Poor Alice needed to poop.

I was still trying to dry my hair with the towel Alastair had handed me. Wandering about the living room, I picked up a tabletop frame holding a picture of Mom and Alastair taken on their wedding day. He still kept it in a conspicuous place. I could’ve told him it wouldn’t end well but I was barely a year old and unable to speak intelligently at the time. Also, I slept through the ceremony, cradled in my grandmother’s arms.

“The rain’s stopped but it’s damp and chilly outside,” Alastair shouted from the bedroom. “Do you have anything to wear over your t-shirt?”

“Let me fish out my leather jacket from my case—”

“No, that’ll be too heavy to wear. I’ve got something for you. A light pullover sweatshirt. Don’t worry, it’s a girl’s sweatshirt. It’s even pink—”

“Didn’t know you were secretly cross-dressing, Dad.”

“Funny, Cherry, very funny.” He appeared before me as I turned around, gently placing the wedding picture back on the end table. He was holding out a pink sweatshirt with the word “Providence” in script across the front. It looked a size or two too large for me. “Put your arms through, Cherry.”

“Don’t tell me you kept one of Mom’s old school sweatshirts. Did she even notice you swiped it?” Mom had been a theater major at Providence College in Rhode Island, where she’d been born and raised.

Ignoring me, Alastair managed to entrap me in the sweatshirt in one smooth downstroke.

“You messed up my hair!” I shrieked.

“Girls wear their hair like that these days. Like a wild mare, red mane tossed by the wind—”

“Like you know how girls wear their hair these days. Dad, you’re an old dude. Look at those shelves against the wall. LPs. Actual vinyl LPs of dead jazz musicians.” I started to alphabetically list the names I remembered from my listening sessions with him. “Armstrong, Brubeck, Coltrane, Ellington, Gillespie—”

“I thought you liked jazz, Cherry.”

“Nah, not likely.”

“So, you’re probably very excited to meet Trent Foster tomorrow at rehearsal,” Dad snickered.

“Oh, give me a break. I wouldn’t call that music. He’s just eye candy for teenage girls.”

“Like you?” Dad placed his arm around me and, with Alice capering on her leash, we walked out into the hallway. He slammed the door shut and locked it. Both locks.

“He’s cute, I’ll admit but I’m not sure I’m attracted to boys. I’ve got a lot of things to sort out first.”

“Your mom told me you crushed on some boy at school—”

“She makes things up for the hell of it. Even if I did, how would she know? We’re rarely within 100 miles of each other. She sent me away to boarding school for a reason.”

“With the divorce, there was no one at home to properly supervise you. At least, before the split, one of us would always be there, as long as our schedules didn’t clash.”

“You sound like a caseworker,” I spat out.

“If my job didn’t involve so much travel, I would’ve petitioned for custody. But not being your adopted father, I had no legal standing. Your mom was adamantly against it.”

“Anyway, where are we taking Alice to do her business?”

“I guess you’ve forgotten, eh? It’s only been three years since you last stayed here with your mom. There’s a dog poop station in Christopher Park. After Alice relieves herself, we can head down to John’s Pizzeria and bring back dinner for two. Sound good?”

We headed east to West 4th Street, passing by the West Village’s famous brownstones on both sides of Perry Street. Turning right, we strolled downtown, slowing our pace to accommodate aging Alice’s tiny steps and inquisitive nose.

The sun was low in the sky and casting a golden sheen on our surroundings. Some of the pedestrians on the street were probably walking home from work. The smarter ones had made note of the morning’s weather forecast, staying relatively dry under rain slicks and umbrellas, now swinging at their side. Others wore exasperated expressions as rivulets of water still meandered down their faces.

Servers from a dozen sidewalk cafes along West 4th Street scurried about replacing outdoor tables and chairs almost immediately after the rain had stopped.

A couple of young women who looked like fashion models stopped and bent down to pet Alice. One of them asked, “Boy or girl?” For a moment, I thought they were addressing me.

“Her name is Alice. She’s a Bichon poodle mix,” I announced. They gave Alice one last pat on the head and slinked away, chirping to each other. I noticed Alastair was paying particular attention to them as they swayed into the distance.

“Dad, don’t be so obvious. Aren’t you getting any lately?”

“Don’t be disrespectful, Cherry. I’m still your erstwhile parental unit.”

Finally, we reached the crossroad of West 4th, Christopher Street, and 7th Avenue. Once the light changed, we avoided some asinine New York drivers and stepped into Christopher Park, a postage stamp-sized island of shrubbery and benches that officially commemorates The Stonewall Riots in June 1969 that marked a new beginning for the Gay Rights Movement. The Stonewall Inn, where gay patrons fought back against a series of police raids, still stands two blocks away.

Alice looked up at the statues of a gay male couple and a lesbian couple seated on one of the benches. A youngish-looking derelict sprawled on the bench nearby leered at me. Disgusted, I pulled on Alice’s leash and leaned into Alastair, quickly moving toward the dog poop station. It took a few seconds for Alice to approve of the site before getting down to her business. I pulled out a poop bag from the dispenser and held it out to Alastair.

“Oh no, she’s your dog,” he said, both hands warding off the bag.

“You gave her to me in the first place! Never mind. Alice seems finished. Avert your eyes if you must.” I bent down and scooped up Alice’s work product, reversed it, twisted the top of the bag two times and then tied it off like a balloon.

A re-energized Alice accelerated her gait as we moved west down Christopher Street, intersecting in short order with Bleecker Street. John’s Pizzeria, the original John’s Pizzeria established in 1929, was three blocks south on Bleecker.

“The woman at the counter at John’s recognized me immediately. She remembered me as a boy before you and mom split,” I said as I picked up another slice of John’s Special Pizza. Extra cheese, mushrooms, onions, peppers, pepperoni, and sausage. It had been three years since I’d tasted real New York pizza.

“She complimented you. Said you used to be a cute boy and now you’re a beautiful young girl,” Alastair observed, pouring himself another glass of iced tea.

“I’m not used to hearing people saying I’m beautiful or even attractive. Everyone at school knew me as a boy named Jerry. When I started my junior year as Cherry, they mostly avoided me. They probably thought I was a freak. I’m sure they didn’t know what to make of my transformation.”

“Thankfully you weren’t harassed, though, right?” I nodded although there were stories I could tell.

“Your mom tried to help by organizing an elaborate 17th birthday party at your house, inviting many of your schoolmates.” Alastair chuckled. “She even hired a fleet of limos to pick them up from Mirage Canyon and bring them all the way from Chatsworth to Calabasas…on a school day!”

“Trying to buy me friends. Yeah, but it turns out they just wanted to meet Mom, the famous TV star and Tesla commercial spokeswoman. Especially the guys. They acted like she’d greet them in a bikini or something.”

“Or dressed like Space Babe?”

“Nah, they weren’t even born when those movies came out. You know, come to think of it, two of the boys came with their dads. They passed on the limo and drove down in their own cars.”

“Your mom tried, Cherry. She loves you a great deal. I hope you realize that.”

“And that’s why I’m sitting here eating pizza with my stepdad while she totally forgot to pick up her daughter at the airport. She sent Max instead. I’m surprised she didn’t ask you.”

“Well, what do you want to do while we wait for your mother to come pick you up?”

“She’s coming to pick me up?”

“Yeah, Max texted me while you were coming up on the elevator. She’ll come pick you up after the cast dinner ends. I think the Nederlanders give their stars car service for the duration. Just like your suite at The Carlyle. Gratis.”

“I wish we could play Minecraft but there’s no way we can do multiplayer on my laptop—”

“Plus I’ve never played that anyway, Cherry. As you’ve reminded me, I’m an old dude. We can listen to music—”

“No, Dad, just no. I’m wide awake. I’m still on West Coast time. Listening to your jazz records will knock me out. Then I won’t be able to sleep when I’m supposed to.”

“The Yankees game is on. They’re playing the Phillies.” I frowned. “I know you hate sports but I’ll turn the sound down and we can talk. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Alastair nursed his can of beer while I spooned chocolate ice cream into my mouth. We sat on opposite ends of his couch, facing the TV on the wall. When an inning ended and they broke into commercials, I decided to divulge my secret mission for the summer.

“I don’t think Mom ever told my biological father about me. I mean, that I even exist as…as his child.”

“I’ve always assumed that. But why would she not tell him, whoever he is or was. For all we know, he might be dead.”

“Oh, that’s easy, Dad. I’m surprised you were married to her for 12 years—”

“13.”

“13 years. And you don’t know the whole backstory of her life. She was married straight out of college—”

“Yes, to Max’s father. Cole Mikkelsen. He’s a venture capitalist. Works with Silicon Valley entities. Had a baby before the ink was dry on their marriage license. Had a nasty divorce when your mother’s career took off. Right after the sequel to Space Babe came out and she started getting big time film roles. The judge awarded custody to Cole. Unusual to grant full custody to the father but Cole’s attorney pointed out that she’d been away from home on location two out of every three weeks for the last two years. The very definition of an absent mother.”

“Mom keeps a lot of feelings locked inside, away from prying eyes. Even from her husband—”

“But not her child? She shared her feelings with you?”

“No, not explicitly. But I could put the puzzle together. She was devastated by having her 5-year-old boy taken forcibly away from her. She wanted another baby. Preferably another boy. But she didn’t want to go through the same ordeal again and have yet another child ripped away from her.”

Alastair put down his beer and stared blankly out the window. “Did she think I would do that to her? And I thought I had trust issues. I could never do that!”

“That’s why she refused to let you legally adopt me. Why she insisted I call you Alastair instead of daddy. She just assumed you two would split up one day. I mean, it’s Hollywood, after all.”

“So you see, Cherry, your mother does love you. She treasured you more than she did our marriage. More than her own career.” Alastair held my hand tightly in one hand and patted my cheek with the other.

“Sometimes I think she thinks of me as an appendage of her body. A part of her. Losing me would be like amputating a part of her. But is that love? Or is it possessiveness? She had me to replace the lost limb that was Max. Now that I’m a girl, she no longer has the proper replacement.”

“Maybe. But I can’t help but feel you’re overthinking this, Cherry.”

“Tell me. Why would Mom sign to star in a Broadway play at this stage of her career? She hasn’t been on stage since she was a theater major in college. She was working on developing two television series. One of them was close to being greenlighted at GlobalNet. You’re the one lined up to executive produce it!”

“It was puzzling at the time. But your mother has always been a theater junkie. And she’s always wanted to sing on Broadway. Remember the year we sent out that musical Christmas card?”

“Sure. I was 4 or 5 and I accompanied Mom on bongos. Alice contributed the barks.” I laughed.

“Well, Cherry, bongos aren’t traditionally part of the arrangement for ‘White Christmas.’”

“Mom wasn’t mad at me.”

“That’s my point. Even Alice’s and your musical sabotage didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for recording that song. I don’t see it as strange that she would jump at the chance to play Broadway.”

“You might not know this, Dad, but she turned it down when they first approached her last year. Then they cast David Wetherell in the lead male role about a month ago. She did a 180 and contacted them! Everything came together quickly right afterwards.”

“David was her co-star in Thick as Thieves, the film she won an Oscar for, the year you were born.”

“And they’ve never worked together since. Despite a lot of projects that were developed especially for them as a screen pair,” I noted, my eyebrows arching Groucho Marx style.

“She told me she didn’t have a great time working with him. The guy’s a real horndog, a skirt chaser. And he was newly married when they were shooting the film. Left his bride at home in Scotland while they were filming in the South of France. He definitely tried to bag your mother.”

“David Wetherell is my biological father. I’m sure of it! He’s a ginger just like me! Who else has Mom bonked with red hair? Mom’s doing this show to rekindle their romance. I read online that he and his current wife are separated, awaiting a final divorce decree. Coincidence?”

“Whoa, Cherry. Talk about jumping to conclusions on flimsy speculation. She might have mentioned Wetherell’s name two, maybe three times in all the time I’ve known her. Even before we started dating.”

“Dad, I’m absolutely convinced he’s my father—”

The sound of screeching tires grew louder, getting closer. The rain had cooled down the night, allowing Alastair to forego turning on the air conditioner and open his windows instead to let the breeze in. The sounds were coming from the street below. I jumped off the couch and went to the window. There, up the street and moving faster than 35 miles per hour was a motorcycle with two riders.

“You have biker neighbors, Dad?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. The last biker who lived around here was Bradley Cooper. He and his Harley moved away a couple of years ago. Can’t say his neighbors miss him.”

The motorcycle parked in front of the building. I could see now that the riders were a man and a woman. When their faces were lit up by the streetlights, I recognized Mom. The man with her looked up at our window and pointed. I moved back from the window.

“I think Mom’s here to pick me up. And, if I’m not mistaken, she’s arrived on the back of David Wetherell’s motorcycle.”

“Buzz them in, Dad.”

A second after I said that, the buzzer rang. I ran to the intercom.

“Yes? Who may I say is ringing for entry?” I tried to make my voice sound higher than usual.

“Stop fooling around, wee lassie. Your mother is here to take you home,” a baritone voice with a slight Scottish accent bellowed.

Alastair reached over my shoulder and pressed the button to buzz them in.

“That’s David Wetherell, alright,” he declared.

We waited anxiously while they came up on the elevator. Two pairs of footsteps, one heavier, one lighter, approached the door. Mingled laughter echoed in the hallway. I couldn’t wait and opened the door just as David Wetherell was about to rap his knuckles on the door.

“Ah, Cherry Brooks! What a pleasure to meet you. Your mother has told me so much about you. I’m David Wetherell.” Moving his helmet to the crook of his left arm, he removed the motorcycle glove from his right hand and thrust it forward. Thinking he wanted to shake hands, I put my right hand out tentatively. Instead, he grabbed it and kissed the back of my hand.

“Charming and tasty. I do believe the essence of cherries resides in your skin.” He chuckled and stepped aside to uncover Mom, standing behind him, a wide grin on her face and, to be honest, a ruddy glow on her cheeks, perhaps from wine, perhaps something else.

“Cherry, David’s a comedian, isn’t he? How was your flight, darling?” She hugged me and brushed her cheek against mine. I could smell the wine in her breath.

“Mother, they wouldn’t let Alice sit on my lap on the plane. She looked so sad. Cooped up in that kennel.”

Taking David by the arm, she led him over to Alastair. They exchanged greetings and shook hands.

“Alastair, we’ve never worked together. How is that possible?” asked David.

“Maybe we can collaborate on a future project. GlobalNet would love to feature someone of your talent and notoriety. And the Scottish accent drives women on this side of the Atlantic bonkers. Isn’t that right, Lulu?”

“I’ve heard that. Some women are immune to that. Being from Rhode Island, I’m more partial to a down-easter accent.”

I was at the window, looking down at David’s motorcycle and admiring its aerodynamic lines and gleaming chrome wheels.

“What kind of motorcycle is that?”

David looked over my shoulder, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. He was smelling my hair.

“That’s a Harley-Davidson Softail Standard with a Milwaukee-Eight 107 V-Twin engine, electronic sequential port fuel injection, and 2-into-2 shotgun exhaust, with chrome trim.”

“You lost me at that’s…” I smiled and subtly moved back into him, turning away from the window.

“Have you ever ridden on a bike like that?”

“No, never.”

“Tell you what. The Sunday after the 4th of July, let’s go out for a ride, just you and I. Would you like that?”

“David, that’s my daughter you’re trying to chat up. She’s 17.” Mom pulled him away from the window and from me. “She’s never dated before and she’s not going to start with a man old enough to be her father…”

“Lulu, you misunderstand my intentions. She seemed very interested in my bike so I offered to take her on a spin. Very innocently. Truly.” David spread his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s late, David. Thank you for the ride. It was more fun than taking the car service. We should let you go. I’m sure your wife is anxiously awaiting your return.” She turned to me and Alastair. “David’s lived in Valley Stream on Long Island for years now. His wife is American. From the Bronx.”

“I wish I could fit three on my bike or I’d take the both of you over to the East Side, to The Carlyle.”

“I could sit on Mom’s lap like I used to,” I offered.

“Cherry, that’s when you were 4 years old. You’re almost my size now,” Mom countered.

“I’ll drive them over to the Carlyle, David,” Alastair assured him.

“Well, then I leave them in your capable hands, Alastair. Good night, ladies. Gentle sir.” David doffed his helmet and walked out into the hallway as Alastair held the door open.

“Do you have to leave right this moment? I could make some coffee. Your cheeks look like you might need a cup.” Alastair smiled.

“I’m bushed, Al. A long day of table reading and getting notes from Danny. Then a cast dinner at Giorgio’s. I shouldn’t have let Danny and David talk me into a Sambuca drinking contest. It was that scamp Annie Flaherty who egged me on. I just want to lay my head down and get forty winks. And I’m sure Cherry is ready for beddy-bye too.”

“Not me, Mom. I’m still on West Coast time. It’s still the shank of the evening to me.”

“I’ll go and bring the car around. If I can remember exactly where I parked it. That’s the problem with living in a brownstone. No on-site parking.” Alastair hurried out the door.

Mom turned to address me directly for the first time since she walked in the apartment.

“I think spending a summer in New York City will be quite the adventure for you, sweetie.”

“Old Chinese proverb, Mom?”

The Carlyle Hotel rises 35 stories above East 76th Street on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The two-bedroom suite The Nederlander Organization rented for Mom and me was on the 31st Floor. It was Mom’s until either the show closed or her six-month contract was finished. On Wednesday morning, June 27th, at a tick or two after nine in the morning, Alice and I rode the elevator down to the lobby.

I had risen at 7AM to feed Alice and liberate her from her crate, a white plastic playpen with a latch door that Mom had surprisingly had the foresight to acquire in preparation for our stay during the summer. Sometimes she remembers the small details in life. Mostly, though, she sleeps. Mom was still in bed and not likely to greet the new day until noon.

I had wanted to delve into the specifics of her relationship to David Wetherell, spanning the two decades from the filming of Thick as Thieves in the South of France to table readings for Blues for a Diva in the past fortnight. But what I got in response was Mom holding the refrigerator door open in the suite’s kitchenette, pointing to its empty interior, and reminding me to do some grocery shopping the next day. I sighed and suggested we revisit the discussion in the morning. She shook her head and explained why that wouldn’t happen.

Alice elicited varied reactions from the people in the busy lobby. Some stopped and wanted to pet her, others just shot us disapproving looks. The staff at the front desk smiled and nodded at us. I had to pick Alice up in my arms to negotiate the revolving doors. The doorman knelt down to pet Alice.

“You’re Lulu Brooks’ daughter, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Cherry. This is Alice,” I replied.

“How do you find your suite, miss?”

“I check the room number on the key card,” I deadpanned. He burst out in genuine laughter.

“Well, I can see you’ve not only inherited your mother’s beauty but her comic timing too. Have a nice day, Miss Brooks.”

Two blocks west, we crossed Fifth Avenue and walked south to the East 72nd Street entrance. Close to the entrance was The 72nd Street Playground with little kids already playing on the swings, climbing pyramids, digging in sandboxes, and cavorting under the splash fountain. Alice was excited to see all the activity but there were signs stating no dogs allowed. So we moved onto East Green where Alice took her sweet time deciding on just the right spot to leave her mark or marks plural. When she was finished, I took out a biodegradable poop bag and cleaned up after her.

As we resumed our morning walk, heading toward the ampitheater where SummerStage concerts are held from June through August, I envisoned the day before me. Whenever Mom could rouse herself from her 12 hour recharge, we’d ride the car service to the rehearsal studios located near Time Square and she’d introuduce me to the whole sick crew. I shivered at the thought of only knowing three people at rehearsal: my mother, David Wetherell, and Maia, whom I’d only just met on the flight from LA. Of course, I was familiar with some of the other names. Trent Foster, pop star, Annie Flaherty, blonde ingenue, and Danny Dantley, the director.

Mom always said I was painfully shy as a child. My transgender status hasn’t improved my social skills. When people look directly at me, I wonder what they really see. Do they see a boy wearing girls’ clothes? Is my voice high-pitched enough? Is my hand shake dainty enough?

Returning to our suite at The Carlyle, I replaced Alice in her crate. She’s old and sleeps most of the day now so being restricted to her crate probably doesn’t bother her. I put her favorite chew toy and a small bowl of water in the crate.

Then I peeked into Mom’s room and saw her still in the arms of Morpheus, her sleep mask keeping the non-existent glare of the morning sun out of her eyes, even as she had drawn the blackout curtains shut in any event.

Looking at the time on my phone, I decided to be a dutiful daughter and do some grocery shopping to fill up that empty refrigerator. When I called down to the front desk and asked where the nearest market was, they told me Whole Foods was on East 87th Street, ten long city blocks away. They suggested I order a delivery. I was shocked when I called Whole Foods and learned that a half-liter of oat milk cost $6 and a dozen organic, pasture-raised eggs cost almost $10. Not to mention that a loaf of whole wheat bread set me back another $7!

Mom had just walked out of the shower when Maia Everly dropped by our suite around noon to share a car to the rehearsal studio. While Mom dried her hair, put on her makeup, and picked out her outfit for the day, Maia played with Alice outside of her crate.

“I’m not a dog person, you know,” Maia insisted while stroking Alice’s white, powder-puff coat of fur.

“You’re even steven. Alice isn’t a person dog.”

“Looking forward to meeting everyone, Cherry?”

“I’m kind of socially awkward, Maia. Mom says I don’t look people in the eye when I meet them.”

“You’re a pretty girl. You’ve got nothing to hide or be shy about. Do you?”

Mom walked into the room, her hair perfectly brushed, makeup spot on, and casually attired in a sweater and jeans. “Ladies, let’s hit the streets!”

“We usually read for an hour and then have a late lunch catered by Ellen’s Stardust Diner. The pastrami on rye is to die for,” Maia informed me.

“I’m hungry. I just had a cup of coffee and a cigarette for breakfast—” Maia stopped me in front of the door and took hold of my shoulders.

“Girl, that’s not good. That sounds like the kind of breakfast Maris has several times a week,” Maia said, a serious expression on her face.

“Oh, Maia, stop it. She’s not that much of a reprobate,” Mom interjected as she held the door open for us.

“Who is Maris?” I asked, quite innocently.

“Cherry! Maris Lafferty is playing my mother in the show. She’s a Broadway legend. 4 Tony Awards! She played Eliza Doolittle in the revival of My Fair Lady—”

“That was 30 years ago!” exclaimed Maia, as we walked down the hallway toward the elevator.

“Shhh! She might be on this floor.” Mom placed her index finger against her lips.

“She’s already at the studio. Twice last week she got there before Danny even. I despise her. She’s always giving me notes about the script. Mostly so she can have more lines for herself!” Maia groaned and cursed under her breath all the way down in the elevator.

“She’s a little pushy, I’ll admit. But I’m learning so much from her in just two weeks of table readings. It’s like a master class in theater—”

“More like master-bation, if you ask me.” Maia saw Mom’s disapproving glare and dramatically covered her mouth with her hand. I giggled all the way to the car that was waiting for us outside.

42nd Street Studios is a building near the theater district that was renovated specifically to accommodate all the stage, dance, and musical productions to hit the boards on Broadway and other local venues. Blues for a Diva was in its second and last week of table readings. For the next four to six weeks, Danny Dantley will use the studio to block out all the stage movements and timing within each scene, while costumes are fitted for the cast, props are built, and technical issues are resolved. Previews performed in the actual theater where the show will open may go on for three to four weeks. Finally, opening night has been scheduled for Thursday, September 20th. Why a Thursday night? Mostly superstition, Mom tells me. Like the saying, “Break a leg.” Friday is the least popular night to open. Ony 2% of shows open on a Friday night.

Maia, Mom and I took the service elevator to the 5th floor where our studio space was. “It’s quicker and most people don’t know you can use it,” Maia told us. “Take the regular elevator and you get stuffed inside like a can of sardines.”

We were the last members of the production to arrive. Typical Mom. A husky, bald-headed man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and sporting a full beard rushed to greet us as we stepped out of the service elevator.

“Lulu! Maia! I was about to put out an all-points bulletin on you two,” he laughed. He turned to me. I started to back into Mom. “And who is this? Is this Cherry? Welcome! Welcome to the crazy world of Broadway!”

“Cherry, this is our director, Daniel Dantley,” Maia proudly touted.

“Everyone calls me Danny.”

“Everyone calls me…uh…Cherry?”

“Cherry’s just a little shy, Danny. But she’s very excited to see Mom at work in her ‘office’”

“Let me introduce you to our little theatrical army.”

He took my arm and walked me over to the long table that dominated the middle of the room. Half the people were seated while the other half stood by the windows or poured cups of coffee for themselves at the crafts table.

“This is our leading man, Mr. David Wetherell.” David, wearing his leather motorcycle jacket, smiled and waved at me from the crafts table. I smiled back. I was still smiling at him when Danny turned me toward an older woman who was dressed more formally than everyone else. Casual seemed to be the byword for rehearsal except for this lady.

“Cherry, meet Maris Lafferty, doyenne of the Broadway stage.”

“Come closer, dear. My eyesight is bad and I’m too vain to wear glasses.” She took my hand and stroked the back of it, squinting at me as she did so. “You are Lulu’s daughter? You must take after your father because your coloring and the shape of your face does not favor your mother. No, not at all.”

Reflexively, I slipped my hand from her grasp.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, honey. You have a very unique kind of beauty. Very different from your mother. Are you following in her footsteps, Cherry? Is the siren song of the dramatic arts calling to you?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t really decided what I want to do yet. I just finished my junior year in high school.”

“I see much potential in you. When I was your age—”

Seemingly out of thin air, Trent Foster, casually attired in a grey pullover sweatshirt and jeans, materialized in front of me. He flashed a toothy grin, brushed his hair out of his eyes with two fingers, and thrust his hand out.

“Hi, Cherry, I’m Trent Foster. Pleased to finally meet you. Your mother says great things about you.”

“She doesn’t believe you, Trent. She thinks I only speak badly about her,” Mom laughed self-consciously.

I muttered to myself, “I don’t think you speak about me at all.”

“This is…come here, bro. This is my good friend, record producer, and our musical director…B-Loved Genius!” He placed his arm around the shoulders of a young black man wearing a blue sweatshirt and a broad smile.

“I…I’ve heard some of your stuff on Spotify, Mr. Genius.”

“Another stream, another half a penny. It is what it is. Right, Trent?”

“Do you play any musical instruments? Sing, maybe?” Trent asked me. I shrugged. He laughed. They both laughed.

“Did Mom tell you I play an instrument?”

“Cherry, Alastair and I paid a lot of money for your piano lessons. And then you added guitar lessons!” Mom held her arms out as if in surrender. “We have a grand piano and three or four lonely guitars sitting at home in Calabasas that you haven’t touched in two years. I just thought Trent and B-Loved might want to hear you sing and play something for them. I think you’re so talented. But you have to put yourself out there.”

“The only place I sing is in the shower,” I confessed.

“Well, do you want an audience?” Trent arched his eyebrows comically.

“Don’t tease the girl, Trent,” Maris admonished.

“Do you know the Painter Sisters, Dolores and Mary Jo?” asked B-Loved, pointing to two young black women drinking their coffee by the windows. They waved to me. I waved back.

“Yes, I like your music.” I turned back to B-Loved. “I’m surprised that you all are committing at least six months of your time to playing Broadway. Wouldn’t that take away from touring?”

“We think a hit Broadway show would take our careers to another level, widen our fanbase, expand to lucrative markets, yadda, yadda.” Trent handed me a cup of coffee. “But mostly it’s an excuse for me to take a leave of absence from school—”

“That’s right! You attend Pepperdine. I read that somewhere online recently.”

“She’s a big fan of yours, Trent,” Mom gushed.

“I am not! I mean, no offense, Trent. But I’m more into metal bands like Polyphia and Animals as Leaders.”

“Ah, yes, math rock. Interesting stuff. To me, it’s kind of mid, you know.”

“Danny, you haven’t introduced us to Cherry,” said a tall blonde I recognized as Annie Flaherty, the latest ‘it’ girl to come out of network TV and teenage zombie movies.

“Oh, forgive me, Annie. Cherry, meet Annie Flaherty. She’s playing the hot number who steals Trent’s character from the character played by your mom. Va va voom! To quote Nicki Minaj.”

She shook my hand and smiled sweetly. “And this is my friend, Philippa Chang.”

An Asian girl who looked to be around my age stepped forward and limply shook my hand.

“And who do you play?” I asked her.

“I’m not an actor,” she answered in a half-whisper.

“Philippa is my traveling companion. My cousin Paul rooms with her at Stanford.”

“They don’t allow girls and boys to room together at my high school. I guess things are more progressive in college. So, you and Paul must be a thing, huh?”

“Oh no, I’m not gay—” Philippa’s eyes grew large and she covered her mouth with both hands.

“What Philippa means is…exactly what did you mean?” Annie looked at Philippa expectantly.

“I misspoke. What I meant to say was I’m just rooming with Paul and one other guy named Jerry. It’s a three-bedroom suite. Nothing . Absolutely nothing is going on between us. Any of us. No…just…nothing.”

Annie noticed Trent leaning in to overhear our conversation. “Trent, it’s just girl talk. Nothing for you to concern your busy body self with. Go over and sit down at the table. Danny wants to start soon.”

“Funny. He’s just arguing with Maris right now. They moved out into the hallway so we couldn’t overhear them. So I changed channels and came over here to get the inside scoop. Did I hear someone say they weren’t gay?”

“All right everyone, let’s get started. We’re burning daylight. Seats, everyone!” Danny clapped his hands loudly and whistled simultaneously. “Cherry, we’ll do the introductions for everyone else as we go along, okay?”

Maia handed me a copy of the script as Philippa and I sat on chairs away from the table. I followed along as the actors read their lines, intermittently stopped by Danny when he wanted to change lines or tighten up the rhythm of a scene. Maris interrupted almost as much as Danny did, suggesting places in scenes where she could rephrase or add to the lines given to her character. This inevitably bristled Danny and the two of them would have intense, brief arguments before either one would finally capitulate. I must admit that I found their escalating contretemps more entertaining than the play itself. But, then again, I’m not a good judge of stage dramas.

I noticed that Philippa was not following along with the script. In fact, she never opened the thing. Instead, she either stared at the windows or trudged over to the craft table to refill her cup of coffee every ten minutes.

“You don’t seem too interested in the reading. Boring?” I asked her when she returned with another cup in her hand.

“Oh, it’s not that. I’ve been here every day for almost two weeks. I think I’ve memorized the script like breathing in secondhand smoke. It’s just more of the same, you know.”

“Why don’t you go out and see the sights? Is this your first time in New York?”

“Oh I have to be here every day. For Annie. She’s the one who coerced me into staying with her for the summer.”

“Why?”

“It’s something I can’t get into unless…well, I don’t know if I can trust you. I mean, we’ve just met and you might have an agenda. Who knows about anyone, really.”

That was a puzzling answer so I decided to change the subject.

“You must feel stranded in the city. Not knowing anyone here except Annie—”

“Actually my brother Christopher is in the city right now. He’s working on an installation.”

“Your brother is Christopher Chang? The sculptor? Wow! I saw an outdoor sculpture of his at The Getty in the Central Garden. I don’t know much about art but I really liked it. Instead of sitting here all day, why don’t you spend some quality time with your brother?”

“Oh, no. God no! He can’t see me like this. He wouldn’t understand…” She gulped her coffee and caused a coughing fit that interrupted the table reading. Everyone asked if she was alright. I patted her own the back and she quickly recovered.

“I’m okay, everyone. Just went down the wrong pipe, I guess. Sorry for the disturbance,” Philippa waved them off. She turned to me and whispered. “Thanks for saving my life.”

I shook my head. “You weren’t dying. But you’re welcome just the same. Just drink slower, please.”

“Maybe you’re closing in on my circle of trust, Cherry. But you have to swear that you’ll keep anything I might tell you under the lid.” She resumed sipping her coffee as I gave her the “scout’s honor” sign.

