted to help. Oh, you mean the guys, fighting?”

“Them too,” she agreed. “But mostly men in general.”

I had to giggle at that. Oh, yeah, Marjorie the lesbian.

She bent over and gave me a quick peck right on the lips. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “I came with Rory,” I said. At this distance from the stage with the crowded stands between us and it, I didn’t quite have to shout. “He’s going to wonder where I went.”

“Fuck him,” she remarked. Then she grinned. “On second thought, don’t do that.” She bent over and kissed me again. I gave a little back this time—the woman did know how to kiss.

“How come you were here?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. “Have you been following me?”

She shrugged. “Only since I saw you getting on the freeway near downtown. I recognized the truck.”

I frowned. Her explanation meant she had followed us after we got off on Santa Monica. She wouldn’t have had concert tickets, but that probably wouldn’t have stopped her. Being a Pritzger, she could have called someone who could get her in. Wealth has its privileges. But did I believe her that she hadn’t been following us since Rory picked me up at Mom’s apartment? Maybe. Still, it was a bit creepy.

“Stalker,” I accused when I had worked through that chain of thought.

Smiling, she kissed me again. My head and ankle hurt and kept me from really enjoying her kisses.

I tried to keep an eye on the stadium exit, but Marjorie kept herself between me and a good view of who might be coming out. I didn’t see a clot of security swarming the area, so the boys had likely not killed each other. One of them should have figured out by now that I had left the venue.

And sure enough, I spotted Armand’s bulk almost staggering out through the exit gate, just as the skinny valet pulled up in Marjorie’s car—a blue Mercedes this time. After a moment, the vehicle hid the big guy from my view, and me from his.

My phone rang—or rather, vibrated—in my purse. I fumbled it out and looked at the screen. Rory. I answered it. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey, Babe,” he replied. “Where are you?” The crowd noise was muted a bit. Maybe he was back under the stands?

“I caught a ride to Urgent Care,” I explained. The phone wriggled in my grasp, and I almost dropped it. I looked at the screen again. Armand.

“Oh, hey, yeah, huh?” said Rory. Incoherence was so unlike him.

“I’ll get a ride home from there,” I said, making a decision. I hadn’t realized until just then that I was still annoyed at him.

“I’m sorry, Babe,” he said. “I’m an idiot. Armand left to look for you outside the stands. He’s leaving too, ‘cause of the noise.”

At Marjorie’s direction, two of the valet guys were picking me up, chair and all, and carrying me to the car. It was so ridiculous, I had to laugh.

“Is he there?” Rory asked, all suspicious again. The phone buzzed in my hand again.

“No,” I said. “He’s calling on the phone, too.” I didn’t plan on telling him—either of them—that I was with Marjorie. “Look, I get home, I’ll call you. Bye.”

“Babe,” he said. I hung up. The valet guys were laughing at me (I’m not sure why), but they had the car door open and helped me slide from the chair into the car. Marjorie was already in the driver’s seat, and she fastened my safety belt.

“Thanks, guys,” I said as they carefully closed the door.

“De nada, chica,” said the one, smiling, and the other just said, “Sho’.”

I reached a hand over to trade a squeeze with Marjorie, then she had to use both hands to navigate out to the street.

I reclaimed my hand and called Armand back.

“Kissy?” he said immediately. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “On my way to urgent care with a friend.”

“Good.” He paused, but before I could speak, he went on. “Rory is an ass, but we settled things. Friends again, I guess.” He made the burble noise he used for a chuckle.

I rolled my eyes, amused that a little violence seemed to be part of some male friendships. “I’ll call you when I get home,” I offered. Marjorie glanced over at me as she exited the parking lot and steered into the traffic on Santa Monica.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’m thinking of maybe having a movie day tomorrow, at my house….”

He was trying to ask me for a date, I realized. The big goof really had few social skills that weren’t nerd-oriented. “We can talk about that when I call,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said but couldn’t seem to think of anything to keep the conversation going.

We stopped at a light, and Marjorie reached over to take my hand and give it a squeeze. I squeezed back. “Bye, Armand,” I said gently.

“Bye, Kissy,” he returned, and we both hung up.

We were moving again. I could see the towers of a building complex ahead of us. My ankle throbbed and shot pains up my leg. I wanted to whimper, but resisted. My head hurt, too, and I fingered the knot near my temple gingerly.