After enjoying my pastrami on rye sandwich (as Maia had recommended) from Ellen’s Stardust Diner, Danny gave everyone an extra 20-minute break before resuming the reading. People drifted into small groups to shoot the breeze while I noticed David’s absence from the room. I found Mom sitting at the piano in the corner, chatting with Maris, who was leaning on the fall board.

“Mom, where did David go?”

“He went downstairs to put some more money in the meter. His motorcycle was ticketed last week when he forgot.” Mom moved on the bench to give me room to sit. “Sit, Cherry. Help me sing that song your gran taught you when you were five or six. I was just telling Maris about my growing up in Rhode Island.”

“Mom, I don’t think Maris wants to hear me sing. My voice has…uh…changed since I was six.”

Mom stood up from the bench and clapped her hands together. “If you won’t sing, at least accompany me on piano while I sing it—”

“Mom!” I protested.

“She’s quite good on the keys,” Mom told Maris proudly. She demonstrably cleared her throat and trilled an F note on the Dorian scale. “I’m ready, honey.” She nodded and I tried to remember the intro arpeggios to the song. We began.

The room erupted in applause and Mom took a bow. When she straightened up, she proudly pointed at me but I tried to bury my face in the fall board. I can’t get over being bashful in front of people.

“Oh, simply delightful, Lulu!” Maris exulted. “Cherry, you truly tickled the ivories on that. Another wonderful Arthur Schwartz song. You know, I dated his son Jonathan, the DJ. Between marriages, of course. His and mine both.” She laughed.

It was half-past six o’clock when Danny abruptly jumped up from the table. His voice had turned hoarse during the long afternoon of reading. Maris’ “suggestions” had incited a number of heated arguments including a shouting match between Maia and her. Danny had to literally step in between them before the shoving turned to fisticuffs. And I’d put my money down on Maris having a haymaker in her right hand.

“Okay, kids, time to call it. We have three more days of table readings and I hope we can tighten it up before we start the real rehearsals next week.”

“Will we have the new pages by tomorrow?” Maris asked in a measured tone.

“I don’t know, Maris,” Maia acerbically replied. “We’ve gone through blue, pink, and yellow paper already for the first three revisions. I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on green paper for the latest changes.”

“I’m sure Maia will try her best to have the revised pages ready. Everyone, go home! Be careful out there. We’ll kick the can again tomorrow at noon.”

“Guess it’s a quiet evening in our suite. Just the two of us, kiddo,” Mom sighed as we walked toward the service elevator.

Trent came running up to us. “Hey, ladies, a bunch of us are going to Miss Kim’s in K-Town to have Korean and do some karaoke. B-Loved got us a private room. Wanna join us?”

Before I could answer, Mom held up her phone. “I’ve already ordered the car. Why don’t you go with them, Cherry? You kids have a good time. I’m going to take a bubble bath, order in, and see what’s on GlobalNet.”

“Mom, you have to come,” I pleaded. “You’re not using a walker…yet.”

“All of you are less than half my age. I don’t have the get up and go I had when I was that young. And, young lady, no alcohol. You’re not old enough to drink.”

“Yes, mother.”

“See you tomorrow, Lulu. Come on, Cherry. Do you like K-Pop?”

Koreatown in Manhattan is an 8-block rectangle in Midtown that stretches from 30th to 34th Street, between Sixth and Madison Avenues. In this tight urban space, traditionally known as The Garment District, over 150 Korean businesses operate, from small restaurants and beauty salons to bank branches and corporate offices. We were headed to Miss Kim’s, one of the colorful karaoke clubs and bars that attract not only Korean patrons but New Yorkers of every ethnicity, age, and social strata.

Our party, Trent, B-Loved, the Painter Sisters, Annie, Philippa, Trent’s drummer Gooch, his bass player Lucky, and me, settled into our karaoke box and quickly ordered a family-style selection of dishes from the menu. For appetizers, we had French Fries, Edamame (Steamed Beans), and Beef and Veggie Dumplings. For entrees, we ordered Chicken Wings, Tuna Tataki, and Grilled Sausages. For sushi fans, we asked for Salmon, Tuna, and Veggie Hand Rolls. That was plenty enough for nine people.

The karaoke machine in our room stored English language songs as well as Korean tunes. You could also play the songs with or without the lead vocals. There are always people who prefer to sing along rather than go solo and some clubs will accommodate those patrons. So Trent programmed the music while we ate. Yes, he did play some tracks from his most recent album, Second Story Man.

After we finished our feast, the karaoke festival began with solo performances of Motown classics, Beatles songs, a Led Zeppelin number, the Who’s “Baba O’Riley,” and Spandau Ballet’s “True.” I chose to do The Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun,” since it suited the timbre of my voice. Of course, I was easily the worst sounding singer in our party.

“You’re a natural contralto, Cherry. You and Philippa both,” Trent observed. I shrugged. “Hey, since we’re in a Korean karaoke club, why don’t we try some English language K-Pop? I’ve got some favorites. Mind if I assign them? I’ll try to match your voices to the songs. Meanwhile, let’s order some booze—”

Annie spoke up. “Cherry and Philippa are underage, Trent. And so are you. Let’s just order some soft drinks. Just for tonight?”

Everyone nodded in agreement so Trent acquiesced. “Yeah, let’s not try to have the place closed down. Do the honors, Gooch. Cherry Coke for you?” He turned to me. “Just kidding. Order whatever you want. Everything’s on me and B-Loved. Now, Annie. How about we try “Dream” by Cc & Ryric?”

“I’m game,” Annie said as Trent handed a microphone to her.

My bad singing aside, everyone was having a ball as the evening wore on. B-Loved suggested that the five girls in our party sing “Oh My God” by the female supergroup (G)I-DLE. So Dolores and Mary Jo huddled with Annie, Philippa, and me to arrange our parts. Needless to say, Philippa and I were restricted to harmony parts. Still, I thought it was the highlight performance of the night. Even if I say so myself.

When we finished, all three guys applauded and whistled. Three guys? Where did Trent go? I sidled up to B-Loved while Dolores and Annie were deciding which (G)I-DLE song to do next.

“Hey B, where’s Trent? Little boy’s room?”

“Trent? He didn’t feel well. Said it must have been the calamari. He’s got some sensitivity to mollusks. Went home. I called an Uber for him.”

We were about 30 seconds into “Latata” when I remembered that we never did order the calamari appetizer.

“I don’t remember us ordering the calamari appetizer,” I said aloud to myself.

“Well, we must have. B-Loved told me Trent always gets awful sick when he has shellfish,” Philippa responded as if I had addressed her.

“Is calamari shellfish?”

“Technically, calamari are mollusks, which are a type of shellfish,” declared Annie. “You seem rather concerned with Trent’s stomach troubles. Are you crushing on that Prima Donna?”

The three of us were in the back of a town car headed uptown to The Carlyle Hotel after our evening in the Korean karaoke club, Miss Kim’s. We were the only remaining members of the party who didn’t live in the city or its environs. Courtesy of the producers of Mom’s play, we had suites in The Carlyle and car service 24 hours a day…for the run of the play, that is.

“You told me you didn’t even like his music,” Philippa reminded me with a giggle.

“I don’t…but I’m just worried about him as…as a colleague, you might say,” I replied, trying to sound disinterested.

“We’re just teasing you. I’ll admit he has a certain undeniable charm.” Annie smiled at a private thought.

“Mr. Driver, what’s the nearest drug store to the hotel?” I had leaned forward to be easier to be heard.

“Hmm…at this time of night? There’s a Duane Reade on Lexington. It’s only two blocks from your hotel.”

“You called him Mister Driver?” laughed Philippa.

“Thank you, Mister Driver. Can you drop me off there? I’ll walk back to the hotel. It’s just two blocks.” Turning to Philippa, I acidly drawled, “It’s always nice to be polite when addressing people you’ve just met.”

“Thank you for correcting my etiquette, Miss Brooks,” replied Philippa with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Two city blocks, Cherry. Two long city blocks. At this time of night. We can park nearby and wait for you,” Annie offered.

“Oh, please, you don’t need to do that. I’ll be alright—”

“Whatever it is you’re picking up, we’re all girls here. No need to be embarrassed. Time of the month?” Philippa actually patted my hand. I’m not sure I want to be in her “circle of trust.” The little b---.

“Don’t mind Philippa. She doesn’t get out much. We’ll park and wait for you, Cherry.”

The issue was decided when our driver parked the car in front of the aforesaid Duane Reade. I told them I would be quick about it and ran into the store. Less than five minutes later, I jumped back into the car, holding a small paper bag in my left hand.

“What do we have here, Miss Brooks?” asked Philippa.

“It’s not for me. It’s a bottle of Pepto-Bismol for Trent’s upset stomach. He’s probably still puking his guts out—”

“Please, not so vivid with the imagery, Miss Brooks!” Philippa fanned herself with both hands.

“Boy, you’ve got it bad for the guy,” Annie whistled. “Are you going to nurse him back to health?”

“I feel sorry for him. He took us all out for a good time and he ended up sick as a dog. Believe me, that can be awful. Mom once fed Alice some beefsteak and we had to take her to the vet—”

“There’s no Urgent Care where you live? You had to take her to a veterinarian?”

“Alice is my bichon.”

“That makes more sense,” Philippa nodded.

“We’re home, girls,” Annie announced as she used the app on her phone to sign for the car service. She reached into her purse and gave the driver a ten-dollar bill. When we all stood on the curb in front of the hotel, I asked, “Why did you give him the cash tip? Wasn’t a tip already included when you signed off in the app?”

“Well, Miss Etiquette, we might get the same driver many more times in the next six months. He’ll be especially diligent when he sees us jump into this car. He’ll remember the tip almost as well as he’ll remember your red hair and freckles.” Annie let us go through the revolving doors first.

I was going to ask the front desk what Trent’s room number was but Annie redirected me toward the elevators and casually informed me, “He’s in 32B.” That was two floors below Mom and me and two floors above Annie and Philippa.

“How do you know his room number?” I asked as our elevator ascended with dispatch.

Annie shot Philippa a sly smirk before turning back to me. “He…uhh…invited me to his suite after the first day of rehearsals.” Philippa giggled.

“Really,” I snickered. “So what happened?”

As Annie and Philippa got off on the 30th floor, Annie turned back to me. “Let’s say he suddenly lost interest.” They both laughed as the elevator doors closed.

I had to stop myself from skipping all the way down the hallway to Trent’s suite. On the one hand, I wanted to give him merciful relief from his indigestion as soon as possible. On the other, he was very nice to me tonight. Me, an unknown straight outta The Valley, wet behind the ears, a nobody. Do you think he kinda likes me? Wait till I tell those obnoxious snobs back at school in Chatsworth! Trent even complimented my singing. Said I was a real contralto.

My thoughts carried me away so much that I almost walked right into Trent’s door. Straightening myself out and brushing my hair away from my face, I switched the paper bag containing the Pepto-Bismol and knocked on the door with my tiny right hand. There was some shuffling of feet behind the door and I heard Trent’s voice.

“Darling, did you order room service? I’ll get the door.”

So impatient, I was about to knock on the door again when it seemed to fly open, whereupon I looked up to see Trent standing before me, barely wearing a bathrobe that was loosely tied around his waist, his curly black hair dripping wet, holding a towel in his left hand.

“Cherry?!!”

He was the image of young male beauty. Wet young male beauty! Breathless, I spit out a torrent of words, dispensing with the pleasantries.

“I thought you might need something to settle your stomach because of your allergy to shellfish. But, you know, I never knew calamari was a type of shellfish. They don’t have shells, do they? And why don’t they just call them squid because that’s what they really are. But anyway I had the driver…Mr. Driver…stop at the Duane Reade on Lexington to pick up this bottle of Pepto-Bismol for you.”

I waved the paper bag in front of Trent’s startled face.

“You’re probably still puking your guts out, right? I can see you’ve taken a shower. A hot shower can warm your stomach and relieve some of the pain of the indigestion. But this will definitely help you quicker. I bought the liquid instead of the tablets because—”

“What’s taking so long, baby? Don’t have any money on you? Let me get my purse—. Cherry!!!!”

It was Mom! She also looked like she had just strolled out of the shower, rubbing a towel through her wet hair (she told me never to dry my hair with a towel because the friction would frizz up your hair cuticles and cause split ends) and reaching for her tan Hermes Kelly bag balanced on the arm of the Chesterfield divan.

My mouth was agape at this spectacle. And Mom was frozen in mid-step, her eyes wide in horror. We stood several feet apart, unwilling to move, unable to speak.

“Now, Cherry,” Trent started, his voice in a higher register. “It’s not exactly what you think. Well, it is…what I mean is…what it was… See, it…Cherry, are you listening?”

“Mom, how could you? You’re the worst mother in the world!” I dropped the paper bag and ran to the elevators. Unwilling to wait for the elevator to arrive, in a blind rage, I stumbled around the hallway until I found the door to the stairs and ran up the steps, somehow managing to climb them two at a time with my legs constricted by my short jeans skirt.

I fumbled with my key card until I finally got into our suite. To my surprise, Alice was ambling around the room, apparently quite comfortable in her new surroundings. My mother must have fed her and let her out of the crate. Well, at least she remembered to do that before surrendering herself to her carnal desires. I flopped onto the sofa and Alice crawled into my lap, seeking affection.

The tears that hadn’t fallen due to my rage now began to cascade down my cheeks. I gulped air and whimpered. Alice licked my face to comfort me. Or was she just thirsty? Like B.B. King sings: no one loves me and even my own mother might be jivin’ me.

I pulled my phone out of my jeans skirt pocket and punched in Alastair’s number.

“Cherry? Is something wrong?” the soothing voice asked me.

“Alastair…Dad! I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night—”

“I was just settling down to a warm cup of cocoa, putting on my night cap, and getting ready for beddy-bye, Cherry. What’s up?”

I laughed through my honking sobs. “I want to go home. I don’t belong in New York. I don’t belong with Mom…”

“Blow your nose, Cherry, and calm down. What happened?”

“It’s too embarrassing to talk about. Let’s just leave it at my being here puts a crimp in Mom’s social life.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Finally, Alastair cleared his throat and spoke. “I know, Cherry. But your mother is not trying to deliberately hurt you. She’s impulsive. Carefree, some would say. She’s tried to be maternal but…I guess it’s not happening. Look, I’m going back to L.A. after the 4th. After Gran’s barbecue, we’ll go back together. If I can’t get you on my flight I’ll just book two seats on another flight. How about that, kiddo?”

That started a new rush of convulsive sobs. Fighting through the hiccups caused by my crying, I held the phone to my cheek and tried to explain my dilemma.

“I can’t leave. Not yet. I have to find out who my biological father is once and for all. I know who it is. I just need…what’s the word?”

“Closure,” Alastair answered. “Cherry, you have enough on your plate without going through an emotional wringer like this. Let me handle it. You come back to California with me. I’ll look after you until school starts again in September. I don’t think your Mom can say no to that.”

“Stop sniveling! Sorry, Dad, I was telling myself. I can do this. I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me! I’m going to see this through!”

“Good girl! You know if you need me for anything, I’m a phone call or text away. And there’s a room in my house with your name on it…always.”

“Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

“You know I love my beautiful little girl. Now, go wash your pretty face, brush your teeth, and pour yourself a glass of warm milk before going to bed—”

“I’m not a little girl, Dad! I’m 17. On the cusp of womanhood!” I laughed at the irony.

“Good night, you scamp.” He disconnected.

Right on cue, Mom walked into the suite.

“Your hair’s still wet,” I said, facing away from her and gently dropping Alice to the floor.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Cherry. So no questions tonight. Just wash up and go to bed.” She placed her Kelly bag on the other end of the sofa and stood with her hands on her hips, a tired expression on her face.

“I think we need to talk, Mom. I’m disappointed in you.”

Mom crossed her arms. “How so?”

“He’s too young for you. It’s scandalous. Did he hit you up from day one? Were you that easy?”

“I will not have you speak to me in that tone, Cherry. I’m your mother and you’re my child, not the other way around. I’m the adult here.”

“You answered me without answering.” I crossed my arms to mimic her.

“Look, I don’t owe you an explanation but I’ll tell you this. I was sitting here after feeding Alice and watching that show on GlobalNet…the show with that Australian actress…what’s her name?—”

“Get on with it, Mom. I don’t watch much TV. I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s right. You didn’t even care to watch your own mother’s TV series. The one I got nominated for an Emmy for—”

“Compound prepositions, Mom. Didn’t they teach grammar in Rhode Island?” I sneered.

“You’re infuriating, Cherry! As I was trying to say…I get a knock on the door and it’s Trent. He’s holding his stomach, almost hunched over in pain. He tells me he’s got a bad case of indigestion after accidentally eating some calamari which he’s allergic to. And he asks me if I have any antacid pills. He looked really pale and was obviously in great pain so I told him to go back to his room and I’d go out and buy some Kaopectate for him. When I got back, he took two caplets with a glass of water and I put him to bed—”

“I know that, Mom! You don’t have to be graphic!”

“I meant I told him to lie down and try to fall asleep. Well, the Kaopectate worked rather quickly and one thing led to another and—”

“He seduced you. I get it. You’re a fifty-year-old woman, Mom! Does the word ‘no’ ever escape your lips?”

“I’m 47, not 50, Cherry. I’m not having you lecture me on my social life. End of discussion. Go to bed!”

“That’s what she said,” I snarked in reply. I picked Alice up and placed her in her crate, bade her good night and walked toward the bathroom.

Thursday morning at 11AM. I tried to rouse Mom but she begged off. When I told her we’d be late for rehearsal, she told me to go ahead with Maia when she dropped by. She would catch up later when she could.

“Is your mother okay?” asked Maia in the elevator going down to the lobby.

“Oh, she’s fine. I think she might have over-exerted herself last night,” I replied with cheeky insouciance.

“No, you’re kidding me. Those rumors about her and Trent are true?”

“They even concocted this fake excuse of Trent getting sick on some calamari at the karaoke club. It was just an excuse for them to hook up unbeknownst to everyone. Including her own daughter.”

“Get used to it, Cherry. Backstage romances are par for the course in show biz. I’ve been on the wrong end of those a few times, like I told you.”

“She’s my mother not some celebrity in the tabloids.”

The moment I stepped out of the service elevator at the rehearsal studio, I intended to make a beeline to Trent to upbraid him for his sordid behavior. But he was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anyone else from his entourage. No B-Loved, no Gooch or Lucky, no Painter Sisters. No one.

“You look forlorn, sweetie,” Maris Lafferty touched my hand.

“Where’s Trent and his entire crew? I needed to speak to him about something.”

“A personal matter?” I nodded. “Well, if you’ll take some advice from an old campaigner who’s well-travelled in affairs of the heart…”

“Of course, Ms. Lafferty.” We sat down at the table. The others were still milling around, cups of coffee in hand, making small talk. Danny was on his phone, having an animated conversation with whomever was on the other end.

“First, you should know that Trent and his people aren’t here because they’re going on a short concert tour of the West Coast. They won’t be back until the 5th. Trent’s a busy boy, managing two careers simultaneously. Touring rock star and prospective stage thespian. It’s amazing he has the energy to do all this and also his ‘extracurricular’ activities.” Maris eyed me intently as if to determine if I caught her drift.

“Don’t get lost in his dark good looks,” she continued. “You’re much too young and innocent to deal with his level of game.”

“And there are some who are too old and jaded to get involved with him,” I noted.

“Are you warning me off” Maris laughed. “I’ve had my share of pretty boys like him. Of course, that was in my younger ingenue days. They’re not worth your time and you’ll end up regretting the whole sordid affair.” She searched my face again. “Word to the wise, dear.”

Our customary late lunch arrived punctually at 1:30PM. Mom had wandered in an hour after rehearsal started and repeatedly fumbled her lines, to the point that Danny had to read her the riot act. She begged everyone’s forgiveness but had no excuse for her strange funk. Of course, I had some idea why she appeared to be at sea throughout the reading. When Philippa asked me what was going on, I shrugged my shoulders.

I had not said a word to Mom from the moment she walked in and I passed right by her when everyone else was moving toward the elevator. I caught David’s eye and he stopped in front of me.

“Not going to lunch with your mother, sunshine?” he asked with a charming smile.

“Well…” I found my voice leaving contralto range and edging into mezzo-soprano. “I’d like to take you out to lunch…” I swallowed. “David.”

“How nice of you, Cherry.” He mimicked scrolling through his phone. “I don’t seem to have a lunch date today. Yes, I’d be honored to accept your invitation. Where shall we dine?”

“I’m not familiar with any of the restaurants around here. I’m from The Valley—”

“Yes, I tell you what. Let me choose the establishment. What’s your pleasure? Sushi, Mexican, Italian, Caribbean, Halal, good old American…”

“I’ve never had Halal. Is that good?”

“Not only is it good, but it’s also kosher, my dear! Come, let us hurry. We only have 45 minutes today for lunch. Danny’s got his knickers in a twist.”

“Because of Mom?”

“That and some problems with the availability of a theater for our dress rehearsals. Danny wants the Neil Simon but the Netherlanders want to put us in The Winter Garden. Trivialities.”

“I want to talk to you…about Mom,” as we walked out into the street in front of the 42nd Street Studios.

“I don’t know how I can be any help. After all, your mother and I have barely seen each other in—”

“17 years. Since I was born,” I interjected.

“That’s about right. Come to think of it. That’s a long time and two, soon to be three marriages ago for both of us.”

“Where are we headed?” I asked, confused that we didn’t appear to be walking toward a street with any restaurants.

“The best Halal in the city is right over there.” He pointed toward Sixth Avenue. “See that line of food carts parked on Sixth Avenue? The third one from the right is Mohamed’s Famous Halal. I recommend the Lamb Over Rice or the Falafel Gyro is you’re a vegetarian.”

“There’s a line half a block long, David. It’ll take us half an hour just to get to order.”

“Oh ye of little faith. I know someone, bonnie lass. Stay here. I’ll saunter over to the back of the cart and my friend Youssef will get us our lunch. Lamb or Gyro for you?”

“I’ll try the lamb.” He tried to look as if he was just casually crossing the street behind the cart as I stayed behind to the side. The line was so long I decided I had to take a picture of it with my phone.

We took our plates and found a table in the Plaza in Times Square. David reached into the pockets of his leather jacket and pulled out two cans of iced tea, handing me one. We settled in and I saw his raised eyebrows as he anticipated my opening conversational gambit.

I threw him a curveball. “So, David, how come you don’t have a very noticeable Scottish burr when you speak?”

“I was born and raised in Edinburgh, the capitol city of Scotland, known for its cosmopolitan culture. My father was a solicitor, my mother a primary school teacher. In other parts of Scotland, especially Glasgow, they call our accents, British English. The good thing about that is most people in the UK can understand what the hell we’re saying most of the time. I went to university in London and I’ve spent the last 20 years basically living in either LA or New York. Long answer but a concise one.”

“But Sean Connery is from Edinburgh too.”

“Nothing against it but Sean’s father was a lorry driver and factory worker, his mum a cleaning lady. And he lays it on thick for the movie audiences anyway. But, time is short, what do you want to ask me about?”

“It’s about Mom…and you.”

“So, what is it you want to talk about?” asked David Wetherell as he stabbed chunks of lamb with his plastic fork.

“It’s about Mom…and you.” He thrust his left palm out toward me and shook his head, choking on his food. “Wait…I just wanted to hear your side of things, David. This all happened before I was born and Mom never really talks about it. After all, ‘Thick As Thieves’ was a major turning point in both your careers. You were both nominated for Oscars—”

“Yeah, well, she won. I didn’t. Me and Clooney canceled each other out. That piker Douglas Blake won! A character actor! Bloody character actor…”

“Whatever. Before we get into the main topic, can I ask you what’s the state of your current marriage?”

“It’s kaput. I moved out two weeks ago, just before rehearsals started. She gets the house anyway.” He saw the confused look on my face. “Oh, I told everybody it was all just salacious rumors…about me and Roz. We’ve been separated basically for over a year. I guess I’m easier fodder for tabloid hacks than Meryl Streep. I mean, she and her ex were living apart for six years before she casually confirmed it. Six years! They can’t give me six weeks—”

“So you’re free, white and single?” I smirked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But what’s it you, little girl?”

“Nothing. Now, let’s get back to Mom and you during the making of ‘Thick As Thieves’.”

David took a long sip of iced tea before beginning. “Oh, lordy, that was almost 20 years ago. We were a lot younger then—”

“I wasn’t even born.”

“Nor were you even a glimmer in your mother’s eyes. And I looked into her eyes a lot during that filming.” He put his fork down on top of his half-full plate. “Your mother was very beautiful. Still is, of course. But when the Mediterranean sun lit up her face and hair, she was stunning. And I’ve worked with a lot of pretty actresses in my time. Let’s see now. We began shooting in New York in January. It was traitor cold. We had to write snow into the opening scenes. When she stepped onto our first location, while the crew was setting up, she took off her fashionable floppy hat and shook out her hair. The blush on her cheeks from the cold air made her look angelic. Downright cherubic. Of course, we had already been rehearsing in London at Shepperton but I hadn’t been able to take in the full effect of her beauty.”

“Weren’t you married at the time?” I looked him square in the eyes.

“Technically, yes. That was my first wife. Glasgow lass. We met in university. We…uh…grew apart over the years. Anyway, she had her own career. She hated traveling from location to location so I told her to just stay home. You know, like Pete Townshend told his wife. You can tramp around with me and be bored to death or you can stay home and stop worrying about whether or not I‘m philandering.”

“Did you philander?”

“Well, of course, dear girl. It’s one of the perks of being a matinee idol. I’m not offending your sensibilities, am I? Shattering your image of me?”

“No, your reputation precedes you. I was holding out hope that what I’d read about you was…exaggerated.”

“I’m 50 years old, Cherry. Two marriages and innumerable dalliances to the hindmost, as it were. I’m afraid I’m incorrigible.”

“Got your eye on anyone right now?” I teased.

He shielded his mouth with his left hand and lowered his voice. “Don’t spread this around but I’m very impressed with Annie. However, I’ve been told she doesn’t play on our side, if you know what I mean.”

“She’s gay?” I blurted out, genuinely surprised.

“I chatted up her…what is it Annie called her? Her assistant? Friend? I forget. I circled around the subject of Annie’s romantic entanglements and Philippa raised an eyebrow, just stating, ‘Well, she’s not dating any men.’ Now, that’s a pretty clear declaration, no?”

“Let’s get back to Mom and you—”

“Thick As Thieves” was the final film directed by Sir Bennett Josephs. He passed away at the age of eighty-one just two weeks after the movie premiered in September of 2000. It was his homage to the French New Wave and his enduring admiration for Truffaut, Goddard, and Melville. A heist movie with international locations including New York, London, Paris, and the French Riviera.

The outrageous art robbery is just the setting for the main gemstone of the film: the love (or lust) triangle among David, George, and Lulu. After their successful robbery, the whole gang boards a ship with their booty at the harbor in Antibes and heads for the Sultan’s home country. Unbeknownst to Clooney, Lulu and David decide to run off to Cannes where the annual film festival is being held. This unwise, self-possessed decision results in David being apprehended by The Police Nationale after being separated from Lulu in the midst of the festival throng. The shot of Lulu’s face as she witnesses her newfound love taken away in the scrum of the crowd probably won Mom the Oscar. As she turns to run away before the Police spot her, Clooney appears out of nowhere, takes her arm, and they run toward his car – a Sang Bleu Bugatti Veyron (of course it’s s-o-o cool). Clooney turns to her as he guns the engine. “Well, at least we get to keep this car.” They kiss and drive off into the sunset as the end titles roll and ZZ Top plays “Just Got Paid.”

“After we shot those scenes in Cannes, Sir Bennett had to return to Paris to speak to some studio execs who were apoplectic about the excessive cost overruns. Sir Bennett didn’t short anyone on hotel accommodations, fine wine or luxury transportation,” David proudly boasted. “So we had at least a week to wait around for his return. It was the perfect opportunity for your mother and I to have some alone time in the South of France. We rented a Peugeot and drove to Monaco, did some casino-hopping, and sight-seeing for a couple of days.”

“But mostly we spent a lot of time enjoying ourselves carnally. Is this making you uncomfortable, Cherry?”

“No, I’m more adult than people like Mom give me credit for. I know the way of the world. You were both young and attractive, with a lot of spare time on your hands. And you were on The French Riviera. Makes sense you would make it a romantic holiday.” I pushed my plate of lamb away, half-eaten.

“There was just so much magnetism between us, Cherry. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I can remember us walking hand in hand along those narrow, ancient streets in a dozen quaint towns along the coast, stopping to kiss in discreet alleyways, behind weathered stone buildings…” He closed his eyes and smiled.

“Did the two of you fall in love or just lust?” I asked, unable to restrain the edge in my voice.

“Sometimes there’s no difference, lass. Call it what you will, we had something really alive and growing.”

David’s choice of words was a gut punch. Was he about to reveal the inner sanctum of my birthright mystery?

“Did you make plans to leave your wife?” I took the leap.

“I thought seriously about it. But the shoot came to an end a couple of weeks later when we came back to London and things kind of ran off the rails—”

“Your wife?”

“No, she could’ve cared less at that point. No…it was something your mother said about wanting another child. She thought I’d make a great father—”

“Didn’t you want to have a son…or daughter?”

“Me? No, you’re bonkers. That’s what I told your mother. The last thing I could be would be a good father and the evidence was clear I made a terrible husband. But your mother really wanted another baby. I could see that losing custody of your half-brother really devastated her.”

“She always wanted another boy to replace Max.”

“She couldn’t have been disappointed having a pretty daughter like you, I’m sure.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I turned away, afraid David might see my eyes reddening.

“We had a dreadful row in public. In the lobby of the London Hilton of all places! The Sun and Daily Mail had a field day with the photos of your mother and I shouting at each other. She left for Heathrow without even saying goodbye.”

“So, that was the end of it? This is the first time you’ve seen each other in 18 years?”

“Not quite. We had to attend premieres of the film later on that year, in September. L.A., New York, London, Paris. We kept bumping into each other over a three-week period. And I guess the rift between us had healed over in the time between. My wife and I had decided to divorce and your mother was dating the kid who was the assistant cinematographer on the movie. Still and all, I must confess, we did…uh…you know—”

“Renew old acquaintances?”

“I like the way you put it, Cherry. Very respectably. You strike me as a creative person. Do you write?”

I didn’t answer David immediately because I was doing calculations in my head. They had a reunion in September. My birthday is in June. The timing is perfect! I stared at the man who might very well be my biological father.

“Cherry? Do you write? Paint?” He looked at his watch. “Our 45 minutes is almost up. Are you finished with your lamb?”

I shook my head but pushed my plate farther away toward the middle of the table. David picked up my plate and walked over to a trash bin. After unloading our plates and empty cans of iced tea, he took my arm and we made our way back to 42nd Street Studios.

Buoyed by my lunch with David, my hope to reclaim my birthright rekindled, I hugged Mom the moment I stepped off the service elevator. She was nonplussed and nervously laughed.

“What brought that on?”

“I’m sorry about the fight we had last night. I over-stepped.”

“It’s forgotten already, sweetie.” She held my face in her hands, her eyes wet and threatening to cry. “I love you, Cherry. I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you.”

“Love you too, Mom.” I hugged her again.

“If everyone is ready, let’s resume,” Danny bellowed, as everyone sat down at the long table and picked up their scripts. “Everyone?” he directed at us, pointing to the empty chair to his right.

“Mom, let’s do pizza and Netflix tonight. There’s a special movie I want to watch…again.”

“Whatever you want, baby.” She blew me a kiss as she ran to the reading table.

“Honey, why are we watching this? Last time I watched it on Netflix, you yawned and left the room. That was three years ago.” Mom nibbled on her slice of veggie pizza, letting the tomato juice escape her lips. I thought of the times when I was 4 or 5 and Alastair would make fun of the way I tried to pronounce arugula, even as he got bits of it between his front teeth, make me laugh.

“You never want to watch any of my old movies. Not even my new movies or my last TV series—”

“I told you Mom. I don’t have a TV in my dorm room and I don’t want one. I can watch streams of stuff on the internet. Plus, they give me a hefty workload at Mirage Canyon. I’ve told you that.”

“So…why ‘Thick As Thieves’ tonight?”

“Well, I had lunch with David today and he told me all about how beautiful the French Riviera is and ‘Thick As Thieves’ is set there, right?”

“Can’t you find streams of Riviera travelogues online?” She took out her glasses and put them on, then, using a hair tie, adroitly maneuvered her hair into a messy bun in less than 10 seconds.

I snuggled into her right side and looked up at her with puppy dog eyes. “I confess. Seeing you in rehearsals this week made me realize how good an actress you are. So I wanted to watch your Oscar-winning performance one more time. This time with added attentiveness.”

Mom took a pillow and softly thumped me on top of the head. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“It’s starting. Shhh. I remember this opening scene with Alain Delon and the Sultan’s emissary sitting on a park bench in Le Jardin des Champs-Élysées—”

“I don’t even appear on the screen until almost 15 minutes in. Alain, David, George. They all get introduced before I do.”

“Yeah, but, then your entrance was…how did the Times critic put it? Oh, right, he said every man in the audience gasped and wanted to whistle. Va va voom!”

“Sir Bennett made me watch Marilyn Monroe’s sexy strut in ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’.”

“Is that why you dyed your hair blonde?”

“Well, Sir Bennett wanted me to go platinum blonde but I convinced him to compromise. I’m sort of dirty blonde in the movie.”

“Did you fall for George Clooney during the filming?”

“Oh, Cherry, as if. He was dating Charlize Theron and Lisa Snowden simultaneously at the time. I think he was already spoken for two times over!”

“David was married as well then, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.” Mom adjusted her glasses and lifted Alice onto her lap, stroking her back.

“He told me he and his current wife are separated. Just within the last month. He’s moved out of their house and is living at The Midtown Hilton until he can find an apartment. That’s like $300 a night…at least.”

“He never told me. I thought they were still together and the nasty rumors were just bullshit. Well, he’s a very private person. Probably didn’t want his personal life to become a distraction to the production.”

“Mom, can’t you speak to Danny and see if the Netherlanders will spring for a suite here in The Carlyle for David? It’ll make working together a lot easier logistically.”

“You seem to be inordinately concerned about David’s housing arrangements. Why don’t you speak to Danny yourself? Oh, look, it’s the scene where David flies to New York to recruit George and I walk in from the bedroom of our apartment.” Mom leaned forward after placing Alice on my lap.

“After the movie, can you teach me how to do a Dutch Braid?”

Things were a lot better between Mom and me by Friday morning. She even let me borrow her pink leather biker jacket when I took Alice for her morning constitutional in Central Park. It was a cool morning for a late June day in the Northeast. Even so, native New Yorkers looked askance at me for wearing an unnecessary layer of clothing. But I really like leather jackets, especially Mom’s pink one. And it turned out to be a perfect fit!

I was unconsciously humming some Trent Foster song as Alice padded along at her slow pace. We headed down the Fifth Avenue side of the park, past the Alice in Wonderland statue, the Conservatory Water, where kids were already racing model boats at this hour and crossed Terrace Drive. We entered East Green where the path was lined with benches. Alice stopped abruptly and I bent down to see what the problem was. Her eyes were trained on someone sitting on the bench, reading from a tablet in his hands. The blond hair on his head and a hint of his horn-rimmed glasses were all I could discern from the position he was seated.

Alice barked and the person looked up. We locked eyes. It was Anders Lyle. He had been two years ahead of me at Mirage Canyon. We had been cordial floormates in our dorm, not really friends. But the look on his face told me he remembered me. He spoke first.

“Jerry? Jerry Brooks! I’d heard that you…uh…”

“Transitioned? Yeah, it’s been a year now. Right after you graduated from Mirage. I’m Cherry now. Gerald didn’t seem like a proper girl’s name, you know.”

“You look really nice, Cherry. What are you doing in New York?”

I approached the bench Anders was sitting on and Alice practically dragged me even closer. Anders reached down to pet Alice, who licked his hand. Alice probably had a crush on the boy. Naughty dog!

“What are you doing in New York?” I parried.

“You wanna sit down?” He patted the space to his left. “I just finished my freshman year at Columbia. Thought you knew.”

“Nobody told me. But why are you still in the city? It’s summer vacation time.”

“Second verse, same as the first. My dad’s stationed in Beijing nowadays. He didn’t think being in China for two months and then coming back to the U.S. was worth it for me. So I’m taking a summer course and living off-campus. There’s five of us living in a 3-bedroom apartment in Harlem. It’s only a few blocks north of the school but it is Harlem, just the same.”

“I thought your dad was going to quit the Diplomatic Service and take a teaching position at USC.”

“Well, the Beijing assignment was too exciting for him to turn down. So, tell me, what are you doing in New York?”

“My mom is rehearsing a play that’s opening on Broadway in September. They got us a suite in The Carlyle, rent free. Too exciting to turn down, right? And my stepdad Alastair got me into a summer course at Columbia too.

”Really? What course?”

“Introduction to Filmmaking.”

“I’m taking that too! Wow, what a coincidence. I’ll meet you at the front gates on Tuesday. I’m sure you have no idea how to find the building the class is in.”

“Great! Thanks. Let’s exchange phone numbers. By the way, what’s with starting the course the day before the 4th of July?”

“We have to. The only way to fit it in before the Fall semester begins the last week of August. Good to see you again, Cherry. You really do look nice. You were always pretty. Even when you were a boy.” He smiled as he handed back my phone. I had to pull on Alice’s leash to get her turned around as we walked away. She was still looking back at Anders when we reached Terrace Drive.

It was my sophomore year at Mirage Canyon High. Christmas recess. Mom was shooting a Hallmark movie in Vancouver. When I facetimed with her, she’d be sitting in her trailer, cursing a blue streak about having to play the mother of an actor only ten years her junior. Since no one was home in Calabasas, I had to stay in the dorm for the two-week break. The school was a veritable ghost town. On my floor, only two other students had no home to go to for the holidays.

Two days before Christmas, I was walking Alice outside the school grounds when I ran into Anders. I assumed he had gone home like 99% of the other students. He bent down to pet Alice. When he straightened up, I looked into his pale blue eyes and instantly recalled why all the girls in school thought he was cute. Indeed, it was easy to lose oneself in those cerulean irises.

“Not going home for Christmas and New Year’s, Jerry?”

“Oh, captain, my captain—”

“Just call me Anders and stop with the jokes,” laughed Anders.

“Nobody’s home. My mother’s shooting a movie in Vancouver and my stepfather is my ex-stepfather this year. So, I get to celebrate the New Year all by my lonesome, not counting Alice, who’s not known to be a real conversationalist.”

“We’re in the same boat, I guess. My Dad’s stationed in Seoul. He’s got another year in the Service before retiring. Maybe he’ll get that professorship in East Asian Languages at USC that he’s always wanted next year. But then I’ll be going away to college. Sucks not to go home for the holidays.”

Anders seemed to ponder my face for a few seconds before he started to turn away and walk toward our dorm building. Suddenly, he called to me from the corner of the block. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Do you have any plans for Christmas Day?”

“Pizza and Netflix?”

“No, I’m serious. I’m going hiking in Mirage Canyon Park. If you’re not doing anything, I’d appreciate the company. I’ve got an extra rucksack you can use.”

I thought about his offer. I’m not an outdoorsy person. In fact, I’ve never hiked anywhere in my life, short and uneventful as it’s been. “Okay but just the two of us? Are you bringing a shotgun or something with you?”

“Shotgun?”

“There’s bears in the park. Big ones. I’ve seen on the news when the stray bear or two comes down from the woods and goes rummaging through trash bins in Chatsworth.”

“Bears are more scared of us than we are of them. And we’ll be following along the trails with the most foot traffic. Besides, I ain’t scared of no bears,” he declared with infectious laughter.

“What do I do with Alice? I can’t keep her locked up in her crate all day and night.”

“Bring her along. She’ll probably enjoy it more than you.”

“I put everything you’ll need in your backpack. Water, a flashlight, compass, first-aid kit, a lighter, bandana for snake bites – just kidding, a towel, and a couple of PB&J sandwiches—”

“Wow, that’s really nice of you. You even made sandwiches for me—”

We were making our way through the school parking lot, Anders leading the way, as I looked through the backpack he had handed me when he came by my room that morning. Christmas morning.

“Nah, don’t thank me for the sandwiches. Giselle made those.”

“Who’s Giselle?”

Anders opened the rear side door of his silver-grey Honda Civic. Sitting in front, in the passenger’s seat, was a pretty blonde girl whose name I had never known but whose face was familiar. She was a senior like Anders.

“Hi, Jerry,” she greeted me as I slid into the back seat. “Oh, Alice is so cute! I hope you like PB&J. It’s the easiest thing to make and everybody likes them.”

“Oh, I love them. It reminds me of my mom’s cooking. Thanks!”

“You see, Giselle, you’re a better cook than you give yourself credit for. Jerry’s mom probably makes blue ribbon winning sandwiches.”

“My parents are big fans of your mom’s movies. They even subscribed to GlobalNet so they could watch her last TV series,” Giselle gushed.

“That’s nice to know. I’m sure Mom appreciates all of her fans.”

“Well, are we ready to hit the trail? By the way, Jerry, we didn’t bring a shotgun but Giselle learned Tae Kwan Do in middle school.”

“I feel safer already.”

“Are you sure you’re a boy?”

I turned to see Giselle walking alongside. Anders was ahead of us. I imagined him cutting through jungle vines with a machete, his bare arms glistening with sweat, exotic birds and chimpanzees filling the air with stereotypical Tarzan movie sounds. I did a double take when Giselle asked me that.

“What? Of course. What makes you think—”

“You’re too pretty to be a boy. And the long red hair framing that pretty face. If I weren’t straight, I’d be really attracted to you.”

“But you are and I am too. A straight boy. I like long hair. It’s been long since I was a toddler. Mom couldn’t ever talk me into cutting it.”

“Don’t be offended but it’s a shame you weren’t born a girl. I think Anders kinda likes you.”

“Don’t be jealous. I’m not attracted to boys.”

Giselle moved ahead of me and Alice, trying to catch up with Anders. She looked back at us.

“But they’re attracted to you. I’ve heard whispers in the hallways.”

I had found a spot overlooking the canyon, away from Anders and Giselle, as the early afternoon sun blazed in the blue sky above. Unwrapping my PB&J sandwich, I was about to chomp down when I felt Ander’s hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, buddy, don’t like our company?”

“No, the view here is so beautiful. I want to soak it all in as I eat my sandwich. I like you and Giselle. You’ve been very nice to me.”

“It’s the Christmas spirit, Jerry. Listen, I hope you didn’t feel insulted back there by Giselle. I’ve known her for four years and she’s prone to speaking without thinking.”

“It’s alright. A lot of people think I’m a girl. I can’t help the way I look.”

“But how do you feel about it? Do you feel like a boy or a girl?”

“I’m a boy. There’s no mystery. I was born with boy parts.”

“The canyon looks beautiful in this light. I’m glad you decided to come hiking with us.” He stood up and placed his hands on his hips. “My mother was a pediatric nurse before she married Dad. She saw a lot of gender dysphoria cases. Just a reminder, Jerry. There’s people who can help you work things out if you need to.”

I looked up at Anders. My annoyance melted as I saw the sincerity in his eyes. He wasn’t trolling me like the other boys at school.

“Thanks, Anders. I’ll remember that.”

Late in the afternoon, a dusky glow filled the distance between where I stood on a hillside and the Santa Susana Mountains. I took out my phone and snapped a series of photos. Behind me, several yards farther down the trail, Anders and Giselle were arm in arm, passing a water bottle between them. I had tried to give them space wherever I could, seeing that they were couple. I felt like a third wheel. I also felt absolutely alone in the world. Perhaps Anders was right. I need to speak to Mom. I need to confront my issues. Am I a boy or a girl? I snapped one last shot and saw the sun start its descent below the horizon.

Seeing Anders in the park put me in a tizzy that made me late for rehearsal. When I came back to our suite, Mom, uncharacteristically, had already left. After crating Alice, I loaded my backpack with all my necessities: hand sanitizer, hair ties, water bottles, Chapstick, chewing gum, hairbrush, earbuds, felt-tipped pen, wallet, lotion, tissues, deodorant, ibuprofen, key card, phone, and my tablet. Flying out the door, I had to endure the elevator stopping on a dozen floors before reaching the lobby. The doorman hailed a yellow cab for me which fought mid-day traffic to finally deliver me to 42nd Street Studios in less than 25 minutes.

I stepped out of the service elevator just in time to hear Mom addressing the group. With a broad smile, she was in the midst of her announcement.

“…since there’s no rehearsal on Saturday. Thank you, Danny. You’re so thoughtful. I hope that all of you will be able to come to our little dinner party Saturday evening in my suite. Don’t be frightened. I’m not cooking!”

The room filled with guffaws at Mom’s bit of humor. If only they knew!

“It’ll be a catered buffet-style dinner. Very casual. Don’t feel you have to wear anything too formal. Now, Danny, I’d appreciate it if you at least wore a clean tee shirt—”

More laughter, especially from Maia.

“But I will warn you. I’m going to prepare the official Rhode Island pie for dessert, Coconut Custard Pie. As you all know, I was born and raised in Rhode Island. My mother taught me the recipe and I’m handing it down to Cherry.”

Visions of a kitchen catastrophe filled my mind as Mom continued her speech.

“Mom, admit it. You’ve never baked a coconut custard pie in your life,” I laughed at her, as we looked at each other covered in flour in the kitchenette of our Carlyle Hotel suite.

“I did get the recipe from your Gran,” Mom replied, trying to wipe flour from the tip of my nose with her fingers redolent of coconut pie filling. “It seems simple enough to make…”

“Why did you tell everybody you were going to bake homemade pies? No one is going to confuse you with Martha Stewart.”

Mom stood back from the cutting board and wiped a tear from her eye, only to smear flour onto her face.

“Oh, Cherry, I just thought it would be a nice mother-daughter thing we could do. Remember when you asked Alastair to get you a Betty Baker kitchen set?”

“Yeah, you scolded me and said it wasn’t normal for a boy to want to play with girls’ toys. And you told Alastair to cancel the online purchase!”

“Cherry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand—” She reached out to embrace me but I averted her arms.

“Do you really understand now, Mom?”

“Yes, I do, sweetie. I’ve come to realize I gave birth to a baby girl seventeen years ago, not a boy.” I accepted her embrace and pressed my cheek against her, merging the flour on my face with hers.

“Let’s finish baking these pies!” Mom anxiously said. “We need to get dolled up and dressed for tonight.”

“Isn’t it just informal. Like casual?”

“We’re the hosts, Cherry! We have to look presentable. Now, I saw this perfect blue party dress in Dior’s window on Fifth Avenue and I just had to buy it!”

“I’m sure you’ll look beautiful in it, Mom.”

“It’s for you, Cherry.”

“No one will care what I’m wearing. Can’t I just wear—”

“Your cherry stems tee shirt and sweatpants? Oh, baby girl, you’re seventeen. Time to dress like an adult woman. And, anyway, you’ll need to look elegant playing the piano to accompany Maris when she sings for our guests.”

“She’s singing?”

“Of course. Maris has to sing when she sees a piano in the room. It’s in her DNA. She asked me to ask you to play for her. Don’t worry, she’s bringing her sheet music.”

“How about I just change into the dress when I’m playing piano and then change back to more comfortable clothes after?”

“Cherry! As co-host, I’ll expect you to greet our guests at the door when they arrive. I don’t want everyone to think you’re the hired help.”

“But everyone who’s coming has already met me. They know who I am—”

“Not everyone, dear. I’ve invited some additional guests. People you’ve never met. In fact, I’ve never met them either.”

“Oh…snap!”

“Don’t swear, Cherry. It’s quite vulgar.”

“I didn’t swear—”

“Yes, but you wanted to. Here, pour the filling into the pie crusts.”

Mom and I were all “dolled up and dressed” when the caterers started to set up our buffet dinner party at seven. Mom had decided to hire the Carlyle’s in-house catering service for a reasonable price of $5,000 ($200 X 25 guests) and they provided tables, chairs, and two servers. It was a tight fit in the living room of our suite but it was done.

At five of seven, I took my position at the door, ready to greet our dinner guests in my blue expensive designer party dress. Alice was wagging her tiny tail at my feet. I surveyed the room: a clutter of tables, chairs, and a central banquet table, festooned with a floral display, manned by the two servers/bartenders.

“Where are you, Cherry?” shouted Mom as she emerged from the kitchenette carrying the two coconut custard pies. She was wearing a light blue Dior cotton jumpsuit that was outrageously over-priced at almost $2000. I bet you could buy a similar looking one for under $100 at the Chico’s in The Commons back in Calabasas.

“I’m at the door, ready to greet our wonderful guests, Mom.”

“There you are. You look beautiful, Cherry! Oh, no, why isn’t Alice in her crate?”

“She’ll get anxious and lonely locked in her crate. Mom, she’ll behave. She loves meeting people—”

There were two quick knocks on the door. I took one last look at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall to the left of the door and noticed that Alice was also checking herself. Mom was standing in front of the banquet table, a wide smile on her face.

I opened the door and was met by a gaggle of members of Mom’s cast and plus ones.

“Cherry, you look splendid!” Danny complimented me. “Oh, Lulu, the spread looks scrumptious.” He handed me two bottles of Fernet-Branca Amaro Liqueur. “This is for after dinner. The perfect digestif.”

“Is it a sweet liqueur? I like something fruity to drink after a heavy meal.”

“No, sweetie, it’s bitter yet bracing…like life. Perhaps your mother will allow you a sip or two?”

“Cherry’s drinking the soft drink of her choice,” Mom declared. “She’s not drinking age and I don’t want her getting started before she’s 21.”

Danny patted my shoulder and whispered into my ear. “Don’t worry, kiddo, Uncle Danny will let you sneak a sip from my glass.” I rolled my eyes as he walked in. One of the servers took the bottles from me as I ushered in the people behind Danny. There was Maia, who brushed my cheek with hers, B-Loved and his date, Ron, Leisha, Brandon, and George, cast members, with their spouses, and Serena Chao, our Executive Producer, with her husband. Notwithstanding Mom’s insistence that the party was casual, everyone was dressed to the nines. I’m sure Danny was wearing a clean tee shirt beneath his dress shirt. None of the men was wearing a tie, thank goodness.

A second after I closed the door behind that group of guests, there were more knocks on the door. When I opened the door, a lone figure stood there. It was Philippa Chang, Annie Flaherty’s companion.

“Hi, Cherry. I guess I’m early.”

“Philippa, come in. Where’s Annie? Isn’t she coming?”

“Annie left to join Trent in LA last night. Trent wanted her to sing a couple of songs in his concerts on this mini-tour that goes through the 4th of July. All California dates. In fact, they’re set for a concert at The Hollywood Bowl in four hours.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, just the same. We can toast each other with soft drinks because we’re both underage.” I giggled. “Aren’t you…” I started cautiously. “Aren’t you a bit jealous that she ran off to California with Trent?”

“It’s strictly business. Anyways, we have what you might call an ‘open’ relationship. You know what I mean?”

“I guess. I know someone else who might be more than a little bothered by Annie possibly being just a bit more than professional with Trent.”

“Oh, really? Who?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Another set of knocks on the door ended my conversation with Philippa. She nodded to me as she walked into the huddle of other guests laughing and chatting with Mom. I opened the door.

“Hey, sweetheart, the gang’s all here, I see,” my step-dad Alastair declared. He was holding a fifth of Glenfiddich Scotch in his left hand. He bent down and kissed my cheek. “You look smashing, Cherry.”

“She’s going to be stealing hearts, for sure.” David Wetherell stood right behind Alastair, holding another fifth of Scotch in his right hand. “Do you think 1,500 milliliters is enough for all the souses here?” He smiled as he also bent down to buss my cheek.

“Mom won’t let me drink any alcohol. Underage, you know.”

“She’s being a good mother, Cherry,” Alastair stated soberly. “I hope we’re all taking Ubers home tonight. Even you, David. Riding that chopper with a belly full of liquor is a death wish.”

As they walked into the room, Alice barked and tried to climb Alastair’s leg. David put his arm around Alastair’s shoulders. “Speaking of Death Wish, Al, Eli Roth originally wanted me to play the lead in the remake but I didn’t think I was right for the part. So they gave it to Bruce Willis. Now, let me tell you…”

Maris Lafferty arrived fashionably late at 7:30. She was greeted enthusiastically by everyone as she sauntered into the room. Dressed in a blue silk pantsuit with a daring, plunging neckline, she acted like the belle of the ball. During a brief lull in the chatter, she handed me her sheet music. It was a Stephen Sondheim song from one of his earlier musicals.

“Are you familiar with this tune, Cherry?”

“Oh, of course, Maris. Mom used to play the original cast recording cd often. The one from the Broadway revival you starred in…in nineteen ninety…”

“1992, Cherry. I won a Tony for that. My second.”

“When do you want to sing it?”

“It’ll be an after-dinner treat. After dessert but before the Amaro.” She stroked my cheek. “I’m sure you’ll do splendidly, dear. Just follow my lead.”

As everyone sat down with their plates full of buffet goodies and a glass of wine, Mom stood up and offered a toast.

“May I have everyone’s attention for a second before you all chow down on this delicious meal? Thank you all for gracing our home away from home tonight. I’ve only known most of you for two weeks since we started rehearsals, but I can already sense this show will be the hit of the new season. Many thanks to Danny, our genius director, Maia, our wonderful playwright, B-Loved and Trent, wherever you are tonight, for the great score, my splendid fellow cast members, and The Netherlanders Organization, ably represented by our Executive Producer, Serena Chao. Applaud yourselves!”

Cheers and applause rang through the room. Alice barked.

Mom raised her glass of red wine. “To the success of ‘Blues For a Diva’!”

More cheers and applause. Alice barked.

Alice wandered from table to table, garnering the affectionate pats of our guests and the occasional bit of food. I made sure that no one offered her anything that might be toxic to a dog, like nuts, dairy-based items, chocolate, bread, or fatty meats like bacon. Fortunately, she’d already been given her dinner so she wasn’t that hungry.

“I thought you didn’t like dogs, Lulu,” Danny ventured, nibbling on a chicken wing.

“It’s only because of Cherry that we have a dog. I didn’t think I could ever own another dog after my dog Buster ran away from home when I was twelve. I still believe my mother purposely left the gate to our backyard open so that Buster would be tempted to run off. That broke my heart. I could never love another dog after that. The memories would be too painful.”

“Until Cherry made it impossible for us not to get a dog for her,” Alastair interjected.

“Don’t tell that story again, Alastair,” I pleaded.

“What story?” asked Danny.

“I think it started when she saw ‘101 Dalmatians’ when she was 4 or 5 years old—”

“No,” Mom interrupted. “It was ‘Lady and the Tramp’, Alastair.”

“She kept asking Lulu to adopt a dog from the Agoura Animal Shelter near where we lived in the Valley. Of course, Lulu couldn’t explain her objections to doing that—”

“How do you explain that to a 4-year-old?” asked Mom.

“I never liked dogs. They bite little children. I know. It happened to me,” Maia added to the discussion.

“Cherry never let it go. Every once in a while, she’d ask Lulu again.”

“And every time, she’d say no,” I complained.

“One summer, when Cherry was seven, we took a road trip through New Mexico. You know, Santa Fe, Albuquerque—”

“Roswell! Alastair wanted to see where the aliens crashed back in 1947. He believes in UFOs. So, we had to visit New Mexico in the hottest month of the year,” Mom sighed, shaking her head.

“You’re not a believer. Fine. But we had fun visiting the Roswell museum, didn’t we, Cherry?”

“Yeah, I liked the models of the aliens. They looked almost real. It was cool.”

“So, on our way back home, we drove by Gila National Forest and decided to do a little hiking.”

“You decided to do a little hiking,” Mom corrected. “I just wanted to find a nice motel in Phoenix where I could sleep in an air-conditioned room.”

“We’re following one of the trails when all of a sudden we realize we’ve lost sight of Cherry.”

Mom squeezed my arm as she recalled the incident, her eyes shut.

“We looked for almost two hours. We even had a half dozen other hikers helping us search. Finally, we found Cherry near a stream about a mile away from the trail. She was wet from head to toe, holding a..a…what was it we discovered it was, Lulu?”

“An agoutis they’re called. Basically, a giant water rat,” she cried in a trembling voice.

“It took us half an hour to get her to let go of that animal. She wanted to keep it as a pet. Cried in the car all the way to Phoenix and then, even after a night’s sleep, cried all the way back home to Calabasas.”

“That’s really when I first saw her as a girl—”

“What do you mean? She is a girl!” Danny exclaimed.

“I mean,” Alastair quickly resumed, “she’d always been a real tomboy. Doing the kinds of things little boys do. But the way she held that rat in her arms, it was almost maternal.”

“I hate it when you tell this story,” I said, holding Alice in my arms in a decidedly maternal fashion.

“So, for Christmas that winter, I gave Cherry what she wanted. Voila! Alice!”

“I named her after you,” I giggled.

“Yes, I think of her as my other daughter.”

Toward the end of dinner, Mom received a Facetime call on her phone.

“Lulu, what do they say about turning your phone off during dinner?” teased Danny.

“I was expecting this call, Danny.” She connected and Trent Foster’s cheerful face appeared on her phone.

“Hey, Lulu! Trent here, sitting in the living room of my parents’ humble house in Pacific Palisades. I’m so disappointed I couldn’t be there tonight to break bread with everyone but, as they say, the show must go on. Otherwise the promoters will have me for dinner, bones and all. Now, could you mirror this onto your TV so that I can see all of you and vice versa? Annie’s here and we’d like to sing for our supper in absentia.”

“Hello Trent and Annie. I’ll hand the phone over to Cherry and she’ll do the honors. I’m an old fuddy-duddy with tech stuff.” She handed the phone to me and I toggled Airplay, chose the Smart TV on the wall, and Trent’s head filled the TV screen. Everyone turned toward the TV.

“Hey everyone. Sorry I can’t be there tonight. I’m in Mom and Pop’s house. Annie and I are heading over to The Hollywood Bowl in a couple of hours. Say hello, Annie. Wave.”

“Hi people,” Annie shouted unnecessarily, waving her right hand while keeping her left hand on the keyboard of a grand piano she was sitting at. Trent was standing behind the piano, leaning over and exchanging smiles with Annie.

“We’ll let you get back to eating but first we’d like to sing our version of ‘What a Wonderful World’ for you. It’s how we both feel about ‘Blues For a Diva.’ It’s going to be a smash hit! Maestra, if you please…”

After Trent signed off, I turned to Mom and tried to needle her. “They make beautiful music together, don’t you think? I sense a lot of chemistry between them.”

“It’s show business, Cherry. They both sing well and they’re very good actors. Nothing beyond that.”

“Like when you and David worked on ‘Thick As Thieves’ together? Just being professional?” I looked over to the table where David was sitting, regaling Maris with what seemed to everyone at their table to be a very funny story.

“Cherry, just drop it. Okay?”

There was a loud knock on the door.

“Someone’s real late to the party or your neighbors have complained to the police,” I said with a smirk.

“Go answer the door, Cherry. Please.”

I walked quickly over to the front door and opened it. Standing before me was a young Asian-looking man dressed in some kind of bohemian mish-mosh of fashion styles.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Chris Chang.”

“And…?”

“Lulu Brooks invited me to the party. I’m sorry for being so late but I was in Boston today. Just got off the train, went home and changed.”

“I can see you’re appropriately dressed for a dinner party. I’m Cherry. Lulu’s my mother. She didn’t tell me she invited you.”

“She told me that Annie Flaherty had asked her to invite me, kind of last minute. I don’t know Annie Flaherty either. She is a friend, I’ve been told, of my brother Phil. Is Phil here?”

“Cherry, who is it?” Mom stood up from her table.

“Chris Chang? He said Annie asked you to invite him—”

“Oh, god, no!” Philippa bolted from her table and ran in the direction of the kitchenette. Everyone swiveled their necks from watching the escaping Philippa to focusing on Chris at the front door.

“Oh, yes, Annie wanted me to invite you. I’m glad you could make it,” Mom said as she led Chris to what remained on the banquet table.

“Thank you. Sorry about being so late. I came down from Boston. It looks like one of your guests took exception to my arrival. Perhaps I’ve offended somehow?”

“I don’t know what that was about. Cherry, could you see what the problem is with her?”

I walked into the kitchenette and saw Philippa freaking out, looking like a lab rat trying to find its way out of a maze.

“Philippa! Calm down. What’s the matter?”

Her eyes were wide with fear. “That’s my brother Chris. He can’t see me like this!”

“Like what?”

“Like…like a girl.” She managed to stand still and look into my eyes. “I’m a guy. I’m Phil Chang, not Philippa.”

“You’re trans?”

“Well, no, I don’t think so. Maybe. Maybe I’m just a crossdresser.”

“Your brother doesn’t have any idea?”

“We’re not close. I think he’d be very disapproving.”

“What about your parents? Have you told them?”

“I think they’d be okay with it but I’m not sure myself. How can I tell them something I’m not sure of?”

“Annie asked my mom to invite your brother.”

“She’s pushing me to admit I’m trans. She thinks I’m in love with her cousin Paul. We’re roommates at Stanford.”

“Are you?”

“Well, yeah, I am but that could just mean I’m gay.”

“Are you gay then?”

“No, I don’t think so. You see, I’m just so confused. And Annie thought she could push me over the edge by having me live as a girl for two months in New York City.”

“So far, how are you feeling about that?”

“I need time. I think I’ll know better after these two months are over. So far, I feel…free. Like I’m supposed to be a girl, you know? What am I saying? You can’t possibly know how I feel—”

“You’d be surprised. Do you want to go back out there and confront your brother?”

“No! He wouldn’t be able to process this at all. And he’d tell my parents. They think I’m working as an intern on the musical that Annie’s in. Like a go-fer or something.”

“There’s a door that leads to the hallway. Right behind you, next to the pantry. Go! I’ll tell Mom you came down with an upset stomach and went back downstairs to your suite.”

“Thanks, Cherry. You’re okay. You’re in my circle of trust now.”

“Cherry!” It was my mother, calling from the living room. “Maris is going to sing for us now. She’s going to need a pianist.”

“Your father is Dr. Kenneth Chang, LA’s leading radiologist! I thought I recognized your name. I didn’t connect the two of you until I saw you in the flesh tonight!” Maris was excitedly telling Chris, who had sat down at her table to eat.

“Actually my father is rather disappointed in me that I didn’t become a doctor like him. And my mother is disappointed I didn’t become a lawyer like her,” Chris laughed. “I was told my brother Phil would be here at the party, seeing as he’s an intern with you for the summer.”

“Brother? We don’t have an intern named Phil, do we Danny?” David Wetherell asked Danny, a table away from them.

Danny shook his head, more interested in pouring himself a glass of Alastair’s Scotch.

“Maris, I’m ready to tickle the ivories,” I told her.

“Yes, dear, let me give myself some liquid courage first.” She reached across the table and picked up David’s bottle of Scotch. Pouring some into her glass, she confessed to me, “One never gets over the jitters before taking the stage. Never.”

I sat down at the grand piano and straightened up the sheet music on the stand. I wanted to crack my knuckles before setting my fingers down on the keyboard but decided against it. I don’t think Maris would appreciate the joke.

Mom got everyone’s attention, standing in front of the piano, the Manhattan skyline seen through the windows behind her. Introducing Maris to polite applause, Mom walked back to her seat. Maris weaved her way to the piano, nodded at me, and smiled. She was just tipsy enough to not feel her jitters.

After our last guest left and the caterers had carried everything out, restoring our living room to its original formation, I turned to Mom, flaked out on the sofa.