Marjorie gave me another glance. “How are you doing?”

“It hurts,” I said, trying not to make too much out of it.

“Push your seat back so you can stretch your leg out.”

I tried to figure out the Mercedes seat controls, but Marjorie pre-empted my efforts with the master switches from her side. The seat tilted back until I said, “Stop.” (There might be advantages in having a rich girlfriend.)

But that brought to mind Marjorie’s “gifts.” And her marriage proposal. I took my phone out again and called Mom.

“Hey,” I said when she answered.

“Which hospital?” she asked. I frowned. How does she do that shit? I asked Marjorie and relayed the answer to Mom. “How did you know I was hurt?”

“Your voice, honey,” she answered. “You’re my little princess, and of course I know that you have a boo-boo.” Mom, so annoying and so embarrassing, but at least no one but Marjorie could see me blush. “Meet you there,” Mom said, hanging up.

I sighed as I put the phone away.

“Your mom is a hoot,” Marjorie offered.

I rolled my eyes and made a face. “I’m surprised that you two actually get along.”

“Well, it wasn’t love at first sight,” she admitted. “But once she was convinced I really care about you, she was more willing to be friends.”

I made a noise. “Uh, huh. But Marjorie, about your gifts and—uh—proposal….” I didn’t know what I wanted to say and sort of trailed off.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re straight?” she asked.

I had to giggle at that, but I protested, “I don’t know what I am!” I gestured at what I was wearing. “All I know is, until I fell off the world, I was enjoying myself. A lot.”

She nodded, making a last turn before the hospital emergency entrance. “We had a lot of fun together the other day.”

I squirmed. My ankle throbbed, and my head ached. “Yeah,” I admitted. But I added, “You scare the crap out of me, Marjorie. You’re so used to getting your own way. Your money, your personality, I felt like I was caught in an undertow at the end of the day.”

She took a beat to reply. “I’m sorry,” she said.

I put a hand out that she could grab and squeeze, and then she needed both hands to turn into the emergency drive-thru. She stopped the car and popped out, calling to an attendant. “Can we get a wheelchair here?”

Marjorie in charge. She had the situation well in hand, and soon I was telling someone my vital information (leaving out a little but not much) while they arranged a visit to the x-ray lab.

“Can you be sure that you’re not pregnant?” the intake nurse asked me again.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I replied, just as I looked up to see Mom coming in through the electric doors of the emergency room entrance.

Marjorie saw where I was looking and waved Mom over.

We moved this way and that. Mom and Marjorie consulted. I got my x-rays (which did not make me pregnant), and eventually, I got a diagnosis (hairline fracture) and a light cast on my ankle.

“Come back in a week, and we’ll take it off, or go to your own doctor,” the technician told me. He had nice hands but a completely professional attitude, so he was hardly any fun at all. “Take ibuprofen if it hurts,” he added.

“Okay,” I agreed. I sat in the wheelchair while Mom handled paperwork. Marjorie stood near me, fidgeting. “I’m not going home with you,” I said quietly.

She nodded. Her eyes looked moist.

“Marjorie,” I said, “we’ve only known each other for a few days.”

“I know, yes, that’s true.” She nodded again. “But, Kissy…. It’s like one of those old sixties songs. I’ve got it bad for you. I think about you all the time; I can’t seem to help it.”

“You scare me,” I said. Was she crying? “Your money, your gifts, your proposal—it’s too much. We’re not—we can’t—. At least…at least I don’t think I can?” I didn’t mean that as a question. I knew I couldn’t.

She turned half away, still nodding. Was I crying now? Without looking at me, she admitted, “I have been following you. I’ll stop.” She sighed and wiped at her eyes.

We smiled at each other, tears running down our cheeks. Hadn’t we done this before?

I watched her walk away. Neither of us said goodbye, and perhaps it wasn’t really—it felt like we’d see each other again, someday, somehow.

“You didn’t break your foot by kicking your boyfriend, did you?” he asked.

Mom dropped one of the little boxes of tissues they have in hospitals in my lap. “Wipe your eyes, princess,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I meant your foot,” she clarified.

“That, too.” I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, delicately as I could manage. “Mom,” I said, “I think I’m straight, and I feel guilty about it.”