“Did you give the servers their tips, Cherry?”

“Yes, Mom, I gave each of them $250 like you wanted. They were more than happy to see the cash I put in their hands.”

“Good. They did a very nice job. Cherry, there’s still a whole half of a coconut custard pie left. Want a slice? I’ll make some coffee.”

“I’ll take the coffee, Mom.”

“You’re telling me without telling me, the pies sucked. Listen, missy, you were an equal partner in baking them.”

“Wonder what Trent and Annie are up to, if not right now, soon.”

“Cherry, I told you it’s a professional relationship. Anyway, Annie’s a lesbian. She and Philippa are involved. By the way, what exactly happened to her. Whatever it was, it came over her quite suddenly. She made it through most of the dinner without any sign of indigestion.”

“I don’t know, Mom. She really needed to go home though. Good thing she’s only two floors below us.”

“Just so you’ll stop with the kibbitzing, Trent invited me out to LA to spend the 3rd and part of the 4th with him.”

“I’m starting my film class on Tuesday, the 3rd.”

“I know. You’re going to stay with Alastair Tuesday and then he’s taking you to grand-mère’s barbecue on the 4th. I’ll be back that night. Okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure. I like spending time with Alastair. He’s almost like a father to me.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Cherry. I’m bushed. I’m going to sleep. Make your own coffee if you want.”

“What are we doing tomorrow, Mom?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. I’m sleeping until two in the afternoon. Why don’t you frolic in the park with Alice?”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Aren’t you supposed to drink Coronita straight out of the bottle, Dad?” I teased Alastair as he poured himself a glass of Mexican beer. Alastair had picked me up at The Carlyle on Monday evening so I could stay at his apartment while Mom had her little 24-hour tryst with Trent Foster in Los Angeles. We were having dinner at the coolest Mexican restaurant in Manhattan. Los Mariscos, situated in the Chelsea Market. It was a warm summer night so we chose to sit outside in one of the stalls overlooking West 15th Street. Alice was snoozing in her kennel at the foot of our table.

“Just eat your fish tacos and drink your Mexican Coke. I don’t critique your eating style, do I?” Alastair smiled.

Dad offered to take me to school on Tuesday morning when my film class at Columbia University starts. But I told him that Anders Lyle had given me comprehensive instructions on what subway to take to get from Alastair’s West Village apartment to Columbia’s Morningside Heights campus.

“You’ve been in New York less than a week and you’ve already acquired a boyfriend?” he teased in retaliation.

“He’s just a friend from Mirage Canyon back home. He was two years ahead of me. And he’s going into his sophomore year at Columbia. It’s a weird coincidence that he’s taking the same film class this summer.”

“Do you like him?” Alastair asked, his grin partially obscured by the beer glass.

“Well…” I swallowed the bit of taco I had been chewing. “I guess so. He’s always been really nice to me.”

“Does he know?”

“Of course, Dad! We went to school together!”

“And it doesn’t matter to him?”

“Should it? I mean, we’re friends. Not Romeo and Juliet…”

“I just don’t want to see you to get hurt, Cherry. You’re still so young and—”

“I’m not going to lose all sense like Mom whenever she gets mixed up with some dude. You know, she’s taking an early morning flight to LAX tomorrow. Mom! Lulu Brooks, the woman who never gets up before noon! So she can spend a delirious 24 hours with Trent Foster, a boy less than half her age!” I sliced off another piece of a taco angrily.

“Eating tacos with a knife and fork is akin to doing the same with a slice of pizza,” observed Alastair.

“I have a very small mouth,” I replied defensively. “And the most bizarre thing is that she’ll be staying overnight at Trent’s parents house. Annie Flaherty is also staying there! Trent’s got a veritable seraglio in his mother’s house in Pacific Palisades!”

“Look, don’t concern yourself with your mother’s love life. Next year, at this time, you’ll be going off to college. She’ll be an empty-nester. Alone in the wilds of Calabasas.” He laughed into his beer.

“Dad, she’s not looking for companionship in her old age. She’s hot to trot. Especially with some prime beef like Trent Foster.”

“Your mother can handle herself, Cherry. Even an operator like Trent can’t make a dent in her emotional armor. Take it from me. I know whereof I speak.”

“We’ll see. No offense, but I think I know her even better than you do. After all, she gave birth to me.”

“Thank god you’re nothing like her, Cherry.”

“Well, I do have one thing in common with her.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re both women.”

Anders was smiling as I approached the massive ironwork gates of the Broadway entrance to the Columbia University campus. I had just emerged from the subway station beneath the corner of West 116th Street at precisely 10:45 AM, early for the start of class at 11. I waved to him though I was barely 30 feet from him. Feeling self-conscious, I immediately put my hand down by my side and just returned Anders’ smile.

“Morning, sunshine,” Anders greeted. “Ready for class?”

“Hi, Anders. I’ve got my tablet in my backpack and my fingers are itching to start typing notes.”

“Do you have any plans for after class?”

“Like lunch plans? No, I was just going to go back to my stepdad’s place and play with my dog. Make myself a sandwich. Listen to some jazz albums. My stepdad wants to improve my musical taste.”

We started to walk into the campus. Anders pointed to the building where our class would be held. Since we were so early, we fell into a leisurely pace. It was a nice sunny day and, being summer recess, not a lot of students were milling about.

“I was thinking, if you’d want to, we could get a couple of slices at V&T’s on Amsterdam. And then I could show you the apartment I’m sharing. It’s only a few blocks up on Broadway. Okay?” I could tell from the quaver in his voice, he was a little nervous about asking me. Almost like asking me for a date. Imagine. Me. A date.

“Sure, I’d like that. But I can’t stay too long. I have to let Alice out of her crate.”

A tall, fit man in his early forties, with close-cropped red hair and a stubble beard, dressed in a polo shirt and dark blue trousers, stood before us in the classroom. He nodded at us. There were 18 students in the room. It appeared I was one of the few high school students in the group.

“Good morning everyone. My name is Tony Webster and I’m your instructor for Filmmaking 101. I hope everyone here is in the right place. I had some students last semester who thought I was teaching a class in auto repair. Maybe it’s a statement about my fashion sense—”

General laughter filled the room.

“Oh, I see you all have the same opinion. Well, I could say my wife picks out all my clothes but that wouldn’t be true. Actually, my daughter does. She’s twelve. Yuck it up, people. These are my best dad jokes.

No, but, really, to be serious for a moment, I’d like to welcome you all to Filmmaking 101. I hope to introduce you to the fundamentals of the cinematic craft. I say craft because the art part is your individual and unique contribution to the enterprise. I can’t give you Scorsese’s or Chris Nolan’s genius but I can impart to you the tools and methods to make competent, perhaps even compelling visual media. After these 16 classes in 8 weeks’ time, my hope is that you’ll have taken your first steps to a career in cinema as rewarding and satisfying as I’ve enjoyed.

A little of my own background. I’m a graduate of USC Film School. Worked as a cinematographer for almost two decades. I’ve received three Oscar nominations, including for my first major film, ‘Thick As Thieves,’ back in 2001. I’m sure most of you weren’t even born when that was released. You might have seen it on Netflix. It starred David Wetherell, George Clooney, Alain Delon, and Lulu Brooks—”

I heard myself gasp. Fortunately, no one noticed. But I wasn’t sure if Mr. Webster was looking in my direction when he said my mother’s name. Anders, who was sitting next to me, turned his eyes toward me but didn’t say anything under his breath.

“…never won but what is it they say? Winning isn’t everything? Well, I’ve still got my acceptance speech on a slip of paper in my wallet. The one I never got to deliver. Don’t believe anyone when they tell you it’s an honor just to be nominated. Several people got nominated for ‘Thick As Thieves’ and the only one of us who won was Lulu Brooks. Well-deserved I must say but let’s just say, the afterparty wasn’t all that stimulating.

Enough self-pity. The goal of the course is to make a really good short film by the end of these 8 weeks. By short film I mean anything from, using the standards of the Academy, five to twenty minutes. You will be using the digital cameras, lighting and audio equipment we issue you as well as the use of our editing facilities. I will show you how to operate all the equipment. You will be responsible for the creative input. You can make a documentary or fiction film. I leave it up to you. In our next class on Thursday, I will assign each of you to a three-person team, since there’s, I believe, 18 students here. You can divvy up your duties anyway you wish among yourselves. If there are people you want to team up with, just inform me before class begins on Thursday. So, let me call the roll…”

As Anders and I were about to leave the room at the end of our two-hour class, Mr. Webster called out to me.

“Ms. Brooks? May I speak to you for a moment?”

“I’ll wait in the hall for you, Cherry.” Anders walked through the doorway and into the hall.

“Yes, Mr. Webster?”

“I noticed you sort of flinched when I mentioned Lulu Brooks. Are you related to her?”

“Yes, I’m her daughter.”

“I was a little thrown by your surname being Brooks. I know she was married to Alastair Knowles—”

“Alastair is my stepfather. My mother chose not to acknowledge my biological father by giving me his name. I suppose that makes me a bastard. Excuse my French.”

“Nonsense. You’re no such thing. We can’t judge a person’s worth by their parentage. But I am a bit puzzled. I had always been led to believe that Lulu had a second son, not a daughter. I guess I was misled. You know, I haven’t seen nor spoken to your mother in seventeen years. Since the Oscars in 2001. She was very pregnant then…with you. She attended the ceremonies with your grandmother. Everyone was trying to guess who the father was—”

“I’m still trying to guess,” I admitted.

“She never told you? Well, your mother always did everything her own, sometimes unusual way. Your mother and I dated at one time…”

“Is that what you wanted to ask me, Mr. Webster? My friend Anders is waiting for me…”

“I’m sorry to keep you. But…I’d like to continue our conversation. I’d love to catch up on what your mother’s doing these days and, of course, what made you want to take this course in filmmaking. Can I interest you in having lunch with me? If you don’t have any plans…”

“Only if Anders can come with me,” I insisted.

“Of course. After you.” He let me precede him out the door, where Anders was waiting, a puzzled look on his face.

“Anders, Mr. Webster has invited us to lunch.”

“I’m sure you’ll endorse my choice of venue. They have the best pizza in the neighborhood if not the borough of Manhattan.”

“V&T’s?” Anders guessed. “That’s funny. Cherry and I were planning to have lunch there ourselves.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was this a date? Am I stepping on toes here?” Mr. Webster seemed genuinely concerned.

“No, Mr. Webster, we’re not dating or anything,” I quickly interjected. “Anders and I went to the same high school back in California. We had no idea we’d be taking the same summer course.”

“I kind of thought it was sort of a date…” Anders muttered.

I blushed and turned my head away so that Mr. Webster wouldn’t see.

Predictably, on the day before the 4th of July, the lunch crowd at V&T was sparse. Mr. Webster, Anders and I sat at one of the three tables that were occupied as we dug into the large Margherita pizza we had ordered.

“I was just 25, 3 years out of film school, on my first big movie as head cinematographer. And it was being filmed in Europe! The cast was unbelievable. Wetherell, Clooney, Delon and, of course, your mother. On top of that it was the last film ever directed by the master, Sir Bennett.”

“Tell me, Mr. Webster—”

“Tony. We’re outside of the classroom. Call me Tony. And I’ll call you Cherry. Okay?”

“Tell me, Tony, is it true that my mother and David had an affair during the shoot?”

“It was, unfortunately, pretty much public knowledge, even while we were completing the principal photography. There was a week when Sir Bennett had to go back to Paris to explain some of the production cost overages to studio execs. That’s when David and your mother..umm…took a holiday in the South of France. The European press had pictures of them plastered all over the tabloids. And then when they had that huge fight in the London Hilton…”

“Should I be hearing this, Cherry?” asked Anders, attempting to observe my privacy.

I took Anders’ hand and sat him back down in his seat. “We’re friends. Please stay. Please.”

Anders nodded. I continued my examination of the witness.

“But then, after the incident in London, they broke off contact entirely. Didn’t they even try to patch things up?”

“I think that’s where David’s wife at the time comes in. She ‘forgave’ him his trespasses and decided against suing for divorce. I think David as well was chastened by the negative reaction from fans and the press about his philandering ways. He decided to be on his best behavior. I guess your mother, for her part, also decided to drop the whole matter, thinking the relationship was hopeless. Maybe she actually thought David would come crawling back to her?”

“When did you start dating her then,” I asked, puzzled by where Tony fit into this jigsaw of events.

“I guess I should confess that I fell head over heels in love with your mother during the filming of the movie. She never gave me a thought. And why would she? I was this young kid, wet behind the ears, hopelessly starstruck by this beautiful movie star. And the irony of it all was she was equally starstruck by David Wetherell, who never looked a gift horse in the mouth…sorry, that was an unfortunate choice of words.”

I waved my hand as if to say it was no biggie. He continued.

“Anyway, that summer after the film was completed, I bumped into your mother at a number of Hollywood parties. She wasn’t doing that well, trying to get over the episode with Wetherell. I heard she’d been drinking heavily, even making some embarrassing scenes at a couple of dinner parties given by some important people in the industry. I don’t know why but I felt I could help her so I got in touch with her toward the end of August 2000. Through her agent or manager. I forget.”

“And you started dating? Just like that?”

“Well, I knew from sources that she had optioned a property for a movie about Amelia Earhart. Something about how she might have ditched the plane on a deserted island a hundred miles short of her intended destination, Howland Island. She wanted to write the screenplay and convince a studio to let her direct it as well as star in it. I volunteered to storyboard it for her, in return for having first dibs on being the cinematographer on it if it ever got greenlit. She was in bad shape and the premiere of ‘Thick As Thieves’ was just a month away. I got her off the booze and, well, one thing led to another…we helped each other. That’s the way I see it. Was there something wrong with that?”

“I’d say you took advantage of someone in a very vulnerable emotional moment in her life,” Anders declared.

Ignoring Anders’ comment, I tried to get to the core of the issue, as far as I was concerned. “Were you dating my mother in September of that year, after the premieres of the movie?”

“She lost interest in the Earhart project and, I guess, me shortly before Halloween. All of a sudden, she seemed consumed by other things. Not even acting jobs. I called her often but she ended up just not answering my calls after a while.”

“Did she start over with David?”

“Oh no, that was over. Absolutely finished. His wife sued for divorce. This time she followed through with it. But he’d already moved on. He was involved with that actress who was on the new hit show on the BBC. Petunia or Petula something.”

“And you haven’t seen or spoken to Mom since 2001?”

“No. I hate to admit this but I never really got over your mother. I’m married now and have a 12-year-old daughter. She’s got red hair and freckles just like you. Oh, look at the time! I’ve got to drive my daughter to her piano lessons. Sorry, I’ve got to go.” He put two twenties on the table. “That ought to cover it plus the tip. I’ll see you Thursday. Listen, Cherry, next time you talk to your mother…maybe…I don’t know. Do you think she’d be interested in having dinner…no…never mind. See you both Thursday.” He walked quickly out of the restaurant.

“Red hair. Freckles. Piano lessons,” I enumerated under my breath.

“You play piano too, right?” Anders took the check and Tony’s $40 up to the cashier.

I decided to go home instead of visiting Anders’ humble abode in a Columbia-owned building on West 122nd Street and Broadway. Anders had exaggerated when he claimed he lived in Harlem. It was technically still in Morningside Heights.

As I strolled through Central Park with Alice, my mind was filled with all the possibilities my conversation with Tony Webster had conjured. At the time I was putatively conceived, sometime during September 2000, my mother was certainly having relations with Tony. But, with the premieres taking place that same month, it is very possible my mother experienced a return of the repressed with David Wetherell. Both of them are gingers as well. In fact, Tony has a daughter with red hair and freckles who plays piano, just like me.

What do I do now? How do I find out for sure who my biological father really is? Mom won’t tell me, for whatever reason I can’t even guess. Is she ashamed for me or of me? Or neither?

I was still pondering the enigma at midnight, peering out into the night through Alastair’s apartment windows. Alastair had already gone to bed and reminded me that we’d be heading up to Connecticut to grand-mère’s house for her annual 4th of July barbecue. As if I would forget! I love grand-mère and grand-père. And I love French barbecue. Merguez (Lamb sausages) and brochettes (vegetables/ meat on skewers) served with salads and rice. Delicious! Or as grand-père says, “Tres bon!”

My phone emitted an alert tone as I received a text message. It was from Mom. It must be after 9PM in Los Angeles. Right in the middle of Trent’s concert at The Hollywood Bowl. It was just a couple of sentences about how exciting the concert was and how she missed me being there with her. Yeah, right. There was a link. I clicked on it.

As Mom had described it, Trent and Annie were being very professional. Although the looks they exchanged while singing were probably the same kind of looks she and David Wetherell exchanged during the filming of “Thick As Thieves” several months before I was conceived.

The morning of the 4th of July, I was sitting shotgun in Alastair’s Prius as we started our trek to grand-mère’s house in Westport, Connecticut. The short one and a half-hour ride entailed going across town from Alastair’s West Village apartment to the East Side of Manhattan where we would join the traffic on the FDR Drive. Unexpectedly, Alastair turned left on East 64th Street.

“Why are we turning back into the city?”

“See that townhouse over on the left? That’s Martin Scorsese’s townhouse. I think Bill Murray has a place around here too.”

“So?”

He parked the Prius in front of a building and, seconds afterwards, a tall, blonde woman who looked to be a young 50 stepped out of the entrance, waving to us.

“Who is that, Dad?”

“That’s my good friend, Joanne Prentiss. Your grand-mère always invites her to her 4th of July barbecue. You’ll like her a lot. The two of you have many things in common.”

Now what could I possibly have in common with a 50-year-old woman I’ve never met?

“Good friend, eh?” I teased Alastair. As Joanne Prentiss approached our Prius, I scooped up Alice in my arms and grabbed the door handle. “Maybe I should sit in the back and let you and your good friend sit up front.”

I stepped out of the car and greeted Joanne, Alice in the hook of my left arm, her tongue wagging.

“Hi, Joanne. I’m Cherry. We’ve never met but—”

The pretty blonde lady dressed in a holiday bright white dress shook my free right hand.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Alastair. And who is this?”

“This is Alice. Alice, say hello to the nice lady.” Alice barked once, panted, and barked again. Joanne petted the top of her head.

“Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, get in, Joanne. No standing on this block.” Alastair pointed to the sign some yards up the block.

“Alastair, that seersucker suit! The perfect summer outfit for country club functions. You’re missing the straw hat to go with it,” Joanne joked as she took up my former shotgun position.

“Cherry, show her,” Alastair requested, turning his head toward the back seat.

I opened the rear door and reached in, lifting up Alastair’s straw boater to view.

“Ahh, the complete Southern Gentleman,” sighed Joanne. “And, Cherry, I love your stars and stripes sundress. Very chic.”

“Jo, I hope you’re a neat eater with that white dress you’re wearing. Ottilie and Sylvère love to slather their special sauce rather liberally on the Merguez. Maybe I should phone ahead and see if they can find a fashionable bib for you—”

Joanne gently swatted Alastair, who put up his hands in mock defense.

I expected them to kiss when I settled into the back seat, placing Alice on my lap again. They didn’t. They did smile widely at each other though. Is she Alastair’s new girlfriend? Are they just bashful in front of Alice?

We resumed our journey to the wilds of suburban Westport, Connecticut to feast on grand-mère’s 4th of July barbecue. The last time I’d been at her annual 4th of July barbecue was before Mom and Alastair divorced, 5 years ago, the one time in years Mom was not away on some film shoot. I was Jerry then. I wonder how grand-mère will receive me now that I’m Cherry. She’s French. They look at life differently, don’t they?

While Alastair drove, he and Joanne chatted about things I had no knowledge of or interest in. So I decided to take out the vintage CD player Alastair had gifted me from his own collection of anachronistic electronic gadgets and play one of the jazz albums he wanted me to develop an appreciation for. I blindly chose a compilation of Chet Baker’s vocal recordings. The picture of him on the cover in an over-sized pullover sweater with a collar that encroached on the lower part of his face made me giggle. I pressed play.

I had not seen grand-mère since beginning my transition, though, of course, she knew I was Cherry now, not Jerry. I was pleasantly surprised when she immediately hugged me tightly when Alastair, Joanne and I emerged from the house and were greeted by her and her second husband, Sylvère (Alastair’s father, a correspondent for ABC News, had been killed in a plane crash in the early ‘90s).

“My beautiful titian-haired granddaughter!” Ottilie cried as she threatened to squeeze the life out of me. “You’ve grown and in the most delightful way! I love your dress, ma chérie.”

Sylvère kissed me on the cheek and held my chin in his fingers. “We were going to come out to California to see you this summer but here you are! If you go to school in New York next year, your grand-mère and I would love to have you live with us. It’s a short commute to the city.”

“Thanks, Sylvère, but I haven’t decided where I’m applying to yet. Chances are I’ll stay in California. I’ve just made a new friend who goes to Stanford. She says it’s the best in the west…”

There were already a dozen or more guests milling about the big backyard of grand-mère’s house. In the far corner of the yard, a man with a chef’s hat was fussing over a grill, a metal table replete with lamb sausages and skewers of meat and vegetables stretched out next to him. He smiled at us, waving his giant tongs in our direction. It was Sylvère’s nephew Bradley, an amateur grill master who had taken over barbecue duties some years ago when Sylvère relinquished his tongs after a bout of sciatica.

“The feast won’t be ready for a while. Why don’t we start our annual 4th of July badminton tournament?” Sylvère excitedly asked. “Alastair and me against you and Bradley’s son Carson. Okay?”

“Carson?” I replied tremulously.

“You remember Carson. He’s grown into quite the young man since the last time you two saw each other.”

And I’d grown into quite a young woman. I searched for a reason to excuse myself from playing when a tall, long-haired boy, holding a badminton racquet, approached us. It was Carson Gabriel.

“Dad said you guys want to start the tournament.” Carson did a double take when he saw me. “Jerry? You look…different.”

“Carson, I told you Cherry had started transitioning,” Sylvère reminded him. “Don’t you think she makes a beautiful girl? You’re not offended if I say so. Cherry?”

I bowed my head, embarrassed by my well-meaning grandfather. I avoided meeting Carson’s eyes. I had to admit he was really cute. Not knowing what to say, I blurted out, “Nice tee shirt,” pointing to the “Vandal Savages” logo across his chest.

“It’s the name of my band,” Carson declared proudly. “We play local clubs and colleges on weekends right now but we’re planning to go full-time next year, after I graduate.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea, Carson,” his uncle asked in an exasperated tone. “Let’s pick up some racquets and shuttlecocks. You two serve first. You’re the away team.”

Grand-mère took Joanne’s arm and led her back toward the house. “Come on, Joanne. It’s cooler in the sunroom. Let’s catch up while they play their silly games.”

Sylvère displayed nary a sign of suffering from sciatica as he and Alastair thoroughly smashed their teenage opponents, Carson and I, 21 to 9. As Alastair and grand-père high-fived each other and another pair of combatants lurched forward to play them, we handed our racquets to them, moving off to the side of the house.

“Sorry about that, Cherry. I’m not much for sports. But I’m a pretty good guitarist,” Carson said, leaning against the house, unintentionally blocking my way.

“It’s alright. I’m bad at sports myself.”

“Say, your mom is…uh…dating Trent Foster, right?”

“What? Where did you hear that?”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. Tapping his YouTube app, he found the video he was looking for and turned the screen toward me. It was footage of Trent and Mom driving into the parking lot of the infamous Hollywood tryst retreat The Chateau Marmont, an hour after Trent’s concert at The Hollywood Bowl ended.

Oh the shame I felt. My face must have turned beet red. Quickly I turned away from Carson’s gaze. But apparently he didn’t read my reaction the way I thought he would.

“That’s so cool. Man, what I wouldn’t give to have Trent listen to some demos me and the band put together. I could text him the addresses for our social media accounts. I’ll text you. Let’s exchange numbers.”

“You just want me to get you an in with Trent? I have very little to do with him, especially now that Mom is mixed up with him. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a sleazebag.”

“No, it’s not that way. Not that way at all. I was just trying to find a way to ask you out, you know. Forget about Trent—”

“Then just ask me for a date. Maybe I’m available. Maybe not.”

“Well, my band is playing at The Bowery Ballroom, Saturday and Sunday, this weekend. I can get you in as my guest. We’re really good. We’re opening for The Master Builders. You’ve heard of them?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re on my Spotify playlist. If I decide to go…and I’m saying if…can I bring a friend?”

“Uhh…a friend?” Carson seemed dumbfounded by my request. “Sure. Sure, I can swing another comp. I’m tight with Blake, the manager.”

“I’m not sure but, hand me your phone, I’ll type in my coordinates. Call me by Friday. I might have plans for this weekend so…don’t expect a yes answer.”

“I’ll try my luck—”

“Gotta go. Grand- mère’s calling me from inside.” I walked quickly away.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Carson shouted after me.

Joanne and grand-mère were amicably chatting on the couch in the sunroom, grand-mère tenderly patting the back of Joanne’s hand, when I rushed into the room, closing the door behind me. They looked up at me and smiled in unison.

“Cherry, I was just telling Joanne that you should change your name to Cherie. After all, it rolls off the tongue much better than the name of a fruit and…it’s French!”

“Was that the name you’ve always had in mind for yourself from when you first realized you were a girl and not a boy?” Joanne asked.

“How did you know?” I replied, slightly stunned by her prescience.

“I’m transgender myself, as you know. I knew I was a girl when I was 5 years old. It just took me half a lifetime to get it right. You’re so much luckier than I was.”

“I suspect the two of you have much to talk about.” Grand-mère pointed to the bench next to the grand piano in the corner of the room. “Sit down, Cherry. My, my, you certainly have that Hibernian blush. It makes you just radiant now that you’re exulting in your femininity.”

“Apropos of that, grand-mère…” She giggled at my use of one of the few French phrases I knew. “Did my mother ever tell you who my biological father is? Alastair says he could never get it out of her.”

“Heavens, no. I barely spoke half a dozen sentences to that woman in all the time she was married to your stepfather. Forgive me but I could never stand her. You’re the only good thing Alastair and I ever got out of that relationship.”

“Maybe it’s better if you never find out, Cherry. I wish my own father had been left out of my life. He did all he could to keep me imprisoned in the wrong body. Thankfully, he and my mother separated while I was in high school. Otherwise, who knows where I’d be now. Or if I’d even be…” Joanne nodded to herself and grand- mère.

“Have you kept up with your piano lessons, Cherry?” grand-mère asked.

“Not really. When I started going to Mirage Canyon, I kind of dropped it. They didn’t need another pianist in the school orchestra and I didn’t want to play one of those electronic keyboards in the solitude of my room.”

“Play something for me, ma chérie. Play…play some Chopin. My favorite.”

I turned myself around on the bench to face the keyboard. Chopin? I remember his most famous short piece, his Prelude in C minor. But my fingers had a mind of their own and they decided to play a composition based on that Prelude – “Could It Be Magic” by Barry Manilow.

“Oh you cheeky girl! Trying to put one over on your grand-mère? Bravo, Cherry. I loved it. You’re so talented.”

“Yes, Cherry, that was very nice. It’s a shame if you don’t pick up the piano again. All that talent going to waste,” Joanne said, shaking her head.

“I think I could get a gig as accompanist for Maris Lafferty. I’d have to stay in New York and forego college.”

“Well, don’t do that, Cherry,” grand-mère objected. “A university education is a must for every modern woman. There’s more you can do with your life than raising babies and being a housemaid.”

“Very little chance of that happening to me, gran,” I pointed out.

“I saw you talking to Carson outside. The way you blushed when he showed you something on his phone—”

“It wasn’t because of Carson. It was…oh, please drop it.”

Grand-mère got up from the couch. Peering out through the windows at the backyard, she moved toward the door of the sunroom.

“Oh, it’s getting late. I hope Bradley is almost finished with his grilling. I’ll leave you two to have a nice cozy chat. We’ll probably eat in 15 minutes.”

After grand-mère left, Joanne patted the cushion on the couch next to her. “Come, Cherry. You have questions? Alastair thought it would be good for me to exchange notes with you on transitioning.”

“Alastair told me you didn’t transition until you were in your thirties. How did you manage to cope with your dysphoria for so long. Especially since you just told me you knew you were a girl when you were five.”

“Times were different then. I’m 53 years old. When I was your age, most people couldn’t conceive of a transgender person. Even when I grew up on Long Island in the ‘70s. It was extremely difficult to find a doctor who would perform gender affirmation surgery, much less having the funds to afford it. I knew I was a girl but without a viable alternative, I just had to grit my teeth and keep my issues to myself. Believe me, it took something emotionally devastating for me to finally act and damn the consequences, become my true self. Stop trying to adjust to a sad reality.”

“When you were my age, did you imagine life as a girl? Imagine it as a real possibility?”

“I had no conception that a true Male-to-Female transition was possible. Of course, I dreamed of it. I think what established the necessity of it in my mind was the time I was cast as The Ghost of Christmas Present in our town’s holiday production of A Christmas Carol.”

“What was so pivotal about that?”

“The director of the play cast me as a female Ghost of Christmas Present! A fifteen-year-old boy dressed in the gossamer threads of a female spirit. The town was scandalized. Until the reviews came in. They all made special mention of me as a highlight of the production. It was embarrassing yet strangely thrilling at the same time. For the next two years, my schoolmates treated me like a freak. Some parents even wanted me expelled from school for my ‘perversion’. That didn’t happen because ticket sales for the play were record-breaking. Because of my presence. And most of the revenue went to the school system. They even cut me a stipend check for what was voluntary on everyone else’s part.”

“But you’re so pretty. It was easy for you to transition, even if it took you until your thirties to do it. I’m just a plain, red-headed freak with freckles.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Cherry. Alastair tells me you’ve already found an admirer in the week you’ve been in the city—”

“Anders is just an old school friend. He’s had girlfriends much better-looking than me.”

A girl about my age loudly entered the room from the yard.

“Are you Cherry?” she asked me.

“Yes?”

“Is that cute little white dog yours?”

“That’s Alice. She’s a bichon.”

“Well, she just dumped a load of poo next to one of the picnic tables.”

“Oh, god, no. I walked her this morning. Let me go get a bag or something. Someone must have fed her something. She normally doesn’t take food from strangers—”

“I think it was your grandmother.”

During our 4th of July feast, my phone alerted me that I had received a text. Between bites of lamb sausage, I perused the text. It was from Mom.

Sweetie! I’m not going to be back tonight. Staying over until tomorrow morning and taking the earliest flight out of LAX. I’ll probably be a couple of hours late for rehearsal. I’ve texted Danny, so he knows. Have a good class tomorrow morning, honey. I’ll see you at rehearsal in the afternoon. (hearts)

“Oh, good, that means you can stay for the fireworks tonight,” Alastair said when I told him what Mom had texted. He turned to Joanne, sitting next to him. “Are you okay with staying until after the fireworks? If not, I can call a car service for you.”

“Sounds like fun, Alastair. I’m in no hurry to run back to the city.”

Just before I jumped into the back seat of Alastair’s Prius, ready to take the hour and a half ride back to The Carlyle, Carson came running up the driveway, waving his arm and shouting, “Cherry! Wait!”

“Did I forget something in the house?”

“No, I just wanted to give you my number. You gave me yours but I’d like you to have mine, just in case you clear up your weekend plans before I call you. Friday I’ll be in my friend’s studio putting together another demo. Hearing from you would be a real pick-me-up after hours of doing take after take of the same three songs.”

I handed over my phone and watched him as he thumbed his number into my contact list. In the low light of the driveway, his long hair curled around his left ear to keep it out of his eyes, Carson seemed more innocent than I had presumed. Maybe he really liked me, not just trying to use me to get to Trent Foster. I confess I really do want to see his band play. Maybe I’ll ask Philippa to come with me. Ha ha. That’ll confuse him even more.

“Stay pretty, Cherry,” Carson said as he handed my phone back to me. He waved to me as Alastair’s car tooled down the driveway and onto Covlee Drive, heading west.

It was almost midnight when I entered the lobby of The Carlyle Hotel. I was ten feet from the elevators when Philippa Chang and her brother Christopher stepped out of one of the cabs. They seemed to be quietly laughing at some private joke.

“Philippa! Chris! It’s late. Where are you two going?”

“Hi, Cherry. Chris was just visiting me when Annie came home about 8. She’s in a tizzy over Trent and...”

“Your mother,” Chris filled in, smirking.

“Oh, yeah, I saw the videos.”

“She went through the whole epic story and wouldn’t let us leave until she got to the part where the plane landed at LaGuardia,” Philippa said, almost laughing.

“We left just as she started throwing things around the room. Talk about rock groups trashing hotel rooms. They have nothing on Annie tonight,” whistled Chris.

“So where are you going? Isn’t everything closed by now?”

“Chris says there’s an espresso bar up on Lexington and 80th that’s open until 4AM. We’re just going to walk over.”

“Can I come with you? Nobody’s home right now. Mom’s not returning until tomorrow. With Trent, I’m guessing.”

“Sure, the more the merrier. But…,” pointing at my stars and stripes sundress, “wearing that?”

“I can change in five minutes. Wait for me? I want to hear everything Annie told you.”

I almost slammed into a man coming out of the elevator as I turned to rush upstairs to my hotel suite.

“So, after the concert Tuesday night, Trent says he’s reserved a bungalow at Chateau Marmont instead of heading back to his parents’ house in Pacific Palisades,” Philippa explained breathlessly as she, her brother Chris, and I sat at a table, sipping espresso, in a dark corner of Caffe Erika on the Upper East Side, a few blocks north of The Carlyle Hotel.

“Kind of a seedy place for celebrities,” Chris declared, as if he didn’t know I was from suburban Los Angeles.

“He told Annie right after the last encore. She was all for going until Trent said your mother was coming with them—”

“What? He wanted to do a…a…” I stammered.

“A threesome,” affirmed Philippa. “He actually thought Annie would be more than okay with it.”

“But how would he get that idea? And did my mom know about this?”

“Trent thought Annie would enjoy being the unicorn for them.”

“Is that some kind of cosplay? I remember that song, ‘The Unicorn.’ Alastair had an album by The Irish Rovers that he’d put on for me when I was 4 or 5…”

“No, not unicorn as in mythical creature. Unicorn as in a bisexual participant in a threesome,” Chris told me.

“Because Annie fell like a ton of bricks for him, Trent figured she went both ways. I guess it’s really all Annie’s fault. Unintentionally. You see,” Philippa gulped, looking at her brother. “She had been told that David Wetherell always tries to…um…fool around with his female co-stars. And he likes them young and pretty—”

“Who doesn’t?” Chris laughed.

“Shut up! Anyway, she came to me with this stupid idea that she knew I’d agree to. I have…um…issues with my gender and spending two months in New York living as a woman certainly appeals to me. So, I’m supposed to be Annie’s lesbian lover. She even introduced me to everyone as such on the first day of rehearsal. It did the trick. David’s kept his distance from her—”

“That’s an insane length to go to when you could just say no! How do you know Annie in the first place?”

“She’s Paul Flaherty’s cousin,” Chris explained.

“And who is Paul Flaherty?” I asked.

“He’s one of my suite mates at Stanford,” Philippa practically swallowed.

“He’s cute, I presume.” She stuck her tongue out at me. And I’m allegedly the adolescent here. “You can fill me in later. But did my mother know about Trent planning a menage a trois?”

“Oh no. She didn’t even think there was anything going on between Annie and Trent.”

“It’s just professional. Yeah, that’s what she insisted to me,” I frowned.

“Annie actually went back to Trent’s parents’ house and stayed the night. She took the 10AM flight back the next morning. She’s got steam coming out of her ears.”

“Tomorrow’s going to be quite a spectacle. Poor Mom’s not going to know what hit her when she walks into the studio.” We all took a sip of our espresso and settled into a silent interlude, just staring into the distance in the practically empty café.

“Don’t you have your film class tomorrow?” asked Philippa.

“I’ll try to drop by right after class. Someone’s gotta defend Mom if Annie starts swinging.”

“First of all, Annie’s not a violent person and secondly, it would be Trent she’d be swinging at. If he even shows up.”

“Why? Isn’t he back tomorrow as well?”

“At the last minute, his manager got him a spot on Jimmy Kimmel tomorrow night. He might just stay out West until Monday. He okayed it with Danny. It’s publicity not just for him but the show as well. Advance sales, you know.”

“Oh, Mom, you’re so socially awkward. She’s like a teenager…” I lamented.

“Socially awkward? What about my cross-dressing brother here?” Chris challenged.

“She’s not a cross-dresser. She’s trans,” I corrected Chris.

“She’s a he,” Chris returned service.

“I thought you two had hashed things out. She’s your sister, Chris. How can you belittle her like that?”

“I’m all for her clearing up her gender issues. It’s just I never saw any signs of this when we were growing up. It came out of nowhere. I think he can’t accept the idea he’s just gay. He never did this cross-dressing stuff before she started rooming with Paul—”

“That’s not true. I’m straight. It’s not a question of sexuality. It’s gender. I’m a girl…in here,” Philippa pointed to her temple.

“I think Annie’s pulling a scam on you, on behalf of her cousin, Paul. He’s probably gay too.”

“He dates women. Lots of them!” Philippa angrily replied.

“You’re mixing up sexuality with gender. It’s not necessarily the same thing,” I pointed out to Chris.

“No offense, but what would you know about it?” Chris sniffed. He turned to Philippa. “I’ve a mind to talk to Annie about this and have her leave my brother out of her plan for the universe. She’s just taking advantage of your interest in Paul. And it’s self-interest too. You’re her alleged shield against David Wetherell’s unwanted advances—”

Philippa jumped to her feet, remembered to sling her purse over her shoulder, and took my arm. “Let’s go, Cherry. It’s fruitless trying to talk about this with my brother and I want to make sure Annie hasn’t totally trashed our suite while we’ve been out.”

“Good night…ladies.” Chris laughed.

The moment I stepped back into our suite I sent Mom a text warning her about what was awaiting her the next day at the studio. But she never replied. She probably turned her phone off. Given the three-hour time difference between the coasts, it’s more likely she was in the arms of Trent rather than the arms of Morpheus.

I was still trying to text her when I got off the bus just steps away from the front gates of Columbia, five minutes before my class started. No response. Maybe she just forgot to turn her phone back on?

“Hey, sunshine, you’re cutting it close. I was afraid you weren’t showing up today.” It was Anders. He was just inside the gates, waiting for me.

“Sorry to give you a scare, Anders. I’ve been trying to get in touch with my mother all morning. She’s supposed to be flying back from L.A. today.”

“My mother turns her phone off sometimes and forgets to turn it back on. I’m sure that’s why she’s not answering.”

“I worry about her,” I said as we entered the elevator to go up to the floor where our class was being held.

“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? She’s the adult, you’re the child.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

Tony Webster, our instructor, was standing by his desk in the front of the classroom when Anders and I walked in.

“Now that we have our full complement in the room, let’s get started. We only have two hours and we have a lot of stuff to get through. I’m going to combine rollcall with assigning you to your teams. Some of you have already informed me of who you want to team up with…”

I turned to Anders and mouthed, “I forgot to tell him—”

Anders shook his head and mouthed in reply, “I told him when you went to the ladies’ room at lunch Tuesday.”

A pretty blonde girl named Charlotte was assigned to our team. She waved to us from across the classroom. Anders waved back. I just nodded. I don’t know why but I had a bad feeling about this.

The first hour of class was spent with Tony going over the equipment each team would be issued:

• Canon XL2 - mini-DV camera with the ability to shoot 24p, the frame rate for movie film.
• Bolle - Heavy duty tripod with fluid head for smoother tilts and pans.
• Lowell 7 lighting kit - large light kit.
• Scheduled time on school editing equipment: Apple G5 Computer with DV/Mini-DV deck. Final Cut Pro 4 Editing Software, Final Draft
Software.

In the second hour, Tony spoke to us about the basics of shot composition.

“Film composition refers to the way the elements of a shot are arranged and captured, as well as their relationship to each other. Using cinematography techniques, filmmakers alter a shot’s framing, camera movements, depth of field, and depth of space to create an aesthetic and to imply meaning.

It’s all about asking yourself, does my image have all the right ingredients? And are they in the right place? How the visual elements are arranged in a frame will determine how the audience feels when watching your film. Understanding composition is often the difference between shooting a visually boring film and one that is cinematically exciting. So it’s worth mastering.”

Tony projected the image of a mountain biker onto the screen behind him.

“One of the cardinal rules in shot composition is the Rule of Thirds. Mentally divide your image horizontally and vertically into thirds and position the most important parts of your shot along those imaginary lines. For example, in this shot I've put the mountain biker on the lower right hand horizontal line and this makes the shot more aesthetically pleasing than if he was simply in the center of the frame.”

One good thing about having Charlotte on our team was she took copious notes on her laptop. I wonder which particular skill set she possesses. I know Anders has a lot of experience with video cameras. He was in the film club at Mirage Canyon. I think I’m a pretty decent writer. Hopefully, Charlotte knows her way around a Mac computer. She can be our crack film editor.

After class, we decided to sit on the steps of Low Library and eat lunch while discussing when and where we would meet to determine our roles and suggest concepts for our short film project. I resisted getting a slice of pizza and followed Anders and Charlotte to a nearby deli, Milano Market, which they swore made the best sandwiches on the Upper West Side. Anders ordered the Chicken Caesar Wrap, Charlotte had the Grilled Veggie Sandwich on Focaccia, and I dithered for minutes before settling on the Turkey Club on sliced bread.

I offered to host our meeting in my suite at The Carlyle on Saturday afternoon.

“You live in The Carlyle?” Charlotte asked, unbelievingly.

I explained that I was Lulu Brooks’ daughter and she was rehearsing “Blues For a Diva” in preparation for its Broadway opening in September. During the show’s run, mom would have a suite at The Carlyle on the producers’ dime. I was here for the summer and taking the filmmaking course to keep me on the straight and narrow.

“Wow! Growing up in Hollywood must be exciting,” she burbled.

“It has its pluses…and minuses,” I summed up.

Afterwards, as I hurried to catch the downtown bus to be there when Mom makes her glorious return to the rehearsal studio, Anders, running alongside me, asked why I wasn’t going home first to check on Alice.

“Oh, we started putting her in a kennel during the day today. That’s why I was almost late this morning for class. I had to drop her off.” The door to the bus closed just as I uttered the last sentence. I waved to Anders as he stood on the corner, before inserting my MetroCard in the farebox by the driver.

I stepped off the service elevator and was immediately slapped in the face with the picture of two angry, snarling women, one of whom was Mom, shouting at each other. Poor Danny looked like the referee in a prize fight, attempting to separate boxers after the bell rings ending a round. I wanted to rush forward and help Mom but Maris Lafferty grabbed me by the arm to stop me.

“Sweetie, you’re just going to get caught in the middle. Let Danny try to calm things down.”

“But Annie looks like she’s going to swing at Mom—”

“It’s a catfight. The worst it’ll escalate to is pulling hair—”

“How did it start?”

“Your mother walked in and, in a split second, Annie started screaming at her. Like I told you, Cherry, Trent’s not worth all the trouble. Good thing he didn’t go after you too.”

When Danny tried to come between them, they both shouted him away.

“I’m not going to work with someone who’s well-known for backstage seductions!” Annie bellowed in Mom’s face.

“What are you talking about? Trent and I have a mutual attraction. You’re the one who’s the operator here. You swing both ways, huh. You’re the one doing the seducing.”

“Okay, I lied to everyone about being a lesbian but I only told everyone that because David Wetherell, the man whose marriage you broke up if I recall, was a notorious player. He’s unattached right now. Why don’t you two pick up where you left off twenty years ago and leave decent people alone?”

David, standing by the windows, grimaced as Annie went on her tirade. But he wasn’t budging from his spot to put out the fire. I saw Philippa with her head in her hands, embarrassed by the whole scene.

“Ladies, we’re trying to rehearse a play here!” Danny interjected. “Can’t we all just get along?”

“I quit, Danny! I don’t need this…this humiliation. Not at the hands of this witch!” She turned to storm out of the studio.

“Annie, you signed a contract! You can’t just walk out. Listen, let’s break for today. Cooler heads will prevail with a good night’s rest. You’ll see.” He turned to Mom. “Lulu, can we do that? I’ll talk to Trent when he returns. And then the three of you can work this out. I’m sure it’s all a bad misunderstanding…”

“Nice try, Danny, but I’m not going to work with someone who has such contempt for me and has no grounds whatsoever to feel that way. Her relationship with Trent is a figment of her imagination. It’s professional, not personal! I’m not coming back until she’s gone. That’s it.” She turned to me, my arm still in the tight grasp of Maris Lafferty. “Come, Cherry, let’s go home. We’ll await word that you’ve fired this bimbo, Danny.”

“Cherry, call for the car service, dear,” Mom requested as we stepped out into the late afternoon hustle and bustle of Times Square.

“Mom, you’re not really quitting are you?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I can’t work with that bitch under these conditions. She made a truly despicable scene back there. Was she raised by hyenas?”

After picking Alice up from the kennel, our regular driver took us back to The Carlyle. Of course, Mom gave him a generous tip. He even offered to carry Alice’s pet carrier all the way to our suite but I thanked him and said I can handle it. He tipped his cap to us and jumped back into his car. The hotel doorman greeted us with a smile before we went through the revolving doors.

“I’m going to call Doris now. I hope she’s home and not on another of her book tours.” Mom walked into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

I sat on the couch and hugged Alice to my chest. I really didn’t want to go back home if Mom decides to quit over this stupid triangle with Trent and Annie. She’d never let me live by myself in New York, even for just these two summer months. And Alastair isn’t here most of the time. Oh, cripes, this whole plan is falling apart.

She’s talking to Doris Duncan, her life coach. The life coach to the stars. Mom stopped seeing her therapist because she thinks going to one makes people think you’re crazy. On the other hand, a life coach is just a professional cheerleader of sorts. Life coaches are not concerned with your past emotional misadventures or complexes. They concentrate on strategies to achieve career and personal relationship goals. Mom even tried to have Doris coach me but, to her credit, she told Mom I needed to see real therapists and doctors for my gender dysphoria.

Ten minutes later, Mom bounded out of her bedroom, a wide smile on her face.

“Doris tells me I need to recharge myself!”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?”

“Pack an overnight bag, Cherry. We’re going to spend some quality spa time.”

“Spa? Where are we going to find a spa in the middle of Manhattan island?”

“Silly girl, there are several world-class spas in Manhattan. They’re in condo towers and office buildings. When you’re in a thermal bath, for instance, it doesn’t matter that you’re in the middle of an urban jungle. You’re mentally miles and miles away. Anyway, Doris has an in with the owners of The Ardoin Wellness Spa in Tribeca. I can just drop her name and we can spend two maybe three refreshing days and nights recharging our life batteries. They have wine baths! It’ll do you a lot of good, Cherry. Soaking in mineral waters and listening to Doris’ inspirational talks.”

“But, Mom, I’m supposed to meet with my film class team on Saturday afternoon…here. And what about Alice? What do we do with her while we’re soaking in these thermal baths you speak of?”

“Doris says they allow you to bring your pets…if they’re small and don’t bite strangers. And, well, at least spend Friday with me, sweetie.” She sat down on the couch next to me and put Alice back down on the floor. “I need you to be with me. Even if it’s just for the first day. You’ll love it! Doris made a point of saying I should take you with me. It’ll be a great mother-daughter thing to do together…”

“Alright, Mom. But just Friday.” She kissed my forehead, then wiped her lipstick away with the side of her hand.

My phone rang. It was a voice call from Carson Gabriel, the boy I’d met the day before at grand-mère’s 4th of July barbecue.

“Hey, Carson, what up?”

“Gotta go. See you Saturday!”

Carson disconnected. I thought about calling Philippa and inviting her to accompany me to see the Vandal Savages but I changed my mind. Since I’m seeing Anders anyway on Saturday afternoon…

Mom embarrassed me again on Friday morning. She had booked us into the Ardoin Wellness Spa for the weekend, checking in later in the afternoon. It was her way of relieving all the stress from being caught up in a lust triangle with Trent Foster and Annie Flaherty, all on the dime of the producers of “Blues For a Diva,” much to the chagrin of Dan Dantley, the play’s director.

For being allegedly severely stressed, Mom had enough pep to get us up early, have us showered, coiffed, dressed, caffeinated, and ready to take our car service to the Fifth Avenue location of Athletica, New York’s most fashionable purveyor of women’s activewear. Still yawning, she dragged me into the shop, where I went through possibly a good tenth of their merchandise finding the proper size and style for two swimsuits, a set of yoga pants and tops, underwear appropriate to be massaged in, and a smart dress to wear at dinner. Thankfully, only Mom accompanied me into the fitting room stall. For someone who’d only begun wearing girls’ clothing in the last year and, because I was at boarding school for most of that time, purchased all of my clothes from Amazon and Urban Outfitters, it was a scary proposition being in a ladies’ fitting room.

Finally, after much pulling, tugging, and straightening by Mom, we took our load of goods to checkout, where a similar pile had already been placed there…of Mom’s selections for herself.

“How, Mom? You were with me all this time!” I said in disbelief.

“Oh, sweetie, I’d already picked out what I wanted from their online site and gave them my sizes, while you were getting ready this morning,” she smiled proudly. “It’s easy if you know exactly what you want. You’ll find out for yourself as you go along in life.” She squeezed my cheeks. “It’s so wonderful being a woman, dear.”

“What now?” I asked.

“Back to the hotel, where we’re getting all of this properly cleaned—”

“Valet service takes 24 hours, Mom.”

“I persuaded the concierge to have them rush clean our load. It’ll be ready for us after lunch.”

“You’re something, Mom. What would you do if you weren’t a celebrity?”

“Perish the thought, Cherry! Don’t even think it!” She had me carry the bags to the car that had been waiting for us, parked half a block away.

A stunning young woman who looked like a supermodel, escorted us to our room at the spa. She was glibly listing all the activities available to the spa’s patrons, hopefully not all on the same day.

“…massage treatments, saunas, steam rooms, hot tubs, hydrotherapy pools, fitness classes for yoga and Pilates, healthy and delicious meals, guided meditation sessions, and even specialized treatments like facials, body wraps, or even mother-daughter massages!” She giggled. “I envy you two so much, spending a spa weekend together. Mother and daughter! My mother’s no longer with us but I would have paid out of my own pocket to have us share this experience.”

“Well, I’m only here today. Mom’s going to have to experience the rest of the weekend by herself,” I said, shifting the bags I was carrying from one shoulder to the next.

“My daughter’s working on a film project for school,” Mom chimed in.

“You’ll definitely benefit from our guided meditation sessions. It takes place after dinner in the solarium. The evening sky is the perfect backdrop for freeing your mind of troubling thoughts…”

“That’s why we’re here,” Mom declared.

“It’s a hot tub, Mom.”

“Cherry, this is aquatic therapy, not a hot tub. The water is kept at a constant temperature of 91 to 92 degrees.”

“That’s approximately 33 degree Celsius.”

“It’s good to know you’re actually getting an education at that horribly expensive boarding school, dear.”

“I’d prefer going to a public school at home in Calabasas…”

“Cherry, you know with my work schedule, you’d be home alone most of the school year. And you didn’t want to live with Aunt Jane and Uncle Edward in Pomona—”

“To change the subject, Mom, are you coming back to rehearsal on Monday?”

“Of course. I just wanted to let that little bitch know her place and stop trying to move in on my relationship with Trent—”

“I think you should come to your senses and drop Trent like a hot potato. He’s too young and stupid for you.”

“Cherry, I’m your mother. I can have a say in who you’re involved with. This Anders boy sounds nice, by the way. But, as my child, you’re not going to tell me who I can and cannot date.”

“Date? I think it’s gone a lot further than that! It’s so embarrassing!

Mom handed a pair of headphones to me as she started to place her own pair over her ears.

“Cherry, just lie back, close your eyes, and listen to Doris Duncan’s self-confidence mantras. I’ve emailed it to you. Plug in your headphones.”

Reluctantly, I clicked on the mp3 file and Doris Duncan’s voice droned in her sibilant, Brooklyn accent.

• I am confident and able to do anything.
• I am beautiful, created by God and perfect in his eyes.
• I am capable of doing hard things.
• I am gifted with a mind that is flexible and malleable in thinking.
• I am a work in progress and I celebrate my growth rather than obsess over perfection.
• I am one of one.
• I am filled with forgiveness towards those who have hurt me or limited me.
• I am grateful for every breath of life I am given and I am committed to celebrating life.
• I am not discouraged by rejection or set-backs and I embrace them as opportunities for growth.
• I am stress-free and open to the possibilities of life.
• I am smarter than I give myself credit and learning more every day.
• I am not defined by my past, but rather refined by it.
• I am patient and at peace in the season I am in.
• I am relentlessly positive and optimistic about what the future holds.
• I am a light of love and am committed to sharing that love with everyone I can.
• I am a voice of encouragement to those around me – my voice matters.

The second time around, I opened my eyes and looked over at Mom. Her eyes were closed and a broad smile creased her face. She was listening intently and intermittently nodding at Doris’ mantras. Bored, I clicked out of the mantras and decided to listen to some jazz that Alastair had downloaded onto my phone. I think it worked wonders for my mood, better than the mantras.

The bento boxes we had ordered from the Japanese restaurant two blocks over on Lexington Avenue were delivered a little after 1 o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Anders and Charlotte had just dropped by my suite at the Carlyle to hold our meeting about what our film project was going to be. Of course, I had worked up a concept for our little 15–20-minute film short and was in the process of laying it out for my teammates, as we munched on shui mei, shrimp tempura, and California rolls.

“It’s something really unique and, because my mother’s in the play, we have total access to the rehearsals and we can interview all the important people involved in putting it on—”

“Well, it would certainly be different. Sort of a mini-documentary or news magazine feature…” Anders allowed.

“Wow, it would be so cool to do a behind-the-scenes piece. I’ll wager no one else in class can boast having a cast of movie stars and pop stars in their film!” Charlotte enthused.

“Are you sure you’d have the clearance to do it? I mean, sure, your mother’s in it but—” Anders cautioned.

“Eh, we’re…we’re in like Flynn. We could win a prize for it! It could even be entered for an Academy Award for best film short—” I stabbed another shui mei with my fork, taking a large bite of it with bravado.

“So, we check out our equipment after class on Tuesday. We take the subway down to the rehearsal studio and we set up. During the breaks, I can interview…let’s start with my mom…I’ll be off-camera of course. Anders can shoot it and Charlotte can do the lighting—”

“You’re directing, of course,” Anders sighed.

“Well, do you object? Or have a better idea?” I challenged him.

“No. I can see your idea is a good one and it would make our film really stand out among the other ones in our class but we’re not just helping you make this film…we’re all equal partners. No? We should all have input on how we do this. Just saying.” Anders took a sip from his can of Coke.

“Point well taken. Of course, we’re all in this together—”

The doorbell rang at that moment.

“Expecting someone?” Anders asked.

I got up to answer the door. “No. I have no idea who that might be.”

I opened the door to see Trent Foster standing there, a bouquet of pink lilies in his right hand.

“Oh, it’s you,” I spat at him.

“Hi, Cherry. Is your mother home?”

“No. She’s…out…somewhere. I don’t really know where she went.”

“Danny said she might have gone to a spa yesterday. I was hoping she’d be back home today. I, myself, just flew in from L.A. late last night. Did you see me on Jimmy Kilmer Thursday night?”

“No, I was asleep. Look, she’s not here.” I started to close the door on him. He placed his left hand on it. He’s a lot stronger than I am.

“Can I just leave these flowers? Tell your mother when she’s back that it’s a token of apology for whatever misunderstanding I might have caused with…uh…you know what I mean. I’ll put them in a vase myself. Just show me to the kitchen.” Without waiting for my reply, he stepped inside.

“Oh, wow! Trent Foster!” Charlotte shrieked.

“Hello. Who are your little friends, Cherry?”

“Trent Foster. My film classmates Charlotte and Anders.”

Trent nodded to them and, as I pointed to the kitchen, walked out of the room.

“Why is he apologizing to your mom?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s nothing really. I should be the one apologizing for his interrupting our meeting.”

“Do you think he’d mind taking a selfie?” She looked at me and Anders in turn.

“Charlotte…really?” The doorbell rang.

“What is this? A party?” laughed Anders.

I opened the door and saw David Wetherell holding a bouquet of white roses in his right hand.

“David? Come in.” I backed away as he stepped inside.

“I was hoping your mother would be home. Is she?”

“No, she’s…out. Somewhere.”

“These are for her,” handing the bouquet to me. “Please put them in a vase, Cherry. You look lovely today, by the way. Your face has an extra shine to it.” He nodded to Anders and Charlotte. “Sorry to disturb you. I see you have friends visiting.”

“David Wetherell. Anders and Charlotte, my classmates from the film class I’m taking at Columbia.”

“I’ll definitely need to get some selfies,” Charlotte whispered.

Trent walked in from the kitchen, his lilies arranged in a vase.

“David? What a pleasant surprise.”

“Trent, do you know what you’ve done? Your romantic hi-jinks have imperiled the production. Can’t you keep your pants on while we’re trying to put this play on? Just be professional for once. Stay away from both Annie and Lulu—”

I stood between them, holding David’s bouquet of roses in both my hands, swiveling my head from one to the other.

“David, with all due respect to my elders in the business, you’re the last one to ask others to act professionally.” Trent handed the vase to me so that now both my hands held flowers. Seeing my discomfort, Anders sprung from his seat and took both from my hands. He placed the vase on an end table and went into the kitchen to find another vase for David’s roses.

“Listen, Sunny Jim, I’m just giving you some sage advice. You’re playing with fire. Danny and the producers can find some other teenage idol to warble a few tunes in your place. And probably someone who can actually act.”

Trent brushed David aside as he walked quickly to the door and let himself out.

“I’m sorry but he deserved that,” David said apologetically.

“Boy, everyone’s full of apologies today.”

Anders placed a vase with David’s roses next to Trent’s lilies on the end table and returned to his seat, proceeding to finish the contents of his bento box. Charlotte whipped out her phone and handed it to me.

“Cherry, do me the honors. Mom will really be geeked to see I met David Wetherell.” She turned to David. “She just loves your accent.” They smiled broadly as I snapped the photo. Handing the phone back to Charlotte, she started texting her mother immediately.

“Cherry, how is your mum doing? I do hope she’s getting over this…this kerfuffle. Danny promised me he’d speak to Trent about his behavior.”

“She’s getting de-stressed at a spa right now. Yeah, she’ll be alright. She told me she expects to be back to rehearsal on Monday. Of course, she wouldn’t listen to me about quitting this stupid relationship with Trent.”

“He’s not worthy of your mum. She’s a great lady.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room as we stood there, unsure of what to say next.

Finally, David placed his sunglasses on and brushed my cheek with his hand. “Well, I’ll be going. Be sure to tell your mum I dropped by. And change the water in the vase for my white roses. Don’t do the same for Trent’s lilies.” He laughed and quickly exited.

“Sounds like the play’s in trouble,” Anders ventured.

“Everything will work itself out,” I replied a little uncertainly.

Our team meeting finally broke up around 5 o’clock. Charlotte, who lived with her parents on the Upper West Side, ran out the door to get picked up downstairs by her father. Anders and I looked out the window overlooking East 76th Street to see Charlotte’s dad’s Buick Encore motor its way down Madison Avenue.

As Anders collected his things, readying to leave, I touched his arm.

“Do you have plans for tonight?”

“Nothing special. I’ll probably just see if I can play some Red Dead Redemption II before I flake out. Why?”

“I’ve got two tickets to the Bowery Ballroom to see my friend’s band. The Vandal Savages. Ever hear of them?”

“No, can’t say I’ve heard them.”

“Wanna come? They open the show at 8:30.”

“What kind of music they play?”

“Does it matter? I just thought you’d enjoy my company,” I teased, giggling.

“Stupid me. Of course I’ll come. But, just curious, are they hard rock, metal, folk, country…”

“You know, I really don’t know. I just met Carson 3 days ago at my grandparents’ 4th of July barbecue. But he’s probably very good. Probably?”

“We’ve got three hours to kill before then. What do we do?”

“Maybe get something to eat around that area? You’re the one who lives here…”

“You sprang for lunch so I guess I ought to pick up the tab for dinner. Do you like Indian food?”

“Love it!”

“There’s a pretty decent place near the Ballroom on East 6th and 1st Avenue. We can take the subway down. Takes 45 minutes from here.”

“Let me fix my face. I’ll be five minutes.”

“You look great to me.”

“You’re a sweetheart.”

The security guy at the stage door looked at me suspiciously, as I suppose is his job. He finally let me and Anders through the door after carefully examining my I.D. and checking the list of names on his tablet. We were shown to the dressing room the Vandal Savages were assigned. Anders knocked on the door.

A boy with sandy brown hair and wearing a Where’s Waldo pullover opened the door. Carson and the other two bandmembers were sprawled on couches behind him.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Cherry! You made it. Come in. Who’s your friend?” Carson gestured to his bandmates to cede their seats on the couch to Anders and me. Grumbling, they complied.

“Carson, this is Anders. He’s an old friend from high school back in California.” They shook hands. After Carson hugged me, he introduced the other members of his band.

“I’m stoked you’re here, Cherry. I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t stand me up.”

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t have missed me.”

“You’re wrong about that, Cherry. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since Thursday,” the sandy-haired boy interjected.

“We kept pleading stop! Stop!” another bandmember joked.

“So, you and Anders are together like?” Carson asked.

“No, we’re both taking this filmmaking class at Columbia,” Anders quickly answered. “We had a kind of distant friendship in high school. I was two years ahead of her.”

Anders’ reply surprised me in its casual denial that there was anything more between us than being geographically together again after being “distant” friends in high school.

“Hey, kids, we gotta go out and set up our equipment. The club is only giving us one guy to help us. And the roadies for The Master Builders just gave us the finger when we asked. One day they’ll be asking our roadies to help them set up.” Carson shook his head. “And we’ll give them the finger!”

Anders and I were in the front of the crowd, pinioned between the stage and half of the island’s Generation Z cohort. I could barely lift my arm enough to take a sip from the can of Diet Coke Anders had brought back from the bar in the back of the room. Anders was chugging a bottle of Corona that he’d gotten someone over 21 to buy with his money. Typical college boy trick.

The lights dimmed in the room while the stage lights intensified, spotlighting the four Vandal Savages as they stood at the ready, their instruments prepared to be plucked, strummed or struck. The crowd grew louder in anticipation. An informal emcee slouched onto the stage and perfunctorily announced the name of the band. Cheers and applause greeted Carson as he spoke into his mic.

The Vandal Savages played a 30-minute set and left the stage to a rousing ovation. Before he unstrapped his guitar, Carson bent down to tell me to come backstage. I nodded and Anders served as a blocking lineman to extricate us from the suffocating crowd.

“So, what did you think of Carson’s band?” I asked Anders.

“Not my type of music, honestly. But, the crowd really liked them. Carson had a lot of energy. I think he’s got a future.”

“He wants to go fulltime after graduating from high school. Alastair, my stepdad, advised him not to. The music business is fucking hard—”

“Tell that to Trent Foster,” Anders said with a smirk. “I was watching you more than the band during their set.”

“Yeah, and?” I asked, with a mixture of annoyance and apprehension.

“You like him, don’t you?”

We stepped through the doorway of the dressing room. The boys were slapping each other on the back, laughing and whooping it up.

“Cherry! Did you see? They wanted three encores! We were running out of songs we knew,” Carson exclaimed. He ran over to me and picked me up in his arms. Still holding on to me, he planted a series of wet kisses on my face and lips. Almost unconsciously, I kissed him back. Finally, he put me back down on the ground.