She laughed softly. She had a pair of those light, angular crutches with her that she hung from the bar that stuck up from the back of the wheelchair. I guessed I’d be needing those, but just then, I was glad for the wheels.

An attendant came over to push my chair toward the exit. Outside, he waited with me while Mom fetched the car. He was a pleasant-looking older man, nearer Mom’s age than mine.

He smiled at me, and I smiled back. “You didn’t break your foot by kicking your boyfriend, did you?” he asked.

“Huh?” The question startled me. “Uh, no.” I thought about what had happened with Rory and Armand. “I guess I had thought of it, though.” I grinned because I recognized now that he was teasing. I was too young for him to flirt with, so he would tease me instead.

“You redheads, you’ve all got that temper.” He shook his head, his eyes twinkling.

“Not me,” I protested. “I don’t hardly have a temper at all.”

“Oh,” he said. “I guess you’re one of them heartbreaking redheads, then?”

“Uh.” Maybe he wasn’t just teasing. Had he overheard Marjorie and I talking? “I didn’t mean to,” I said. “It was an accident. I was holding it in my hands, and it just slipped.”

He laughed softly. Okay, he had been teasing, but he still sounded serious. “You gotta be careful. Looking like you do, all sweet and innocent, you’ll probably be breaking hearts all your life.”

“I hope not,” I told him. I read his name tag. “I surely hope not, Mr. Sommers.”

He squinted at me. “You look a bit like that actress, Heather Something—”

“Bock,” I said.

“Yeah, her,” he nodded. “And you know, that woman has broken enough hearts in this town, they could name the cardiac ward after her.”

That got a good hard giggle out of me, then Mom’s car pulled up alongside the curb, and behind it—a familiar big Toyota pickup.

Mom and Rory got out and began discussing which one would give me a ride home. Behind them, the streamers of color left by the sunset still made the night sky glow. I didn’t call out. If Rory could talk Mom into it, I’d be glad to ride home with him.

“Is that the boyfriend you didn’t kick?” Mr. Sommers asked.

“One of them,” I said with a small giggle.

Mr. Sommers laughed, too.

“He deserved, but I didn’t do it,” I added for another laugh.

Rory came over to me, swaggering like he’d just hit for extra bases. I grinned up at him.

“Your mom is tough,” he said. “She called me while you were getting pictures taken, and then she’s all, ‘what are you doing here?’ when I show up.”

I put my face up for a kiss and gave one back. “You’re forgiven,” I said.

“For what? Oh, okay.” He looked embarrassed. “I felt like a fool when I finally let Armand explain things.”

“Uh, huh,” I agreed. “I hope I don’t have to find someone Armand’s size every time you get stubborn. He wasn’t stalking me, Marjorie was.”

“Marjorie?” He looked around. “You’ve told me about her. Is she here?”

I shook my head. “She’s gone.”

Mom came over with instructions. “I’m going home, so you bring her straight there, Mr. Beeson.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We might go through a drive-thru?”

She nodded to okay that. “But no side trips to any reservoirs or lakes.”

Rory snorted. How had she known about our side trip up to the reservoir the other night? But he didn’t admit to anything, just another, “Yes’m.” He grinned at me, and I grinned back.

After Mom left to get her car out of the way and head home, Rory helped me into the cab of the giant truck, and Mr. Sommers took the wheelchair to return it to the ER. He handed the crutches to Rory to store in the back seat, and I heard him give my guy some advice.

“You watch yourself. This one could break your heart with a twist of her fingers.” He winked at me as he said that!

Rory laughed. “I knew that. I’ll be careful.” He closed up and trotted around the cab to climb in on the driver’s side.

He leaned across the console, and we kissed, just a peck.

“I heard what he said to you,” I commented.

Rory grinned, maneuvering the monster truck through the crazy traffic around the hospital. “Funny old guy, huh?”

It had finally gotten really dark; the clock in the dash said it was after nine. The time in the hospital had mostly been empty and seemed to take forever, but now that we were out, it wasn’t really that late. But I suddenly surprised myself by yawning.

“Tired?” asked Rory. “Getting hurt always makes you tired. And you’ll be sore all over tomorrow.”

“Great,” I said. I put my hand in his when I felt he could handle the steering one-handed. I yawned again.

“Italians say that people yawn when they’re hungry,” Rory commented. “I could use something to eat. How about you?”

“Meh,” I said. “Maybe something.”