“So, guys, we’re going to drive back to Westport, maybe stop on the way to pick up some burgers or something on the Upper East Side, up your way, Cherry. There’s room in the van for two more…”

Anders, who had stood by with a stricken look on his face, declined the invitation.

“Thanks, Carson, but I’ve had a long day. I’m going to go home and go to bed early. Hey, you guys sound cool. Cherry, I’ll see you Tuesday in class.” He turned quickly and seemed to rush out of the room before I could say anything.

“Well, there’s more room in the van now, I guess,” Carson said, shrugging his shoulders.

Sometimes, I thought to myself, I’m worse than Mom.

“Danny called about an hour ago. I had to wake Mom up from a dead sleep. I tried to hand her the phone but she couldn’t see to grab it,” I explained to Philippa as we sat on a bench in Central Park on Monday morning. I had invited Philippa to come with me as I took Alice on her daily constitutional.

“Didn’t have her glasses on?” Philippa guessed.

“No, Mom always wears a sleep mask. Anyway, I overheard Danny asking Mom if she was coming in today.”

“Well?”

“She is. I don’t know how she came to this decision. When she came back from the spa last night, she almost immediately went to bed. Imagine! She said she was exhausted from three days of therapeutic pampering…”

Philippa interjected, “Annie was almost out the door when I was pouring myself a cup of coffee an hour ago. She said something about Danny calling her to say your mom was going to apologize to everyone today at the studio—"

“That’s not what Mom told me. She said Danny told her that Annie was going to apologize to her. Then she put her mask on again and went back to sleep.”

We both chuckled.

“So I’ve got a personal update to tell you,” Philippa gushed.

“So do I,” I parried. “I had a great time on Saturday night with that boy, Carson, that I told you about. He’s a real chad. Here, take a look.” I took out my phone and showed her a photo I’d taken of Carson outside of the Shake Shack on 86th Street.

“Impressive,” nodded Philippa.

“And he’s very talented too,” I said proudly.

“And…?” Philippa waited.

I picked Alice up and hugged her to my breasts. Looking away from Philippa, I said in a breathy tone, “I think he really likes me.”

“So you’re really into these musician types, eh?”

“He and his group are really good, Philippa. You should have heard the crowd at the Bowery Ballroom. They demanded three encores! You know, he gave me a thumb drive with some songs his group recorded at a friend’s studio. I’m going to give it to Trent to listen to. Maybe he can get them an audition with a record label—”

“Did he ask you to give it to Trent?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Just be careful, Cherry. You think he really likes you but it might just be a case of going through you to get to Trent—”

“No, it’s not that. He knows all about me.”

“What do you mean? What does he know?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Forget I said that. I’m not that naïve. I know when a guy is really into me and not because of my mother or anyone I’m connected to being in the business.”

“You sound very experienced for a 16-year-old.”

“I’ll be 17 in two months! Anyway, what’s your news? Have you met a boy too?”

“No, silly, I’m not boy-crazy like you. No offense but I’m a few years past that stage, if I ever was. Don’t give me that look. I’m not dissing you. Just be careful. Keep your eyes wide open. Okay?”

“Okay, alright? Now, tell me what your news is.”

“I’m moving into my brother’s loft in Dumbo on Wednesday night.”

“Dumbo? Don’t tell me he lives in a building shaped like a cartoon elephant.”

“Cherry, you’re a scream. Dumbo stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It’s in Brooklyn. Bohemian chic. Rich artists like Chris live and work there.”

“You and Annie had a dust-up or something?”

“Now that Annie’s stupid idea about us being lesbian lovers has been exposed, it makes sense for me to cut the apron strings, so to speak. She wanted me to live as a girl for the summer. I can do that on my own without her, no? And Chris is going to be in New York all summer. He just signed a deal with the producers of the show to be the art director on all of its promotional media. That includes posters, signage, print ads, and TV commercials. He’ll be coming around the studio and the preview theater to get ideas for it.”

“I’ve got to start working on finding a guy for you. Summer romances are so hot!”

“It’s the warm weather. But, really, you’re obsessed with match-making, aren’t you?”

“Hmmm. Anyone in the cast…other than Trent…float your boat?” I asked as Alice licked my face.

“Save yourself the trouble, Cherry. Oh, that’s the other thing. Chris is holding a little cocktail party to celebrate his new deal Saturday night in his…I mean, our loft. Everyone from the play and executives from the Netherlander Organization and the ad agency are going to be invited. I guess that would include you…unless you had other plans.”

“Do you think Chris is going to hire a band for the party?”

“I can hear the gears spinning in your head, Cherry.”

Dan Dantley stood before us in the rehearsal studio, his hands on his hips and a stern expression on face.

“Settle down everyone. Welcome back to our ‘second’ first day of black box rehearsals. The Broadway veterans among us (and that doesn’t include me, ha ha) are familiar with this new space that we’re in today. We’re going to start blocking out the scenes and, as you can see from the light fixtures all around us, configure the lighting schemes for each scene. It’s tedious but absolutely necessary, so bear with us. So don’t let the lights throw you. And don’t throw the lights…”

No one laughed except Maris Lafferty, who got the Elvis in Vegas reference.

“You’re making me feel so old. First item on our agenda! As you all well know, our rehearsals were interrupted last week by a minor squabble between two of our cast members, Lulu and Annie. Without getting into the specifics of their contretemps, I’ve received assurances from both of them that it’s all water under the bridge and we can all proceed to finish preparing for a grand opening night in September, without rancor. Ladies, anything you’d like to say to each other?”

Mom and Annie met in the center of the room and placed their hands on their hips, trying not to look directly into each other’s eyes. Annie offered her hand to Lulu.

“I’m sorry for blowing up at you, Lulu. Let’s bury the hatchet, okay?”

“As long as it’s not in each other’s heads, yeah. I’m sorry too.”

They shook hands but smiles did not replace their frowns. Dan applauded their peace-making, prompting everyone else to politely applaud as well.

“Five minutes everyone. Be ready to block the first scene.”

I glanced over at Trent, standing by the craft services table, nervously downing half a bottle of water. He had been avoiding the glances and outright stares of the cast and even some of our technicians, trying to hide in the back of the room. When I walked over to him, he flinched.

“Trent, do you have a minute?” I asked.

“Hey, Cherry. I’d rather not talk about it. So, unless it’s about the weather, don’t ask—”

“Don’t worry. I don’t want to hear anything about that. I even put my hands over my ears when Mom mentions it…which she’s only done once when we were soaking in a thermal bath and she was falling asleep. I know, TMI. Listen,” I reached into my purse (darn these girls’ jeans don’t have real pockets) and took out Carson’s thumb drive. “I’ve got a friend who’s a really talented musician and his band plays locally. They just opened for The Master Builders this past weekend at Bowery Ballroom. They killed! Can you give this a listen? Maybe give us your professional opinion? They’re really good!”

He took the thumb drive and looked at it for a brief second before pocketing it in his shirt.

“Sure. When I get a few minutes, I’ll pop it into my laptop.”

“They’re really good,” I repeated, as I walked back to my seat next to Philippa.

Unable to find a minute to talk to Dan alone in the first couple of hours of scene blocking in rehearsal, I invited myself to lunch with Dan, Maia, and David Wetherell. We settled into a table in the Times Square plaza and started to unwrap the hotdogs we got from John’s Famous cart on West 46th. I shocked the others by ordering the jumbo Reuben Dog, with sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island Dressing. Pretty pricey at $11 but David was chivalrous enough to pay for it.

“I really like the changes you made in the second scene, Maia,” I said between chomping on my dog.

“That’d make you the first person to like them,” Maia snickered.

“I think it’s just Maris complaining about having her lines cut,” Dan offered, relish trickling down his chin.

“I’ve a favor to ask of you, Dan,” I quietly ventured.

“Sure, Cherry, what is it?”

“Maia’s probably told you I’m taking a filmmaking course this summer at Columbia—”

“She did. It’s a great opportunity. I wish I could’ve taken a course like that when I was still in high school.”

“Well, the group I’m in wants to do our class project on the preparations for the play during rehearsals and previews. The class ends at the end of August…”

“And who chose the subject of this project?” Dan raised an eyebrow.

“I did…but they all loved the idea! And since I have an in with the director…”

“The next few weeks is going to be pretty intense, Cherry. We don’t need unnecessary distractions.”

“Mom said you’d be okay with it,” I drew out hopefully.

“Oh, Cherry, don’t go there. Dan isn’t too fond of your mom right now,” Maia warned.

“I don’t think it’ll be a distraction, Dan. I know Lulu, Annie and I – even Trent – are used to crews shooting promo rolls while we’re filming. I’m sure Cherry and her mates can be discreet while documenting our rehearsals and such,” David smiled at me.

“And we want to arrange interviews with the leading figures…like you, Dan, Maia, and the cast.” I waited for the wheels to turn in Dan’s brain.

“But Chris Chang’s going to be doing pretty much the same thing, you know, observing everything. His input will shape the advertising and promotional efforts—”

“It’s a school project, Dan, have a care, will you,” David exclaimed in exasperation.

Maia brushed Dan’s arm with a sympathetic expression on her face, winking at me.

“Oh, alright, but I want you to be as quiet as dormice. Just stay out of the way—” Dan surrendered.

“Thank you! Thank you all!” I leaped out of my seat and smeared Thousand Island Dressing all over Dan’s cheek.

“Maia, give me a napkin!”

“No one consulted me about this!” Maris cried. Dan crossed his arms and looked annoyed.

“Maris, I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal.”

“I’m not dressed properly to be filmed. Someone should have given me a head’s up at least.”

“Maris, you look fine,” Mom told her, her arms akimbo.

“Why couldn’t you have waited until dress rehearsals next week, sweetheart,” turning to me, standing next to Anders and a tripod, aiming the Canon XL2 for a wide-angle shot of the scene being rehearsed. Charlotte was sitting off to the side, monitoring the audio and video on her laptop.

“We probably won’t be using the footage we’re shooting today. We’re just trying to get accustomed to the lighting and sight-lines. And the audio—”

“Can we get back to rehearsing this scene?” Dan implored, his hands held out specifically to Maris.

“Okay, okay.” She muttered, “I’ve got only two lines in this scene anyway…”

Dan was relieved to have us confirm to him we were only going to shoot a couple of days a week. Mostly Tuesdays and Thursdays after class. Of course, if we could fit it into everyone’s schedules, there’d be exceptions to the rule. In particular, I wanted to conduct the interviews outside of the studio or theater, probably on a Saturday or Sunday when there were no rehearsals or previews.

While taking Alice for her morning constitutional on Wednesday, I called Carson, hoping he was awake. Being a musician, he kept pretty late hours. I guess it becomes a habit when you’re working into the wee hours. Surprisingly, he picked up after the second ring.

“Cherry! I just woke up. We had a gig in Hartford at Webster’s last night. Boy, we escaped that part of town by the skin of our teeth. Some kids were trying to break into our van when we came out—”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for everything. You’re a champ.”

He disconnected.

“If I’d known you all were coming, I’d have baked a cake,” joked Chris as he ushered us into his loft.

It was the entire floor of a renovated warehouse, now converted into work and living spaces for artists of every stripe. We (myself, Annie, Philippa, and Carson) found ourselves in a huge central room. There were some wall-filling canvases, paintings by Chris, on three sides. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Plymouth Street, with the Manhattan Bridge looming in the distance.

We had headed over to the loft after rehearsal, so it was a little after 6 PM. Carson was punctual, waiting for us when we stepped out of the Uber Annie had ordered. I introduced Annie and Philippa to Carson.

Whispering into my ear, Annie asked, “How do you do it? First it’s that blond bombshell Anders and now Mr. Tall, Dark & Studly, Carson.”

I laughed. “They’re just friends, Annie. Not everything is carnal.”

“It isn’t? Nobody told me that.”

“You guys are good,” Chris declared after listening to a few minutes of the thumb drive Carson had handed to him. “I don’t know if it’s right for the crowd at my party. Most of the guests will be into smooth jazz or classical.”

Shaking his head, Carson whispered to me, “See. I told you.”

“They’ll play for free!” I shouted.

“Wait! What? Cherry!” Carson was confused by my offer to Chris.

“I know the women at the party will like the visuals as much as the music,” Annie said with a smirk.

“How can you say no, Chris,” Philippa asked. “They’re willing to play for zilch. And they’re good anyway. Hiring a jazz trio or classical musicians would be so out of sync with you as an avant-garde artist and the Bohemian hipster neighborhood we’re in. Your guests expect you to color outside the lines, Chris.”

“Okay, okay, I can see when I’m out-numbered. But, I will pay you, Carson. Being an artist myself, I’m constitutionally against freebies.” He extended his hand to Carson. “You’re hired.”

They shook hands. Carson had a big grin on his face as he couldn’t stop shaking Chris’ hand.

As Chris took us on a tour of his loft, which turned out to have more rooms than a medium-sized house, I sidled up to Annie.

“Sorry about how Trent treated you,” I said sympathetically.

“Thanks but I’m over him. And I’m really sorry for taking it out on your mom. She’s not to blame. It’s all Trent’s fault. He’s a player. That’s all he is.”

“I know. I’m working on getting her away from that bum.”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to accomplish that? Tell her to avoid looking into those puppy dog eyes and at the dimples in his cheeks…upper and lower.”

“Annie! You make it sound so…so lewd and salacious.”

“Well, that’s the way it is, honey. No offense but your mother should stick to her own age group.”

“So, what do you think of Chris? He’s kind of dreamy, don’t you think?”

“I met him three years ago. At a Hollywood party. I think it was for another of Dan’s film premieres or TV shows. I don’t remember. This was before I’d ever met Philippa. Well, she would’ve been presenting as Philip back then. Anyway, Chris was just this scruffy-looking nerd who had worked for Dan in set design. He’s improved a lot since then, I’ll admit.”

“He’s been staring at you all evening. I think he’s crushing on you.”

“You really think so?”

“Now that he’s working on the visual media for the play and Philippa’s moved into the loft, that’s your excuse for spending time with him…as often as you wish.”

“Philippa was right about you. You are a little match-maker, aren’t you? I think you should work on your own case. Carson is a real honey. I just hope he’s not a Trent Foster wannabe, if you get my drift.”

“He’s the farthest thing from that. Don’t give me that look.”

The work week came to an end on Friday at 5PM and I looked forward to simply kicking back and having a quiet dinner in our suite with Mom before watching something interesting on Netflix. I was planning to make my famous Spaghetti Bolognese…for the first time. Mom might prefer to eat out at the latest fashionable restaurant but I’m more of a homebody. Also, I have to watch my intake of calories. Unlike my mother, I’m inherently a fattie. I guess I get that from my father’s side of the family. Whoever he is.

To my shock and disappointment, as I was packing up my shoulder bag to leave the studio, Mom came over to me, with Trent standing beside her, a shit-eating grin on his stupid face, and told me she and Trent were taking one of those evening cruises around Manhattan island. They were looking forward to the dulcet tones of a jazz band, a gourmet dinner with a wide choice of domestic and foreign wines, and dancing in the moonlight. The image of my mother dancing on board a tour boat with a veritable teenager, surrounded by couples closing in on their sunset years, made me want to puke. I was stunned into silence as they traipsed to the elevator, waving goodbye.

David Wetherell snapped me out of my trance as he repeated his question to me.

“Need a lift home, Cherry?”

“Oh…yes, thank you, daddy.”

“Did you just call me daddy?” He laughed.

“Did I? I’m sorry. Slip of the tongue.”

As I climbed onto his motorcycle, his extra helmet on my head, my arms wrapped themselves around his midriff. We moved into the rush hour traffic, heading toward The Carlyle. Unconsciously, I laid my cheek against the warm, slick leather of his jacket and tried to come up with a plan to get my mother and father back together again.

“But Chris said the party was very informal. He told us to dress casually. Why are we going to get our hair done?” I asked Mom as we slid into the car waiting for us in front of The Carlyle on Saturday afternoon.

“What do men know about parties?” she huffed. Our usual driver, Benny, moved quickly to get behind the wheel but not before winking at me.

“It’s being held in his loft! He said he’s wearing pajamas!”

“You’re so gullible, Cherry. Listen, everyone involved with the show is going to be there. I’m not going to this party looking like I just fell out of bed. And neither is my daughter! Anyway, you’ll love the pampering you get at Christo’s. Didn’t you enjoy the day you spent at the spa?”

“I can’t believe it’s going to take us twenty minutes in traffic to move two miles crosstown, Mom.”

“It’s Manhattan, sweetie. Is it any worse than the freeway in L.A.?”

“This place. Christo On Fifth. Isn’t it supposed to be noted for working on curly hair? Neither of us has curly hair, Mom.”

“You need to get some wave in your hair, Cherry. Nothing worse than limp, straight, boring hair.”

“Are the producers paying for this?”

“Of course,” Mom sniffed.

Christo On Fifth was located on the third floor of a nondescript building north of Times Square, above a Chipotle Mexican Grill. After Mom and I stepped out of the elevator, we were immediately greeted by Christo himself, internationally renowned haircutter to celebrities from every corner of the world, having already established salons in Los Angeles, London, Paris, and Tokyo in his 25-year career. He enthusiastically bussed Mom on both cheeks and, when I flinched as he approached to do the same to me, he daintily shook my hand instead.

“Bashful beauty, isn’t she?” Christo commented as he smiled at me. “We’re going to make your flaming red hair literally illuminate the room. You’ll be the belle of the ball tonight!”

“It’s just a cocktail party in an artist’s loft—”

“Christopher Chang! Ah, yes…” He turned to one of his assistants. “Cecile, please give me this month’s Vogue.”

“Mrs. Warren is reading it right now in her chair,” Cecile responded.

“I’m sure she won’t mind if we borrow it for a moment? Please…”

Cecile swiped the magazine right from under Mrs. Warren’s nose, muttering apologies. She handed it to Christo, who paged through it until he reached a layout of photos. Turning it toward Mom and me, he stabbed the pages with his index finger.

“I’d love to do his hair. Perhaps you can put in a word?”

“I’m good friends with his sister. I’ll tell her you’re interested in his hair,” I offered.

Christo clapped his hands together. “Thank you, dear girl. Now, there’s going to be a short wait so please have a seat and tell my girl what we can get you. Coffee, tea, wine?”

“You know what I’d like, Christo. That special Greek iced coffee I had last time in your L.A. salon. That was yummy!” Mom exclaimed.

“Of course, my father’s recipe. He always added a little honey to an ordinary frappe. You too, my little kopela?”

“Do have one, Cherry. They’re delicious!” Mom advised. I nodded as Christo snapped his fingers at Cecile.

After having my hair washed, I was led back to my chair where Alexa, my stylist, stood, a big smile on her face.

“Where’s my mother?” I asked, searching the room.

“She went to the ladies’ room. It’s all that honey in the coffee, maybe.”

“I prefer the Frappuccino you get at Starbucks—”

“Don’t say that within Christo’s earshot. He claims they stole the recipe from his dad.” She leaned down close to my ear. “It’s nice to do a trans girl’s hair—”

I reflexively moved my head away. “How…how did you know? Do I look too…masculine?”

“No, not at all. You’re a beautiful girl, Cherry. Your mother told us…that is, she told Christo.”

“How could she? She’s so brain dead. Telling people like that.”

“Don’t worry. We have nothing against transwomen. Christo’s really cool with diversity and everything. In fact, I’m trans myself.”

“Have you had…you know…bottom surgery? I can’t yet. I’m only 16. 17 in September!”

“I’m saving up for it. Maybe in another couple of years. My health insurance won’t cover it.”

“Well, I would’ve never known, Alexa. And I’ve been told I have excellent trans-dar.”

“It must be wonderful having a supportive mother like you do,” Alexa said as she started combing my hair.

“Most of the time, I guess. We don’t really spend much time together. I go to boarding school back home in California.”

“All the same, at least your parents acknowledged your dysphoria and got you treatment. My father disowned me when I told him I wanted to major in cosmetology at the Fashion Institute. It took me six years to complete my B.A. I haven’t been back home, even for holidays, in all that time. My mother has to sneak out to the city to visit me every month or so.”

“That’s sad. I thought people in New York were a lot more liberal than that.”

“Not my dad. Not my dad. So, want some more wave in your hair?”

“Mom doesn’t want boring so, do your worst.”

Mom knocked on the door to my bedroom as I tried to find an outfit to wear to the cocktail party. As I searched through my practically empty closet, I made sure not to mess up my new hairdo or the makeup they’d put on my face at the salon, such as it was.

“Honey, I’ve got the perfect dress for you to wear. Open up.”

I swung the door open to see Mom holding out what looked like a green prom dress.

“Mom! I’m not going to the prom! Can’t I just wear the outfit I wore to dinner at the spa? I haven’t shaved my legs!”

“Nonsense, Cherry. Your grandfather has more hair growing out of his ears than you have on your legs. You have nothing to shave, lucky girl. Now, put this on.”

“Why do you get to wear an LBD and I have to wear a prom dress?”

“Do I have to remind you that you’re sixteen? Hurry up. Isn’t your boyfriend supposed to be here soon?”

“Anders isn’t my boyfriend, Mom. He’s on my film class team and I asked him to help me shoot some b-roll stuff for our project.”

“Is that girl Charlotte also coming along?”

“No, she couldn’t come. Something about going out of town with her family this weekend.”

“How convenient. Chop chop, sweetheart!”

Five minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring and Mom go to answer it.

“Anders, nice to see you again. Come in.”

“Hello, Ms. Brooks. Is Cherry ready? I saw your car service parked out front downstairs.”

“Cherry, your boyfriend’s here. Time to hit the road.”

Fuming at my mother, I rushed out of my bedroom and stalked into the living room, where Anders stood in his light blue shirt and dark blue dress slacks, holding his Canon XL2 digital camera.

“Wow, Cherry, you look beautiful. That dress is bonkers!” Anders was about to snap a photo when I held up my hand.

“What? This old thing?” I did a semi-pirouette and my skirt flounced saucily. I hoped my legs looked as smooth as Mom swore they were.

“I feel really under-dressed,” Anders said, lowering his camera. “You said it was kind of informal, Cherry. But you two look great.”

“I thought they’d have a DJ, not live music,” Anders remarked, as we spotted Carson and his band setting up their equipment against the far wall of Chris Chang’s loft, in front of one of Chris’ wall-size abstract paintings.

“It was my idea. Why have canned music when you can have real musicians playing real music.” I waved to Carson as he turned away from the wall. He waved back but returned to fussing with the knobs on his amplifier.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Anders.

“After the speeches and toasts, we should just wander about and take it all in visually. If I see an opening, maybe we can talk to some of the luminaries—”

“Like your mother?”

“Well, she’s one of the stars of the play. No interviews. That wouldn’t be kosher tonight. We’ll just capture some stray chatter. Who knows, we might not be able to use any of the footage from tonight.”

“Now behave yourselves, kids,” Danny advised us, Maia at his side.

They were both nattily dressed. Danny had even trimmed his beard. Maia wore something other than her usual t-shirt and sweatpants combo.

“And no alcohol for either of you. Just stick to soda.” Danny stopped after taking two steps away. He turned and raised his voice to get above the growing din. “Don’t try to interview anyone. It’s a party not a press conference.”

“Don’t take him literally, Anders. I’m sure we can ask some harmless questions, here and there. Let’s circle the room. I’ll stop you if there’s someone we can focus on.”

Chris Chang hushed the crowd, holding a glass of champagne in his hand. He was wearing pajamas, just as he had promised. It turns out he had just launched a men’s clothing line, featuring his artwork. Bob and Frank Balsam, the owners of the Netherlander Organization, several Broadway theaters, and the producers of “Blues For a Diva,” added their remarks and offered more toasts. Chris and the Balsams predicted the play would be the smash hit of the 2018-2019 Broadway season.

We circumnavigated the party several times as Anders’ camera captured candid interactions among the guests. A laugh here, a guffaw there. Some playful banter between the Balsams and members of the cast. Glasses were raised high and copious amounts of bubbly quaffed. Servers strolled the interstices of the crowd, offering appetizers on gleaming trays.

Of special note to me was seeing Mom and David in rapt conversation by one of the windows that framed a view of the Manhattan Bridge, its lights just now turning on as we approached 7PM. Perhaps her interlude with Trent was now over. And I could see Trent in another corner of the loft, surrounded by a gaggle of young women. They worked for either the Netherlander Organization or the ad agency Chris Chang was involved with.

In another corner of the loft, Chris was handing a glass of champagne to Annie Flaherty. Their eyes were only for each other. The evident magnetism between them was proof that I had some talent as a matchmaker. I searched the room for Philippa. She was sitting on a couch, sloshing her drink nervously as B-Loved was trying to put the moves on her. An unlikely couple, I’ll say.

I must have stood in place, lingering on the sight of Mom and David at the window, when Anders nudged my shoulder.

“Are we going to just circle around like sharks or should we go in for a kill? I thought you wanted to chat up some people.”

I broke myself out of my trance and pointed to a woman in a pantsuit, just finishing her chat with Maris Lafferty.

“That’s Leah Dalton!”

“Who?”

“Leah Dalton. She’s the podcaster who covers show business. You know, movies, TV, theater, the whole shebang. I guess they invited her to get some advance publicity for the play.”

Leah stood alone after Maris walked off. She looked like she was searching the crowd for a familiar face. Someone to speak to. Perhaps she’ll speak to us.

“Do we want to talk to her?”

“Sure, why not. It’ll blow up her ego even more than it already is. We could offer her our footage to stream on her podcast. That is, if she says anything halfway usable…”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Anders reminded me.

“Don’t get me in the shot, Anders. We just want soundbytes from her. Okay?”

“Shame not to have you in frame, Cherry. You look really nice.”

“Thank you, Anders, but I don’t think we need to see me on screen.”

“Ms. Dalton? Hello. I’m Cherry. That’s Anders behind the camera. We’re film school students, working on a class project. Can we get your observations about the party and/or the play that’s opening in September?”

She took another of her champagne and looked right into the lens of Anders’ camera.

“Normally, I don’t cover Broadway or any theater for that matter. My subs are not really into that stuff. ‘Hamilton’ was the exception to the rule and, frankly, my audience is not the target demo for ‘The Lion King’.”

She giggled into her glass.

“But I was very intrigued with the unusual casting for this play that’s part drama, part musical. First, you’ve got Trent Foster, of all people, in a lead role and he’s singing as well. Second, you’ve got Lulu Brooks and David Wetherell in lead roles. There’s a comeback story for both of them in this. I mean, come on, they haven’t had a hit film or TV series in this decade. Third, it’s being directed by Dan Dantley, a noted gay film director, who’s never worked in theater, and it’s written by his partner, Maia Everly, a transwoman! My god, what a hodge podge!”

“So why cover it?” I asked.

“It’s a trainwreck just waiting to happen. I give it a 50/50 chance to actually make it to opening night. There’ll be more drama offstage than on. Sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“Who invited you to this party?” I asked, hardly concealing my growing unease speaking to her.

“The PR firm that represents the Netherlander Organization. They thought they could expand their audience by having a podcaster spreading the word about the play. Same way they think having Chris Chang design their visual media will expand their audience. Good luck on that.”

“Why aren’t you live streaming this?”

“I don’t think my subs want to see me scarf up free eats at a cocktail party. I mean, if this was the after-party for the Grammys or the Oscars, maybe they’d be interested.”

“Well, thanks for talking to us, Ms. Dalton.” I turned away and Anders lowered his camera.

“I’ll tell you what, though, there’s one story that might interest my subs. I heard that Lulu Brooks possibly has a transgender child that she’s been hiding in a boarding school in California,” Leah said as we started to walk away.

“Why would that interest you or your viewers?” I asked, spinning around.

“Just another in a long line of scandals that Lulu’s been involved in. I mean, the marriages, divorces, child custody fights, backstage affairs with co-stars. She’s excellent fodder for social media. And, now, if she has a transgender child to boot. Wow, that’d boost my subs by hundreds of thousands if I got the scoop.”

“Even if that were true, wouldn’t you feel bad about doxing someone and inflicting unwanted attention on them, possibly making their lives unbearable?”

“As a journalist, I don’t judge the facts, I simply report them.”

“But there’s no journalistic value in reporting—”

At that moment, Chris Chang asked the crowd to quiet down. He was standing in front of Carson and his band.

“Friends and honored guests, it is my pleasure to introduce you to a band of young musicians my sister Philippa and her friend Cherry brought to my attention as the perfect performers to entertain you tonight. Here are The Vandal Savages!”

At the end of their twenty-minute set, Carson introduced their final number as a dedication to me. He pointed me out in the crowd. I tried to hide my face out of embarrassment as everyone applauded me.

“Hey, they’re good! Now that’s something my audience would really be interested in. Excuse me, I’m going to see if I can get them on my podcast. Nice talking to you. Good luck on your class project.” She fought her way through the crowd to reach the band, who were talking to Trent Foster.

“What a sleaze,” Anders remarked.

“Kids,” Mom called out to us. “David’s offering to drive us home. You too Anders.”

“No motorcycle tonight, David?”

“Change of pace, Cherry. In any event, I can only fit two on my bike. My car seats five comfortably. So, are you in?”

“Cherry! Cherry!” It was Carson, running toward me. “Trent really likes us and wants to set up an audition for his label here in New York. It’s all because of you! We just needed a chance and you gave it to us!”

“That’s great, Carson!” He hugged me ferociously. “I can’t breathe!”

“Sorry,” Carson released me. “Let’s celebrate! Shake Shack? Our usual?”

I looked at Mom, David, and Anders.

“Mom, can I?”

“You go ahead, Cherry. But don’t stay out too late.” She turned to Carson. “Play nice, okay?”

“Yes, Ms. Brooks, scout’s honor. We’re just gonna have some burgers and—”

“And curly fries!” I shouted. Carson and I high-fived each other. I saw Anders fidgeting with his camera. “Anders, we’ll go over the footage on Monday if you want. Call me. Okay?”

“Sure. Monday.”

“Well, lad, let’s go. I’m parked a couple blocks away. We’ll drop you off first.”

“That’s alright, Mr. Wetherell. I can take the subway home.”

“That’ll take almost an hour,” David pointed out.

“I take the subway all the time. It’s nothing. See you Monday, Cherry. You really looked nice tonight.”

“See you at home, sweetie.” Mom kissed me on my forehead before walking out with David.

“That’s so embarrassing. Sorry you had to see that. Mom thinks I’m 5 years old.”

Carson smiled. “So, what’s with you and this Anders dude? I think he’s stuck on you.”

“He’s somebody I sort of knew when I was someone else.”

Carson gave me a quizzical look.

It was a hot July night so we decided to sit outside the Shake Shack on the Upper East Side and watch Carson enjoy his favorite meal, a Black Truffle Shack Stack burger, crinkle cut fries on the side, and a large Mountain Dew. I took dainty little bites of my chicken sandwich and quiet sips of my Sprite while I listened to his enthusiastic torrent of words.

“…it’s too bad we can’t do it this week—”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“We have a bunch of one-nighters up in New England through Friday. Couple of clubs in Massachusetts, one in Rhode Island—”

“My grandparents on my mom’s side live in Providence.” I put my chicken sandwich down. “I’m bummed because I thought we might spend some time together next week. Maybe see a movie or a concert.” Frowning, I put the straw back in mouth to draw some Sprite in.

“We have all summer, right? Anyway, Leah wants to record our audition for Trent’s label and make it part of her next podcast. Isn’t that unbelievable? And I have you to thank for it, Cherry!”

“Go, Cherry! Go, Cherry!” The other members of the Vandal Savages, seated at a table behind us, chanted their gratitude, making all the other patrons outside Shake Shack stare at us. And, here I was, incongruously dressed in a green prom dress.

“You deserve it, Carson. You guys are so talented! So, when is your audition and can I come?”

“Uh, no, it’s only going to be Trent, a couple of A&R guys, and us in the studio. Trent had to clear it with the A&R guys to sneak Leah in. And, if it doesn’t go well, I wouldn’t want you to be there to see that.”

“How could it go badly? Just be yourselves. Imagine you’re playing in front of a crowd of fans like that night at Bowery Ballroom. You guys slayed!”

“It could be Saturday or Sunday. Plans haven’t been finalized. They’re doing it as favor to Trent, after all.”

“Will you miss seeing me all week?” I shyly asked.

“Sure, Cherry. But business is business, you know. We’ve got all summer to be together.”

Maris Lafferty looked unblinkingly into the lens of Anders’ camera as she continued her long, digression-filled answer to my simple question about the place of theater in modern day society.

“Theater, the human act of representing on stage in front of an audience the verities of our existence, in relation to society, nature, God, and the universe, is a barometer of the health of a civilization. Whether it is comedy or tragedy, as the ancient Greeks formulated, it is about life as we live it, yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And the musical adds the emotional resonance of song, notes and lyrics which delineate our strengths and frailties as human beings in society. I am proud to have worked in theater my entire adult life. I think it brings people together. In celebration, in contemplation, and, ultimately, in empathy for each other.”

“Hey, can we resume rehearsals, please? People, we’re on a tight schedule. Next week we move into the Richard Rodgers for dress rehearsals. And then two weeks after that, previews begin. God almighty, why did I take this assignment?”

Annoyingly, Danny clapped his hands as if the cast were unruly kids in kindergarten class. Maris slowly walked back into the studio as Anders put his camera down. Charlotte and I followed Anders as we went into the small room next to the studio that served as Danny’s office. He held the camera’s LCD screen out to us as we reviewed what had just been shot.

“She’s got piercing blue eyes,” remarked Charlotte.

“It’s the lighting in the hallway. They’re closer to gray,” Anders pointed out. “Cherry, you’re not watching. You keep looking at your phone—”

“I’ve been expecting a text from Carson all week. He barely replied to my text on Tuesday. Just a couple of words about driving to Needham. I don’t know when his audition is taking place.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make that party last week,” Charlotte sighed. “Leah Dalton’s latest Tik-Tok made The Vandal Savages sound like the second coming of Nirvana.”

“We’ll have to cut that soliloquy she gave us into two or three lines but it looks good to me,” Anders pronounced. “What about the interview with David and your mom?”

“David has a really interesting idea. He wants us to film him playing golf on Sunday. He says it’ll be more kinetic on screen than just having a talking head.”

“What? He’ll be playing by himself?”

“No, he wants us to play pairs golf. Two against two. Him and mom against you and me.”

“And where do I fit in?” asked Charlotte.

Anders and I both shouted, “Operating the camera!”

Anders muttered under his breath, “I shouldn’t have told him I was on the golf team at Mirage Canyon.”

Sunday afternoon. Somewhere in depths of Suffolk County on New York’s Long Island. Charlotte was driving her brother’s Jeep Cherokee with me riding shotgun and Anders sprawled on the back bench. We were following David’s motorcycle as we tooled along the Southern State Parkway toward the Bellmore Golf Club. Mom had her arms wrapped around David, shouting excitedly into David’s helmet earflap. Something barely audible above the roar of the bike’s engine.

“This was your idea wasn’t it, “ Anders accused me.

“Well, yeah, but David agreed to it right away. It’s no secret I want Mom to stop fooling around with Trent. She and David are much more suited for each other,” I replied.

“I guess you could argue it would heal some bruised feelings in the cast. And it has the added benefit of possibly getting your mother and father back together again—”

“David’s your father?” Charlotte interjected.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it sometime…but not right now.”

“Oh, okay. By the way, love your outfit,” Charlotte complimented me.

“It’s identical to the one Mom’s going to wear.”

“Why didn’t you wait to change in the locker room?”

“Uhh…I’d rather not have to go into a ladies’ locker room.”

“No offense, Cherry, but you really are one strange duck,” Charlotte noted.

After Mom had changed into her golf fit and we looked like mismatched twins, bags of clubs were rented for everyone but David, who’d brought his own. Golf carts were acquired and we set off to play a round of best-ball golf on the “easier” course, used by amateurs like us. Charlotte wasn’t too happy having to sit in the back of our cart, jammed between two golf bags.

Aside from a few rounds of golf played with Alastair, my unofficial stepfather, when I was 12 and 13 years old, I couldn’t honestly tell you I’d given golf half a thought in my almost 17 years on Earth. However, I’ve been told I have excellent hand-eye coordination. Well, Alastair told me.

Despite my excellent hand-eye coordination, I was the worst player among our foursome. You see, David had been playing golf since his teens in Edinburgh, Mom’s dad, my grandfather, used to take her along when he went golfing on summer weekends back home in Providence, and Anders, of course, was on the golf team in our high school. It was only because Anders was so good that our pair wasn’t totally shut out of winning any holes. I got annoyed at Charlotte since she seemed to shoot extra footage of my errant swings. My ball landed everywhere but the greens: the deep rough, the paths that the golf carts rode out of bounds, almost every sand trap and bunker. I hit someone walking toward the clubhouse once. I was told to yell ‘fore’ whenever I mis-hit the ball. Rather angrily, I must say.

I tried to interview them, even as my woeful exhibition of wayward golf shots continued.

Sidling up to David and Mom, I asked, “Why haven’t you worked together again after ‘Thick As Thieves,” almost twenty years ago?”

“Well, I wanted to…but Lulu was always unavailable. Maybe she can tell you why she avoided working with me.”

Mom laughed. “I wasn’t avoiding you. You’ll recall that I had a baby nine months after the movie premiered.”

“That explains the immediate period of time after that movie but, correct me if I’m wrong, about two years later, you made that sci-fi picture instead of the Scorsese project I had the lead in. Marty told me he had you in mind for the female lead.”

“They offered me more money, David. Unlike you, I had a family to support—”

“Oh, come now, Lulu. Alastair was making good coin then, as he is now I presume.” He nodded at me. I was out of frame hopefully.

“It was a much larger part, David. I wasn’t too keen on playing the male lead’s side chick like Scorsese wanted. Although it’s the way you seem to see most women in your life anyway.”

“There’s your answer, Cherry. Your mother thinks I’m a player…to use the vernacular.”

“If the shoe fits,” Mom smirked.

“Oh, come on, Mom. You’re telling me Trent Foster isn’t a worse player? He’s a charter member of the fuck ‘em and forget ‘em club—”

“Cut, Charlotte. We’re not going to use this,” Anders ordered.

“I’m sorry, guys. Let’s tee off. There’s a group behind us that’s probably really pissed at us for holding them up.” I took the 4 Iron out to tee off on the par 3 13th hole.

“Remember your hips, Cherry,” Anders reminded me as I addressed the tee. Unfortunately, Anders’ serious advice made me laugh, right in the middle of my swing. Accordingly, I drove the ball all the way to the left of the fairway. It bounded and rolled to within an inch of a small stream that marked the boundary of the hole. It must have been the course designer’s idea of a cute water hazard.

After Anders drove his tee shot 200 yards down the middle of the fairway, he turned to me. “You can lay out if you want, Cherry. I can make this in three. That ball looks unplayable. You’d have to have one foot in the water to even try to hit it.”

“Perish the thought, Anders. I’m not a quitter.” Pretending to break away from Anders’ grasp, I shouted, “Let me go! Don’t try to hold me back!” I ran to our golf cart and gunned it down the cart path, making a right turn near the spot by the stream where my ball had rolled to. I drove so fast (relatively speaking) that I almost threw Charlotte out of the back along with one of the golf bags. I made a quick choice between a 5 or 6 Iron. With the 6 Iron in hand, I tried to stand tippy-toe on the precipice of the stream. I swung the club and immediately fell backward into the drink up to my shoulders in the shallow stream. The ball did make it onto the green though. There’s that.

Everyone ran over to help me out of the water. It was Anders whose hand I reached for. He pulled me out and Mom immediately tried to look for bruises and cuts.

“I’m okay, Mom. But it looks like our outfits don’t quite match anymore.”

“We have to get you out of those wet clothes. Forget about the game. I’m taking you to the locker room. You can shower and change into some dry clothes.” Mom took my arm and led me to the golf cart.

“But…but Mom. I didn’t bring any change of clothes—”

“You go in, take those wet clothes off, and shower. I’ll go to the pro shop and pick up something for you to wear. Any particular color, sweetie?”

“Pink?” I blurted out for no reason. Just the first color that came to mind.

“What about Anders and Charlotte and David?”

“David can finish the round against Anders. And Charlotte seems to enjoy filming David up close and personal.”

I cautiously entered the ladies’ locker room. I had kept my head down so as not to meet the eyes of anyone as I dripped my way through the country club. I did hear a few giggles but just started walking even more quickly. I exhaled and discovered the locker room was occupied by two middle-aged women, changing out of golf skirts and tops. One of them turned to me.

“Oh no, sweetie, looks like you fell into the water hazard. At least you didn’t injure yourself. Quick, get yourself into the shower.”

“I must look like a wet cocker spaniel,” I laughed as I passed her and quickly found Mom’s locker. Using the combination she had been given, I opened the locker and used the door to block myself from view as I shucked off my wet clothes. Grabbing a towel, I thanked the Goddess that it was large enough to wrap my body from my clavicle to my knees. With the grace of a feline, I slinked toward the showers. Inside, I was happy to see that each side of the room held stalls with curtains.

As I soaped myself, making sure I didn’t get my hair wet, I looked down at my budding breasts. Not bad for just a little more than a year on testosterone blockers and estrogen. I wonder if I’ll inherit my mother’s slightly bigger than average B cup breasts. I wonder how large David’s mother’s breasts were. Oh what a strange thought.

As I showered, thankfully alone in the room, I was of two minds. On the one hand, I was angry at myself for botching the whole effort at interviewing David and Mom in a quirky, unique way. On the other hand, I was glad I had come up with the idea in the first place. Despite the premature ending to the shoot, it was clear that there was still a lot of heat between them. The way she wrapped her arms around him on his bike. The way they strategized during the round, helping each other through the course, literally putting their heads together. There’s something there, alright. Just needs a little prodding and cultivation. And I’m just the one to do the prodding.

“Cherry? Are you in there? It’s me, Mom. I’ve got a nice outfit for you to change into.”

“I’m almost done, Mom.”

Five minutes later, after drying myself, I grabbed the outfit Mom had bought in the pro shop and put it on, again using the locker door as a divider to block anyone’s view.

“How did you know it would fit me, Mom?”

“Cherry, I’m your mother! I’ve known your sizes since you were a little…uh…girl.”

“You’ve barely seen me since I went away to boarding school. Nor have you seen me bare.”

The one woman remaining in the locker room looked over at us, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Just sit here and admire your new pink sweatsuit while I take a quick shower myself.”

“What then?”

“Then we’ll go over to the country club and have ourselves some coffee and maybe a Danish or two. I’m famished!”

Mom was threatening to have her third cup of coffee by the time David, Anders, and Charlotte walked into the Public House.

“Who won?” I asked.

“Your fair-haired boyfriend took the last five holes,” David sighed as he sat down at our table. “And to add insult to injury, he absconded with a hundred dollars of my money. $20 a hole. The kid’s a hustler.”

“He’s not Cherry’s boyfriend. That’s Carson Gabriel of The Vandal Savages,” Charlotte declared.

“And you’re the one who warns me against getting involved with musicians,” Mom snickered.

“That sweatsuit looks good on you, Cherry,” Anders said softly to me.

“Thank you, Anders. Mom knows what fits me.”

“That I do,” Mom nodded. “That I do.”

I got Anders and Charlotte to agree to go back to Columbia and edit what we had shot in the past week, including today’s golf outing. I’d just been laughed at in wet golf togs, so I didn’t blanche at the thought of walking on campus in this pink sweatsuit normally worn by middle-aged, suburban wives of corporate executives playing golf on weekends.

“But it’s Sunday evening, sweetie. Even the Lord rested on Sunday,” Mom admonished.

“It’s only an 8-week course, Mom. Time is of the essence. And Mom, don’t forget to pick up Alice from the kennel—”

Mom just waved to us as David kick started his bike and sped away from the parking lot.

Charlotte and I were sitting at the editing console, reviewing the footage we had shot over the last few days, when Anders excitedly came back into the room, holding out his phone to us.

“Guys, it’s Leah Dalton’s podcast. She’s live-streaming from a recording studio downtown. It’s The Vandal Savages’ audition that Trent Foster arranged for them—”

“Damn it, Carson! I missed it. He never got back to me with the coordinates for the audition,” I exclaimed.

“Charlotte, switch over to the podcast now. Put it on the computer so we can all see it,” Anders urged.

The audition was apparently over but, from the smile on Carson’s face as he spoke with Leah Dalton, it went well. Perhaps the label execs really liked what they heard.

Leah: “…how did you find your way to Trent Foster to get this audition from his label?”

Carson: “She’s special because of what she’s had to go through in life. She’s transgender. Hard to believe but she used to be a boy!”

I let out a shriek and placed my head in my hands.

“I swear I didn’t know you wanted to keep it a secret! I’d never do anything to hurt you! Please believe me!”

I emphatically pressed the button to turn off my phone after reading Carson’s text reply to my screed about his blithely outing me to the teeming millions online. I wanted to toss the phone out of Charlotte’s car but decided not to at the last second. Charlotte was driving me home after our editing session at Columbia. Anders was sitting next to me in the back seat, his hand brushing my shoulder to attempt to calm me down.

“The guy’s a douche, Cherry. Forget him,” Anders advised.

“I really liked him. What a jerk!”

“He is really cute, though. You could try to forgive him?” Charlotte ventured.

“No, no, a thousand times no! He was just using me to get to Trent. To get an audition with his label. And he had no respect for my privacy. I don’t need the whole world to know I’m trans…”

“Sooner or later, people would have put 2 and 2 together, Cherry,” Anders pointed out.

“On my own terms. In my own time!”

“This is New York, Cherry, I don’t think it’s a biggie. People here will be cool about it,” Charlotte assured.

“That’s not the point.”

I texted Mom to tell her I was minutes away.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, sweetie. After all, who watches those podcasts anyway—”

“Mom! Leah Dalton has over a million subs!” I shook my head at Mom, speechless at her obliviousness.

“Whatever. I’ll bet you no one will even bring it up tomorrow when we move into the Richard Rodgers to start dress rehearsals. Honey, brew us some Chamomile tea. It’ll help us get some good sleep for the big day ahead.”

Like a dutiful daughter, I trudged into the kitchenette and filled a kettle with water.

Within the first five minutes after we set foot in the Richard Rodgers Theatre on Monday morning, Mom and I were summoned to a small office backstage. Seated at a cluttered desk was Danny Dantley, an uneasy smile on his face. Also in the windowless, cramped room were a pair of middle-aged gentlemen I recognized from Chris Chang’s cocktail party as the Balsam brothers, the play’s producers. They had nervous looks on their faces. It was Danny who spoke up first.

“Sit down, ladies. I wish you had told me, Lulu.”

“It’s really nobody’s business. Cherry’s my daughter. That’s all people need to know,” Mom declared.

“Unfortunately, it’s a hot button issue these days, Lulu,” Bob Balsam interjected.

“We’ve got to figure out how to deal with the media on this,” Frank Balsam added.

“Yeah, we’ve already gotten a dozen interview requests from all the usual media suspects and it’s not even noon.” Danny drummed his fingers on the desktop.

“I don’t want to speak to anyone. It’s my personal business. Why does it matter?” I protested.

“We can turn this into a positive p.r. story. Broadway star is proud of her transgender child. We’ll get tons of free publicity,” Frank suggested. “You know pre-sales have been really slow. We should set up interviews with Lulu and Cherry here in the theater. The stage backdrop would be perfect.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Danny agreed.

Mom hesitated. She looked at me for confirmation. I shook my head slowly but she turned to the three men facing us.

“Well, it might help get the word out on the play. And if we don’t consent to media access, they’ll just make shit up and publish regardless. What do you think, Cherry? We’ll face them together—”

I panicked. Visions of me being dissected ruthlessly by pushy, hate-mongering media voices and politicians raced through my mind at light speed. I had never wanted to accompany Mom to New York in the first place. The only thing that made me come was the prospect of meeting my biological father, once and for all. Well, that plan didn’t pan out. And now I’m about to be subjected to the wrath of transgender hate. Something I was shielded from back in boarding school, where everyone seemed to either be supportive or oblivious. I dreaded the probability of my face being plastered all over mass media, the object of prurient curiosity or abject disdain.

I ran.

I ran out through the stage and almost face-planted when I tripped on a lighting tech’s size 14 right shoe. I ran through the lobby and out onto West 46th Street where I collided with David Wetherell, whistling his way to work.

“Cherry! Where’s the fire?”

“David! Thank god I bumped into you!”

“Literally, I see.”

“I need to go back home. Can you take me back on your bike?”

“Well, of course. Is there some sort of emergency?”

“Not really…but I have to pick up Alice.”

“Okay. Let me call Danny and tell him I’m chauffeuring you—”

“No, please don’t.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him back in the direction he had come from. “We have to hurry. Is your bike parked nearby?”

“It’s parked on 48th.”

A warm breeze wafted into my face whenever I peeked above David’s shoulders as we moved across Manhattan toward the East Side on his motorcycle. I could still smell Mom’s Oribe shampoo in the helmet David gave me to wear. It made me hug David tighter.

“What’s this all about, Cherry?”

“Carson doxed me on Leah Dalton’s podcast and the media are descending upon me and Mom like vultures circling over carrion—”

“Doxed? How? Why?”

“I’m transgender, David. My dead name is Gerald Fintan Brooks. I started transitioning over a year ago.”

I waited for David’s reaction but he remained silent.

“Are you disgusted by me? Is that why you’re silent?”

We waited at a red light near the lower end of Central Park, on its eastern border.

“Of course not, sweetheart. You’re a girl to me. Absolutely. And as pretty a ginger as I’ve ever met. Look at you! You’re blushing through your freckles.” We both laughed as the light turned green.

“Thank you, David. I only wish everybody felt the way you do about trans girls like me. That’s why I don’t want to be interviewed or interrogated by the media. I want to be left alone. But it’s impossible with Mom about to open in a Broadway show. The Balsam brothers think I’m a public relations asset. They want to exploit me to get free publicity for the play.”

“And what does your mother think about that?”

“You know her as well as I do. Her career comes before her own flesh and blood. Does your career?”

“Does my career what?”

“Come before your own flesh and blood.” I leaned closer to David’s earhole on his helmet and squeezed his midriff through his jacket. “David, let me ask you flat out.”

“What?”

“Are you my biological father?”

David laughed, almost snorting at the ludicrous thought. “What gives you that idea?”

“You and Mom were hot and heavy during the filming of ‘Thick As Thieves’ and got together again during the worldwide premieres. Nine months later I popped out. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Now, Cherry, I sincerely wish I was your father. I couldn’t be prouder of having a daughter like you. But, it’s simply impossible—”

“How’s that?”

“It was one of the reasons why your mum and I broke up, rather explosively as you probably know. She wanted to have another child, especially after losing custody of your half-brother Max. But I’d gotten a vasectomy. At the time, I was the worst possible candidate for parenthood. Probably still am.”

“You’re not my father?” I mumbled, distraught at the utter collapse of my precious hypothesis.

“Afraid not, sweetheart. I did truly love your mother…if that’s any consolation to you.”

“Can’t vasectomies be reversed?”

“Percentages for success are not high. Anyway, your mother was the only woman who ever wanted me to sire her children.”

We rode in silence until David parked his bike in front of the Carlyle. As I hopped off, he gently grabbed my arm.

“What now, Cherry? You really want to go back to California?”

“My return flight is valid for a year, you know. I’ll go back to the dorm at boarding school. There are always a few students who stay there year-round. And Mom’s already paid up through graduation.”

“Speaking of your mum, you should at least call to tell her you’re leaving. I’m sure she’s terribly worried about your abrupt disappearance.”

“I’ll text her. Maybe from the airport. Promise me you won’t tell her when you get back to the theater. If you do, they’ll send out the National Guard after me.”

I burst out in tears as David rode off. I tried to wipe the wetness from my cheeks as I approached the revolving doors of the hotel entrance. The doorman’s smile turned to a concerned frown when he saw my red eyes.

“Miss Brooks, everything alright?”

“No, everything’s not alright.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“I’ll be alright in a few hours when I’m back where I belong in sunny Southern California.”

As I sat on the divan of our hotel suite, my solitary piece of luggage and Alice’s kennel at my feet, I scrolled through my phone to review the seeming torrent of texts and voice calls I’d received and ignored in the last hour and a half. Mom had called or texted a dozen times. Carson had called and left a message twice. Maris Lafferty had called. Danny Dantley texted twice. Maia Everly left a voicemail. Philippa texted me. Even Trent Foster had sent me a text. The only one I decided to answer was the text from Anders. I told him I was going home and that I really enjoyed the brief time we spent together in New York. I apologized for parachuting out of the film class but was confident that Danny would allow him and Charlotte to finish the project.

The text prompted thoughts of Tony Webster, our film class instructor. I should explain the reasons behind dropping out of the course. I owed him that. And then it occurred to me that if David Wetherell wasn’t my father, the next best suspect was Tony Webster. After all, by his own admission, he’d been there to pick up the pieces after Mom’s break-up with David. And he was still dating Mom into October of 2000.

Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, I hefted Alice’s kennel and rolled my spinner to the elevator. Emerging from the lobby, my friendly doorman hailed a cab for me. There are always a fleet of taxis circling the block, hoping to catch a fare, most times to one of the airports.

I had hoped to find Tony sitting behind the desk of his office in Dodge Hall but I was told by the receptionist that he didn’t have a class on Mondays. He was probably at home. When I convinced her that I was a student in his class, she reluctantly gave me Tony’s home address. Fortunately, his apartment was nearby on Amsterdam Avenue. I must have been quite a ditzy sight. A red-headed, freckled trans girl walking with her head tilted to the sky, searching for Tony’s building, while carrying a dog kennel in one hand and pulling a suitcase on rollers behind me with the other.

To my relief, I was buzzed into the building and took the elevator up to Tony’s floor. When he opened the door, he let out a guffaw at the image I presented.

“Come in. Come in. You look like you’re about to go on a trip. Are you going to miss a couple of classes?”

“I’m going to be missing all the rest of the classes. I’m going back home. To California.”

“May I ask why? Was it something I did?” He smiled at his own innocent witticism.

“I should just tell you straight out. I’m transgender and the media has found out because someone I thought I could trust blabbed to a podcaster. I just want to be left alone instead of having a spotlight shone on me by curious, possibly hateful people. You can understand, can’t you?”

“I’m…I’m stunned. I would never have guessed. You look so much like a teenage girl—”

“I am a teenage girl. I was just assigned the wrong gender because society doesn’t understand the reality of dysphoria. I started transitioning over a year ago.”

“I thought Lulu had a boy. I thought you were a boy. I didn’t know. How could I? We haven’t spoken in 18 years.”

“You must be doubly upset at my mother,” I cautiously said.

“Why do you say that? I…I was very much in love with her. Of course, she obviously didn’t feel the same about me—”

“Well, she unceremoniously dumped you and then didn’t even inform you that she was pregnant.”

“Why would she tell me she was having a baby?”

“Who do you think the baby’s father…my father…was?”

“The heck I know. I always assumed it was David Wetherell.”

“It wasn’t David. I just had that confirmed. It was the other man she was dating at the time.”

“I don’t know who else she was dating at the time. Like I told you, we never saw each other again after October 2000.”

I turned in my seat on the sofa and scanned the framed photos on display on various surfaces around the room. A pleasant looking brunette woman squinted at the camera in one photo. His wife obviously. A series of photos showed the progressive growth of his redheaded, freckled daughter, from a pig-tailed toddler to a studious looking tween with outsized glasses, sitting on a piano bench.

I interrupted my own sightseeing interlude by sitting up straight and declaring in a loud voice which made Alice bark in sympathy, “You were never curious enough to ask about your own son?”

“What son? You mean you? Cherry, I’m not your father,” Tony stated very clearly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to ask you for money or anything. I just want to know who my biological father is. And it looks like you’re the one.”

“It’s impossible for me to be your father, Cherry.”

“Don’t tell me you had your vasectomy reversed when you got married to the mother of your youngest daughter—”

“Maybe it’s my fault. My vanity. Did I lead you to believe that your mother and I ever had a…physical relationship? We never did. We were good friends. I was sort of a convenient shoulder to cry on. I fell in love with your mother. Who wouldn’t? Her beauty jumps off the screen and is just as stunning in real life. Even now at her age. Sorry, that was clumsy of me. What I mean is that she’s eternally beautiful—”

“You’re telling me that you never…”

“Never.”

“Forgive me, Tony. I jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry if I’ve insulted you.”

“Insulted? Far from it. I wish you were my child. I’m happily married with a wonderful daughter of my own but I can’t deny your mother was the love of my life. Are you sure you want to drop out of my class? Your teammates will be at a real disadvantage without their third wheel.”

“I’ll make sure Danny Dantley will let them finish the project. I mean, I’m leaving the scene but the play’s still opening in September. And Anders and Charlotte don’t need me. I was the weak link, after all. A high school student taking a college level course. Wow, what an overreach.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Cherry. You strike me as pretty advanced for your age. Are you sure that leaving is the right option to take? You could do a lot of good for trans kids if you took the media on full frontal. Look, I’m so far afield from my own knowledge of things but I would think the world needs good role models for transgender children. You’d make a good one…”

“Me? I’m not special in any way. To be honest, I’ve been privileged. Unlike most trans kids who don’t have a famous parent with oodles of money and access to the best doctors, therapists, and schools. How could I be a role model?”

“Think about it, Cherry. Before you run away. Isn’t there someone you could talk to? Maybe help you form a better gameplan than just going back into hiding? Even if the hiding place is nicely upholstered and sound-proofed?”

Tony’s words swam in my thoughts as I sat on the steps in front of Low Library, searching through the contact list on my phone for the number of the one person in New York City who might offer me some much-needed advice. Joanne Prentiss, Alastair’s good friend, whom I had met on the 4th of July when she came with us to grand-mère’s barbecue in Westport. She was a transwoman. She might understand my dilemma.

Although she had quickly agreed to meet with me in her office at work, when I stepped through the doorway, her face displayed a hint of apprehension, as if to say this wasn’t going to be a simple, friendly chat.

“Cherry, have a seat.” She pointed to the sofa. A pacific blue plush velvet sofa pushed up against a wall perpendicular to windows that looked out on Sixth Avenue. It was an office one would expect the Marketing and Branding Vice President of a television network to occupy, angular, modern, and professionally uncluttered. She sat down on the other end from me.

“How can I help?” she asked. “I’ve read about your situation this morning. Unfortunately, it’s all over the internet news sites and social media.”

“The producers, Danny the director, and my own mother want me to do interviews and talk to the media. I just want to be left alone. I’m seriously thinking about flying back to California and locking myself in my dorm room at boarding school.”

“I gathered that’s why you brought a suitcase and your dog with you. Thinking of making a hasty retreat?”

“You’re a transwoman. Did you want all this media attention when you transitioned?”

“Oh no, mercy! I did my best to walk in the shadows, so to speak. I wasn’t ashamed of who I was but, all the same, life was a lot easier if I didn’t call undue attention to myself. Of course, we’re talking about twenty-five years ago. I was almost thirty when I transitioned. There were few role models for people like me…like us…back then.”

“I can imagine.”

“Alastair tells me your mother’s been very supportive of your transitioning.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Have you told your mother your plans? Does she even know where you are right now?”

“I’ll text her when I’m at the airport. Look, what do you advise me to do?”

“I can’t advise you to do anything. That’s completely up to you. However, I will tell you this. You’re in a unique and enviable position. Unlike so many trans children who have to live in the shadows for fear of social ostracization or even their physical safety, you’re the child of a famous person who, like it or not, serves as a role model for millions—”

“Some role model, my mother—”

“Be that as it may, Cherry, she’s an influencer, in her own way. And, you…you could be an influencer, a role model…someone who could show the society-at-large that transgender people are human beings, not unnatural monsters, who want to live their reality just like everyone else…in peace and hope. Think about that. I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to run away and hide but, sooner than later, you’ll have to confront society and vice versa. No?”

“I need time to think.”

“Go home. Your mom’s probably terrified you’ve done something rash. Talk it through with her or just sort it out yourself. But don’t run away and hide.” She got up from the sofa and reached for her handbag. “I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t think I can think clearly with my mother there. I need space. Can you take me to my grand-mère’s house?”

“That’s in Westport. That’s an hour drive from here.”

“How stupid of me to ask you. I’ll just take the train. Sorry to disturb you. I’m going now. Thanks, Joanne. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Wait, Cherry. I’ll drive you. I promised Alastair I’d keep an eye on you while you’re in the city. And I’d never break a promise to Alastair.”

“Alastair should have married you instead of my Mom.”

The hour-long drive to Westport was strangely tense and mostly silent. I suppose Joanne had had her say about my situation and didn’t need to expand on it. For my part, I tried to ask her about her relationship with Alastair but ended up telling her anecdotes from my childhood that involved Alastair. She got a good laugh out of how Alastair sneaked Alice past my Mom one Christmas and a 30-piece kids’ baking set for my ninth birthday.

I had phoned ahead to grand-mère and she was standing outside her house, a look of loving concern on her face as she held out her arms to greet me. I ran to her and hugged her for dear life as I sobbed uncontrollably into her shoulder. She waved to Joanne as she drove away.

“Now what has the world done to ma petite oignon?”

“I’m sending a car for you in the morning, sweetie. Come home. I’ll try to keep the media away. It’s going to be difficult but Danny says he won’t let any of them set foot in the theater—”

“Oh, grand-mère wants to say something.”

I handed the phone to my grandmother. Instead of speaking into it, she pressed the side button to disconnect the call.

“That useless woman! I can never see what Alastair saw in her. Sorry, Cherry, but it’s the way I feel. Now, help me make dinner. Sylvère will be home from his meeting in the city soon. We can talk while we cook.”

After dinner, grand-mère and Sylvère listened as I explained what was going on. I was caught between going underground again and hiding in boarding school or letting an avalanche of media attention make my life a waking nightmare. They both concurred that I needed to decide this for myself…since it was literally my life, not anyone else’s, including my mother.

“You can stay with us as long as you want, chérie,” grand-mère offered. “Stay all summer. Sylvère can drive you to class Tuesdays and Thursdays. Or you can take the train into the city. The station is only a few blocks away.”

“Thank you, both of you.”

“Now, take that delightful pooch of yours for its evening constitutional or I’m going to have some clean-up work to do later tonight,” Sylvère said, smiling.

I lay awake in bed that night, Alice emitting cute little doggie snores from beyond where my toes stretched. I felt like the only trans girl in the world, with millions of invasive eyes trained on me, waiting for me to explain myself, to justify my very existence. The Balsam brothers will blame me for the failure of the play, months before it even opens. Danny Dantley will blame me for putting a big stain on his resume. Maia Everly won’t get to see her play produced on Broadway. Trent Foster will…oh, who cares about him! And, finally, Mom won’t have a second chance at reuniting with her one true love, David Wetherell. All because I was never a boy in reality.

Maybe the best thing would be if I went back to the anonymity of Mirage Canyon high school, deep in the San Fernando Valley, away from the bright lights of Broadway and the prying, disapproving looks of the teeming millions. With that thought I closed my eyes and slowly dozed off.

Having resolved my dilemma, I woke up early the next morning and took Alice for a walk in grand-mère’s neighborhood of stately, upper middle-class homes. Sensing my own bonhomie, Alice traipsed about the quiet streets, happily seeking out a nice spot to unburden herself. I was wearing my Taylor Swift t-shirt and jean shorts, staying cool in the late July heat, sweltering even this early in the day. Coincidentally, I started thinking about how stupid I was to believe Carson liked me because of me, rather than trying to get an in with Trent Foster. He used me. I allowed him to use me. Anger boiled up in me. Alice looked up at me as she busily sniffed at a fire hydrant, preparing to do her duty.