“Angelo’s?” he suggested.

“That’s not a drive-thru. It’s a drive-in.”

“Yeah, huh? But they got malts?”

I considered. Not everywhere had malts, and I didn’t get that many chances to have one at Angelo’s. “Okay,” I agreed. “No burger, just a small chocolate malt.”

We pulled into one of the stalls, and Rory used his phone to place our order. “You want any rings or fries? One of my old girlfriends used to like to dip onion rings into her chocolate shakes.”

“Eww! You didn’t have to tell me about it!” I giggled. “No, thank you, just the malt.”

Neither of us said anything for a bit. Rory messed with his phone for a bit then put it away. “I guess we’re a thing now, huh?”

“I kinda hope so?” I said. I looked at him sideways.

“Put your seat back so you can get your foot up. It’s gonna hurt less if you do,” he suggested, then showed me how.

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t want it too far back. It would make it hard to drink the malt.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“What were you looking at on your phone?”

“Calendar,” he said. “Your birthday is in about three weeks.”

I nodded. “The seventeenth.”

“It’s on a Monday, and we don’t play on Mondays.” He meant his baseball team.

I nodded, thinking about that. I’d be eighteen on the seventeenth, the date Mom had hinted that I would not be in trouble for staying out real late. But a Monday?

“You should be off the crutches by then. We could go somewhere.”

“What? Like Disneyland?”

He shrugged. “If you like.”

“Huh?” I said, thinking about it.

The carhop came with our food, but she couldn't reach the window to attach the tray, and Rory had to sort that out. He’d gotten a steak-and-BLT California burger for himself with fries and a tall water, and the small chocolate malt for me. The steak was medium-rare, sliced thin, and piled so high with the bacon, lettuce, tomato, guacamole and jalapeños that I wondered if he could get it in his mouth.

I watched in awe as he devoured this treat after spreading napkins all over himself and his side of the cab. The mess soon contained inside him; he offered me some of his fries while he cleaned up and left wadded napkins on the tray outside his window.

I ate two fries, crispy, unpeeled outsides with fluffy insides, delicious. “Why would anyone order onion rings at Angelo’s,” I wondered out loud.

He shrugged. “Not worth figuring that out,” he said. “Disneyland? Or….”

I blinked. “Or? What are you thinking.” I sucked at my malt while Rory took a deep breath. Was he…scared?

“My folks have a cabin up at Green Valley. It will be empty.”

“Where’s, uh, where’s Green Valley?”

“Turn north before you get to Arrowhead. It’s a bit quieter than the bigger resorts up there.”

He meant the San Bernardino Mountains, about fifty miles east of LA. Skiing in the winter, boating and hiking in the summer. “I’ve never been there,” I said. “I’m not much of an outdoor type.”

He flashed a grin, like both of us knew what we might go up to such a place for—not hiking or boating.

I chased the last of my malt with my straw. “I’m sorry, I didn’t offer you any of this. It was so good!”

He shook his head. “I try to avoid milk or ice cream in the evening. Bad for my breathing, I’m an asthmatic.”

“You what?” That startled me.

“Doesn’t bother me much,” he said, waving it away. “I haven’t needed any meds for a few years now.”

“Oh,” I said. I passed him my empty cup, and he put it on the tray outside his window, then flashed his lights to signal the carhop that we were done. He put some money on the tray before she came and when she took the tray, he started the engine, and we were on our way.

We were near the edge of downtown, still miles from where I lived. He headed toward Hollywood, the city bright around us. Because it was the weekend, things wouldn’t slow down till midnight.

“So,” he asked after a short time of neither of us talking. “Disneyland? Green Valley? Someplace else? How do you want to spend your birthday?”

I considered it very carefully. My heart thumped in my chest, and my breath seemed sticky in my throat. “Are we still going to be together then, Rory?”

He snorted. “For my part, yeah. If I have to break Armand’s head or put sugar in Marjorie’s gas tank, I’ll be there if you still want me.”

“Well.” I didn’t want to squeak or squeal or otherwise embarrass myself. “Well, I had kind of been planning on losing my virginity on my birthday.”

Rory grinned big, put his right hand over for me to grab, and then whooped like his teammates had when he hit one over the fence.

I giggled and blushed and squeezed his hand. I’d have to tell Mom, I reflected, but chances were that she already knew.