“Do you think Anders will forgive me for leaving him and Charlotte in the lurch?” I asked Alice. “I’ll text him a mea culpa when I’m back at Mirage Canyon.” I twisted the ties on the poop bag and walked over to drop it into the trash bin on the corner. That’s when I saw the people coming out of the broadcast van across the street. One was aiming a camera at me, the other, a young blonde woman, was rushing toward me with a microphone in her right hand. I picked up Alice and ran back toward grand-mère’s house.

“You’re out of breath, Cherry. What’s happening?” asked Sylvère, sitting at the breakfast table.

“It’s some TV reporter! There’s a van parked across the street…” I managed to explain between gulps of air.

The front doorbell rang.

“Those nasty people! I’ll shoo them away.” Grand-mėre strode to the door, opened it and didn’t give them a chance to even utter a greeting.

“I’ve called the community patrol. They’ll be here in minutes. If you’re not gone by then, they’ll politely escort you off my property and out of the neighborhood. Please don’t come back!” She slammed the door in their faces.

The whirring sound of a police siren grew louder, signaling the imminent arrival of the community’s private security force.

“Grand- mėre, how did you get the police here so quickly?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I saw you running up the street through the kitchen window and the van was right on your heels. I had Sylvėre call immediately. They’d have to get up earlier than this to sneak themselves past me.”

The rest of the morning was spent fending off phone calls, texts, even e-mails from everyone under the sun. A number of media outlets tried to get in touch with me through grand-mėre’s phone. She turned them all down in her usual acerbic, Gallic manner. Unless they spoke French, I guessed they had no idea how she ended the phone calls. One phone call did get through though. Bob Balsam convinced her that she should let him speak to me. So I took the call.

“…won’t leave us alone until they get access to you. They’re like vultures, these so-called journalists. If we accept a few requests from friendly media, we can make the best of this…this controversy. Maybe an exclusive with Ashlee Woolcott from Entertainment World Now. She’s LGBTQ+ friendly…I think.”

“This could sink the whole production and we haven’t even gone into previews yet. You’re putting us all in a precarious position. Millions are at stake. And your mother’s career would be adversely affected—”

Bob got so loud that grand-mėre overheard him and swiped the phone from my hand.

“Listen, Mr. Balsam, my grand-daughter is not at fault for existing, much to society’s dismay. She owes you nothing. Certainly not her ability to be left alone and live her life as she wishes. As for her mother, if she was any kind of mother…”

She pressed the side button and disconnected the call. She turned to me.

“Don’t let these people bully you, chérie. I wish Alastair wasn’t in Europe right now. He has some connections in the entertainment media.”

“It’s alright. I’ve decided to go back to school in California. My return ticket is still good.”

I spent the afternoon negotiating a seat on a return flight to LAX. There was a hefty fee though, which I paid with Mom’s Amex card. So I was all set to board a red-eye flight late Wednesday night. Uncustomarily, I decided to wash all my dirty clothing and was in the garage where grand-mėre kept her washing machine and dryer when the front doorbell rang.

“Cherry! You have friends come to visit,” Sylvėre announced. I dropped the laundry basket on the concrete floor of the garage and ran back into the house.

Standing in the foyer, chatting with grand-mėre were Anders and, surprisingly, Trent Foster.

“Anders! Nice to see you! And Trent! What a surprise. Don’t waste your time, guys. I’m not coming back—”

“They’re not here to abduct you, chérie. They have an intriguing idea,” grand-mėre explained.

“Let’s all sit down and discuss it. Okay?” Trent shot me a conciliatory look. Anders smiled broadly.

Once we were seated in the living room, Trent looked around and nodded to himself.

“This will be fine. If we start in an hour or so, the late afternoon sun will give it a nice glow.” He turned back to me and grand-mėre. “So…the problem is that any access that you give to the media will be entirely on their terms. Even if they got friggin’ Oprah Winfrey to interview you, the audience would only get a jaundiced presentation of who you are. They’re more interested in the salacious aspects of your story—”

“Salacious? What’s salacious about me? I’m a teenage girl!”

“Well, your mother’s kind of notorious—”

“Watch it! You’re the one who seduced my mom! You’re the salacious one!”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Let’s drop that topic. I’m here to help you. Okay?”

“Help me how? I’m on a plane back to California tomorrow night. Later for this garbage.”

“I thought you really wanted to finish our film course and the short film we were working on. Charlotte’s really bummed about it, you know.” Anders kept his eyes on me as I struggled to reply.

“Well, yes, I did. But…but they won’t leave me alone. You understand, don’t you?”

“I think we found a way to do just that. Leave you alone. Leave the play alone so we can continue to prepare to open in September. The play means a lot to all of us, not just the Netherlander Organization. We…I care about you too. We don’t want you to be hurt in all of this either,” Trent emphasized.

“Anything that could keep Cherry here with us instead of hiding in a dorm room in Chatsworth would be welcome to Sylvėre and I. We absolutely adore her,” grand-mėre said, brushing my hair with her right hand.

“Here’s the plan,” Trent began. “I have 10 million followers on Tik Tok—”

“10 million?!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, it’s not that much compared to Taylor Swift,” Trent remarked as he pointed to my t-shirt. “But it’ll do. I want to livestream with you…and your grandmother, if she’ll agree. I’m going to introduce you to the world, have you tell your story, and why you’re being unfairly hounded by the mainstream and social media. When they see that you’re just like any other pretty, wholesome teenage girl, they’ll be supportive. And get the media hounds off your back. It’s a good plan, Cherry.”

“Wow. That’s really considerate and nice of you, Trent. I would’ve never expected you to be so…so thoughtful.”

“Well, it was really Anders’ idea. He came by the theater and pitched me the concept this morning. I thought it had a good chance to work. So he grabbed a camera and a lighting kit and we jumped into my car…and here we are.”

“Anders! Thank you! Thank you!” I leaped off the sofa and kissed Anders on both cheeks.

“Don’t I get a kiss too?” Trent leaned his face in and closed his eyes.

“No, it was Anders’ idea. You get a handshake.” We shook hands.

“We have about an hour until the light turns golden through the windows so let’s work on your extemporaneous remarks.”

Hey, everyone. I’m coming to you live today from a suburban home in Westport, Connecticut to introduce you to a remarkable young lady named Cherry Brooks. Cherry is the daughter of a famous actor, Lulu Brooks, currently rehearsing a Broadway play, Blues for a Diva, which not so coincidentally I’m co-starring in. But, here’s the problem. A lot of media, both mainstream and social, have decided to make an issue of the fact that Cherry is transgender. That’s right. She is a 17-year-old girl to anyone who knows and meets her. Some people seem to have a problem with that and it’s making it impossible for Cherry to lead her life as she wishes, quietly and undisturbed by invasive curiosity and, in some cases, outright hatred. I won’t stand for this and I’m sure most of you out there agree with me. Cherry wants you to understand that being transgender doesn’t make her unnatural or a monster. She is and always was a girl. Inside. Now she is transitioning to her true identity.

The camera tilts down to follow Alice as she passes in front of Trent’s feet and approaches Cherry, sitting on the sofa with her grandmother. Cherry picks up Alice and looks into the camera.

My name is Cherry. I’m transgender. I’ve known I was really a girl since I was 4 or 5 years old. Even though I was born a boy, I knew my body did not reflect my true gender. This is called dysphoria. The feeling of being in the wrong outward physical shell only intensified as I grew up and the advent of puberty made my dysphoria reach critical mass. Fortunately, my mother and my step-father, Alastair Knowles, cared enough and loved me enough to have me seek counseling and medical assistance to confirm my dysphoria and I started transitioning shortly before my 16th birthday. I am blessed to have family like my grandmother and her husband Sylvėre as well as so many friends and schoolmates who have readily accepted me for what I am…simply a 17-year-old girl from California, here in New York for the summer. I just want to be treated the same way as any other teenage girl, no better and no worse.

After Cherry’s remarks, the camera shifts to her grandmother.

…she is so precious to me. My only grandchild. Was I surprised when Cherry began to transition? No, it was clear to me and everyone that, from the earliest age, this is a girl. It has been a circuitous route to claiming her true gender but, here she is, a wonderful young girl, talented, thoughtful of others, and, as you can see, beautiful. I cannot imagine why anyone would deny her the right to live her true identity and become an example of womanhood for all to admire. I cannot imagine that.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked as Anders packed up the lighting kit and camera.

“Watch the comments roll in,” Trent answered, an open laptop on the coffee table in front of us.

“Oh my, we’ve already gotten 1,100 comments,” Sylvėre exclaimed.

“And 20,000 likes,” grand-mėre proudly announced.

“Thank you, Anders,” I gushed.

“What about me?” Trent asked.

“Thank you too, Trent.” Trent smiled and placed his hand over his heart. “But I still don’t want you being involved with Mom.”

Trent frowned.

It was so predictable. Anders and I had planned to spend Thanksgiving in Los Angeles (Calabasas, actually) but Mom, at the very last minute, decided to go to Turks & Caicos with her latest boyfriend, some billionaire techbro who likes “mature” women. When I practically screamed my dismay into the phone, she mentioned spending Christmas with us in New York instead. I reminded her that Anders and I had promised grand-mėre we would be in Westport along with Alastair and Joanne. Mom ended the call right then by saying they were ready to board the plane. A gruff voice could be heard in the background telling her to hang up.

It would have been the first Thanksgiving I had spent with my mother since my senior year at Columbia. With Anders going through Columbia Law and living all this time in the city, it would have also been our first substantial time spent together since our wedding day two years ago. But, since the plane tickets had already been purchased, Anders and I took the journey back home anyway. We even stopped to visit the old Mirage Canyon High School campus as we drove the Ventura Freeway down from Calabasas to Silverlake. Alastair and Joanne, when they learned about Mom cancelling on us, invited us to Thanksgiving dinner in their home. They insisted we stay in their guest house as long as we were in Los Angeles. We enthusiastically accepted their splendid offer.

When we arrived at their doorstep on Thanksgiving Day, two bottles of Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc in the crook of Anders’ arm, and discovered that three other guests were already inside. It was Philippa Chang! I hadn’t seen her since that fateful summer when Mom was rehearsing that Broadway play. Of course, I knew she had fully transitioned since then, as I had, and married Annie Flaherty’s cousin, her old Stanford roommate Paul Flaherty. I watched the Oscars the year they both won. Paul for directing and Philippa for original screenplay.

The real surprise, and a pleasant one at that, was Philippa introducing us to her 4-year-old daughter, Clarissa. She and Paul had privately adopted her as a newborn. What a little cutie. A bundle of joyous energy. She even sang for us. A chorus of “Jingle Bells.” When Philippa teased her that Christmas was still a month away, she just laughed and started another chorus of it.

Over turkey, which was expertly cooked, moist and tasty, Philippa and I caught up with each other. I learned how Joanne and Alastair had become so friendly with her and Paul. Even after Paul decided to form his own production company and end his deal with GlobalNet, much to Alastair’s chagrin. It was only last year when Joanne’s fictional biopic, written by Philippa and directed by Paul, got streamed on GlobalNet, bringing Joanne’s life story to a mass audience. I was so happy that Alastair had finally popped the question and Joanne had accepted. They are the kind of couple I hope Anders and I will be when we’re in our 60s.

“So, what happened after Trent’s livestream told your story to the world?” Philippa asked.

“Happily, the media stopped stirring up a controversy over my being Lulu’s transgender child. And I decided for both our sakes that I’d move in with grand-mėre for the rest of the summer, staying away from the media spotlight as much as possible. The Balsam brothers were disappointed and rather preferred I stay in the news cycle. Any publicity is good publicity, you know. Oh, and I finished the film course—”

“Looks like you two got to…ahem…know each other better as well,” Paul interjected.

“We found we worked together very well,” Anders declared as I blushed. Joanne brushed my shoulder and smiled.

“Did you ever confirm the identity of your biological father? As I recall, that was your main reason for coming to New York with your mom in the first place,” Philippa pointed out.

“When I told Mom that I was going to stay with grand-mėre for the remainder of the summer, I sat her down and had a real heart-to-heart about it. I wanted her to finally come clean about the whole mystery. It took a couple of glasses of pinot noir but…”

I was waiting for Mom in our suite at The Carlyle the night after Trent’s livestream. I had taken the train in from Westport to tell her I was moving out. I had every intention of going back to Mirage Canyon when my senior year started at the end of August. Until then, I’d come into the city twice a week to attend my film class and wrap up the project Anders, Charlotte and I were working on. With the play going into previews soon, there wasn’t much left to shoot. Of course, there was a question for Mom I needed an answer to.

A little after 9PM, she came in. She had just taped her segment of that night’s Stephen Colbert’s Late Show, to be aired at 11:30PM. She gasped when she saw me sitting on the sofa, Alice in my lap. Dropping her handbag onto the floor, she ran to me and crushed me in a bearhug.

“Cherry! I thought I’d lost you forever!”

“Oh, Mom, don’t be so over-dramatic.”

“Sweetie, I’m an actor! What do you expect?”

“Mom, I’m not staying. I think it’s better for both of us if I stay with grand-mėre until I leave for school,” I stated. “I really enjoyed spending time with you and seeing you in your work environment was very enlightening but we’re kind of in each other’s way. No, Mom, I won’t change my mind about Trent, even after the nice thing he did for me.”

“You’re ashamed? Embarrassed? Disturbed?”

“I really don’t think it’s a healthy relationship. He’s less than half your age! I tried to get you and David back together but…”

“Cherry, it wouldn’t work, David and I. The hurt’s too deep to just ignore it. But, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a conventional moralist. I didn’t raise you to—”

“You didn’t raise me, Mom! You birthed me, that’s about all. Thank god for Alastair. At least for a few years I had a real parental figure in my life.”

“Cherry, how can you say that? What haven’t I done for you that you’ve missed out on? You had all the toys any kid could possibly want. I even got you that damn dog!”

“Alastair gave Alice to me,” I exclaimed.

“I sent you to the best schools. Got you the most expensive piano lessons from the most highly-rated tutor in the Valley. I took you to the best qualified therapists and doctors for your…condition.”

“After Alastair harangued you incessantly for weeks after I told you about it,” I sneered.

“Sometimes I think Alastair talked you into believing you were trans. He’s got some kind of fetish I think—”

“Mom! You’re talking crazy now!” I stood up to leave.

“Don’t go, Cherry. Don’t go yet. It’s late. Stay overnight. We’ll be more civil to each other in the morning.”

“There is one thing I want to finally have you clear up, Mom. Tell me and I’ll won’t leave until tomorrow morning. Who’s my biological father?”

“Alright. I suppose I had to tell you sometime. Now’s as good a time as any. But, first, I want a glass of wine. It’ll calm me down before I get into the whole story.” She walked into the kitchenette and I heard her open the refrigerator, take out a bottle of chardonnay, and pour herself a glassful. She returned to the living room at a solemn pace and sat down on the sofa, patting the spot next to her.

“Sit down, honey.”

“It’s not David. He told me he had a vasectomy done. And it’s not Tony Webster—”

“Tony Webster? What made you think I was ever involved with him? He was just a friend—”

“So who was it, Mom?”

She took two sips of her wine and then commenced.

“After the whole thing with David blew up and the tabloids had their day with our public conflagration in that hotel lobby in London, I fell into a months long depression. I didn’t even return calls from my agent. The last thing I wanted to do was go over scripts or even think about my next job. I was famous, unimaginably wealthy for a girl who grew up helping my parents water saplings in their tree nursery in Providence, and utterly alone, feeling unloved, unwanted.”

“Mom, talk about being over-dramatic.”

“That’s how I felt. I was in a really dark place. My manager thought I should check into a sanitorium. Secretly, of course. Don’t want people in the industry to think I was bonkers or suicidal. I went back home to Providence and stayed in my parents’ basement for a couple of months, occasionally visiting the nursery. That’s when the idea came to me.”

“To quit show business and become a tree surgeon?”

“Cherry! Do you want me to tell you or not? It’s not a laughing matter. Any of this.”

“Sorry, this sounds like a bad indie movie…”

“I’m a woman. A woman who has a strong maternal drive. Don’t, Cherry, don’t! I was devastated when Max was taken away from me by that stupid judge. There are lots of single, working mothers. Why single me out as unsuitable? Some people would think it was a boon for a child to be exposed to different countries, different cultures at an early age. I had the resources to hire the best governesses. I made more money than my ex-husband, for chrissake.”

I let the conversation descend into silence as I allowed Mom a moment to recover. I felt guilty about wanting to laugh at her delusions about her maternal drive. Where was that maternal drive when she sent me away to boarding school or refused to acknowledge my dysphoria? Still, I could see that losing custody of her first-born, Max, was truly gut-wrenching. I suppose anyone would prefer Max, the smarter, better-looking, less needy child, over me. I hugged Alice to my budding breasts and gave Mom some space.

Another sip of wine and she resumed.

“I had to come back to L.A. to get ready for the premieres starting in September. Looking at those tree saplings for weeks on end made me want to have another baby, come hell or high water. I did some research and landed on this highly-rated fertility clinic in Newport Beach. I wrote a check for some outrageous amount and, lucky me, it took only one cycle of IVF to knock me up—”

“Did you know who the donor was?”

“There’s layers of confidentiality in the whole process, honey. I don’t know their identity. Just the clinic’s assurances that the donor was a healthy, suitable individual.”

“And obviously redheaded and freckled.”

“It’s part of your unique beauty, Cherry. I couldn’t be prouder of my ginger daughter.”

“But you wanted a son, didn’t you?”

“No, I wanted a healthy baby. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter.”

“Well, you got both, didn’t you?”

“I love you. Cherry. Please know that. I’m an imperfect human being. Maybe not the best mother in the world either. But I’ve always loved you.”

Real tears rolled down Mom’s cheeks. I crossed the distance between us on the sofa, reached for her hands, pulled her toward me, and finally embraced her, my own eyes as wet as hers.

“Anders and I kept in touch all through my senior year at Mirage Canyon. He even came to the campus during winter break and hid in my dorm room for two weeks. We played a lot of video games and ate pizza and lasagna from Ralph’s down the road,” I told Philippa as Anders nodded and smirked.

We had already started on the sweet potato pie Joanne had baked for the first time ever (it was delicious). Anders playfully patted my distended stomach. Joanne had prepared quite a Thanksgiving feast. I never knew a little 4-year-old girl could put away so much food! But Clarissa confirmed that fact.

After Philippa, Paul and Clarissa left to head home, Anders and Alastair repaired to the living room to watch football. Joanne and I took our cups of cider out to the backyard and sat at the table next to their covered swimming pool. Fall weather in Southern California. It’s a beautiful thing. 75 degrees and sunny.

“You seemed utterly charmed by Clarissa. You’d like a little girl like that for yourself,” Joanne said.

“You know I can’t, of course.”

“Philippa adopted. You can too. Does Anders want children?”

“Yes, we’ve talked about it. We’re not ready to start a family. Anders just graduated from Law School this summer and he’s not working at some white shoe Wall Street firm. I’m not making a mint doing editorial work for scientific journals either.”

“You don’t want to ask your mom, I know. Alastair and I are more than willing to help out. We think of you as our daughter and Anders as our son-in-law. And your grandmother would love to have a great grand-child.”

“And I think of you as my other set of parents. That’s lovely of you, Joanne, but we’ll be alright. Anders has a real future in his firm. It’s not a white shoe firm but they do wear sneakers in the office.”

There was a gaggle of extended family in grand-mėre’s Westport house on Christmas Day. I had remembered to wrap Sylvėre’s gift just that morning before Anders and I drove up from the Upper West Side. A bottle of his favorite. Courvoisier cognac. The old man’s eyes lit up when we handed it to him. Without unwrapping it, he instantly knew what it was.

“He’ll be asleep before the last course, dear me,” grand-mėre clucked at me. “I know it’s Joanne’s doing. That scamp.” She wagged her finger at Joanne, who was sitting on a love seat with Alastair.

We circulated the room before our Christmas meal would be served. It was Anders’ first time meeting the whole sick crew. They were duly impressed that he’d just graduated from Columbia Law School. At one point, Sylvėre shouted out, “Mark my words. That boy will be on the Supreme Court one day.”

Anders was cornered near the grand piano, being peppered with question after question by admiring female members of the clan, when I felt a light touch on my shoulder from behind. I turned to face Carson Gabriel. I hadn’t seen him in several years. As you all know, he’s a very successful pop star nowadays. He just completed his 2-year-long world tour. He’s been warbling and scratching his guitar in places as far flung as Indonesia and Bolivia.

“Hello, Carson. Long time no see.”

“May I apologize once again, for the hundredth time, for being a stupid blabbermouth?”

“It’s forgotten, Carson. We’ve all moved on, no worse for wear. What’s new with you?”

“I’m taking some time off. Two years of constant touring have been exhausting. Has Anders treated you well?”

“Yes, he’s my rock. And the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Good, good. I’m glad you’re doing well, Cherry. I’ve always said you’re a special, special girl.”

“Woman, Carson. Woman.”

“Cherry, why don’t you play something for everyone while they’re waiting for dinner?” grand-mėre asked.

I sat down at the piano and searched my memory for an appropriate tune to play. My fingers descended on the keyboard.

I had fitful dreams that night after Rafe escorted me back to Alastair’s apartment door. He had the Uber wait downstairs; his daughter Harlow wasn’t too pleased with the delay. Rafe made some remark about how the West Village had changed in the 30 years he had been away, living in Silver Spring, Maryland and running his father’s architectural firm after he died in the late ‘90s. I thanked him for the ride share (he wouldn’t let me pay my half of the fare) and we awkwardly stood outside the door before we gingerly embraced and bid farewell. After pushing the button for the elevator, he turned around.

“Since we exchanged numbers, do you mind if I call you sometime? We’re both going to be in the city through Christmas—”

“Of course, Rafe. Alastair will be back next week. We should all get together for drinks—”

“I’d like that. It’s been, what, 25 years since I’ve seen Al? When you came to the wedding with Alastair, I could tell he was smitten with you, even though you said he was just a work friend. You never had a shortage of people smitten with you, Joey—”

The elevator doors opened.

“It was nice to see you again, Joey. Good night.” I waved and the doors closed.

Thirty minutes later, I lay in Alastair’s bed, staring up at the Pure White ceiling, unable to fall asleep. I prefer to keep a night light on (Alastair likes absolute pitch darkness). The ceiling turned into a projection screen as images from my childhood flickered across it. Bumping into Rafe and his daughter and sharing that brief cab ride triggered a mixed bag of memories. I slowly drifted off and dreamt.

Rafe and I were best buddies from the time we first shared a sandbox until my father’s alcoholism started to endanger his position as Director of Structural Engineering at Rafe’s dad’s increasingly successful architectural firm. And there were problems at home too. Dad’s roving eye and numerous dalliances with women in the office (single and married) was breaking up his marriage. Too often Erica and I were helpless witnesses to late-night rows and shattered crockery.

Serendipitously, the problems my dad had at work and my parents were having at home didn’t seem to affect Rafe and me. We walked to school and back together, had most classes together, and did what most little boys did together: ride our bikes, collect baseball cards, played sports appropriate to each season, and talked derisively about girls, especially those with tempting pigtails.

There were rare times when Rafe would ask me to dress up in my mom’s clothes, as silly as they looked on me: blouses covering me like full length dresses, high heeled shoes making me waddle unsteadily, floral pattern scarves that enveloped me like a Bedouin, clip on earrings dangling to my shoulders, lipstick smeared in a wound shape… Normally, it was spurred on by Erica, who was my little shadow. Rafe claimed he never asked me to play dress up, only agreeing so as not to spoil Erica’s playtime with her older “sister.” But I could tell from the look in his eyes that he enjoyed my little modeling sessions, nevertheless.

Mom and dad caught us unawares once. We usually held our little shows in the garden shed out back of the house. Rafe would nervously keep an eye out for my parents but they never chanced on us…until the one day my father came to the shed to retrieve our lawn mower. Mom had finally gotten him off the couch, drinking beer and watching another ballgame on TV, to trim our lawn which was starting to resemble the African savannah.

When mom arrived to see what was holding up my father’s impersonation of a lawn care technician, her jaw dropped and her hands tugged at her hair. Dad ripped the blouse off me and tore the colorful scarf almost in half. He slapped me hard enough to knock me out of mom’s high heel shoes. I almost fell on top of Erica but Rafe caught me just in time.

“Is that what your queer son sneaks around the house doing? Don’t tell me you didn’t know about this!” Mom started crying but dad was more concerned with another possible complication. He turned to Rafe and said, in an even tone of voice, “Rafe, kid, don’t go telling your dad about this. He doesn’t need to hear about Joey’s perversion. Okay? Mum’s the word.”

Rafe gave him a confused look. “Mr. Prentiss, we’re just playing around. You can blame me. I…I asked Joey to show me how he and Erica played dress up. I won’t ask him again. I promise.”

“I’m not blaming you, Rafe. If anyone’s to blame, it’s his mom. Always coddling him and turning him into a girl. Wipe that shit off your mouth, Joey! I’m sick of looking at you. All of you!” He stomped out of the shed, grumbling and waving his hands.

“What about the lawn?” mom asked the floor through sniffling tears. “What about the lawn?”

Unwilling or simply unable to address the matter with us kids, mom acted as if nothing had happened. The only hint that the thing had occurred was when she mowed the lawn herself, talking to herself as she pushed the mower around in circles. My father, predictably, forgot about the incident in his usual alcoholic haze and was away from the house “working late” most nights anyway. Still, Rafe and I avoided visiting each other’s houses for a good week and a half just to let matters fade from front page status. Then, for a while, everything returned to normal.

It was late summer. A month before Rafe and I would start middle school. We were 13. Well, actually Rafe had just turned 13; I wouldn’t turn 13 until December. Puberty had arrived with smoke and thunder for him within the year but I was still left waiting at the station. Along with the physical and emotional changes that came with this new stage in life, Rafe became more interested in athletic activities (which I reluctantly participated in just to remain close to him) but also, devastatingly for me, in girls.

Rafe’s current obsession was skateboarding, this new to the East Coast craze that every kid was taking up. His new pastime was spurred on by his father’s gift to the village of Port Jefferson of a skatepark annex to the local playground. A skatepark my dad nominally engineered as well.

Rather quickly, Rafe became one of the best skaters in Port Jefferson for our age group in the few months since the skatepark was officially christened by Matthew Metheny, our village’s most famous resident, one of that year’s finalists for the prestigious Pritzker Prize, awarded annually to the most brilliant architects worldwide. I remember my father, at the ceremony, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind Ray Ban sunglasses, suppressing an urge to upchuck his breakfast all over his rumpled midnight blue pinstripe suit.

Rafe and I both entered the skateboarding competition in August, registering in the under 16 age group. For a lark, my father took a great interest in my entry in the competition and spent weekends coaching me at the skatepark, rain or shine. Sometimes he even forgot the flask of cheap vodka in his pants’ back pocket. Sometimes. Although the alcohol on his breath made listening to his skating tips a trial, I was thrilled to have his undivided attention, free of his usual sneering putdowns about my “queer” tendencies. The truth was that I learned more about proper technique from Rafe than I did from dad. Rafe would just nod whenever my father “corrected” where he placed his arms or the amount of bend in his knees.

The day of the big competition, my father was cheering me on from the benches on the far side of the park, sitting with Rafe’s dad, Mr. Metheny, his boss. For one of the few times in my life so far, I saw him beaming with pride as he gave me a thumb’s up. I hoped I could at least end up on the medal stand but would be happy if I didn’t finish in last place.

The under 16 group went first. Three rounds of 45-second timed runs, graded on “overall impression,” not specific tricks, would serve to determine the two skaters in the final round. I survived the first round, doing the most elementary moves without a notable mis-step. Of course, Rafe achieved the highest score. A lot of girls from our recently graduated sixth grade class had come out to cheer him on. Rafe shyly waved to them as they applauded loudly. I watched him gain a little strut in his step as I fiddled with the long, unruly tresses beneath my helmet.

In the second round, I decided to add the most difficult trick dad and Rafe had taught me. On the way up the side of the course, I would jump off the board and turn in the air, landing back on it as I switched it around on the way back down the curving wall. I had finally mastered this move after weeks of practicing it. It was quite a shock to me when my feet didn’t find the board and I tumbled hard onto the floor of the course, my ankle buckling painfully. In between screams from me, I heard the crowd gasp and Rafe running toward me, flipping his helmet off, shouting for help.

“Joey, hold on. We’ll get you to a doctor. Hold on,” Rafe cried as he took hold of my shoulders. I didn’t want to make an embarrassing scene but the pain was unbearable. I hid my wet face in the crook of Rafe’s arm as I whimpered. Mr. Metheny had caught up to Rafe and was leaning down to look at my ankle. My dad had his hands on his hips, an angry look on his face.

“Stop crying, Joey. Be a man for once. You’re making me look bad. Didn’t we practice that move a thousand times? How could you fuck that up?”

“Shut up, Ross. His ankle might be broken. It’s starting to swell up pretty bad.”

“There’s a clinic a couple blocks away, dad,” Rafe said.

“Where are we gonna find a stretcher?” my father asked, reaching for the flask in his back pocket.

“I’ll carry him. You’re not that heavy, are you Joey?” Mr. Metheny carefully lifted me into his arms and the three of us, counting me, Rafe, and his dad, double-timed it to the clinic, leaving my father standing by himself, still fumbling for his flask. As we left the park, the concerned faces of the crowd swam in my fading consciousness. I must have blacked out from the pain.

It turned out my ankle wasn’t broken, just a really bad sprain. Rafe made it back to the park to finish up the competition. They had suspended play because of my injury. Of course, he dedicated his gold medal to me. The crowd, I’m told, applauded his gesture. I was on crutches when we started school some weeks later. Rafe started spending a lot of time with Kelly Richards, allegedly helping her out with algebra. It was a difficult time in our relationship. And Mr. Metheny never thought the same about my father after that summer.

Saturday morning, I was shopping for a Christmas gift for Alastair’s mother. We were going to spend Christmas Eve and Day at her house in Westport, Connecticut. I had almost decided on a turquoise Peruvian alpaca wool pashmina shawl wrap with 4-inch fringes when my phone notified me I had received a text. It was from Rafe.

Sally Metheny Novello lived with her husband Martin in an Upper West Side luxury apartment on the 27th floor overlooking Central Park. Martin was a semi-retired attorney specializing in trademark law. You can see he’s done well in his career. Because getting around in Manhattan is much easier by subway, I hopped onto the 7th Avenue line and rode the train to 72nd Street. I arrived at Sally’s doorstep a little before 7 and announced my presence by ringing the bell underneath their apartment number.

Rafe opened the door with a wide smile and an excited greeting. I handed him the two bottles of a dry Riesling from the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York that I’d picked up that afternoon. He took my coat and waved me into Sally’s well-appointed home.

“Sally’s in the kitchen. Dinner will be served in 15 minutes, she tells me. Let me introduce the brood to you.”

They were all seated in the living room. The television was on with the sound turned down. Some college basketball game.

“Joey, this is Martin. Of course, he looks a lot different than when you met at the wedding—”

“Thirty years will do that, Rafe. You look past your prime too. Hello, Joey, good to see you again. Happy holidays.” This started the round of handshakes.

“And this is Jordan, Sally and Martin’s son. His lovely wife Glynnis. And the twins over there watching the game, Billy and Bryce.” The twins, who looked to be middle school age, waved but otherwise kept their eyes glued on the TV.

“Where’s Harlow?”

“In the kitchen, helping her Aunt with the food. Sally’s a great cook. I’ve been telling her to get a cookbook published—”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook and a maid at least. Most of the people in this building probably do.”

“Sally worked until Jordan’s sister Patty was born. She actually likes being a domestic goddess. She’s house happy.”

“Is Patty in the kitchen too?”

“She’s in Paris right now. Covers European politics for Foreign Policy magazine. Sometimes the online sites will pick up her features if it’s a big story. You don’t read that kind of stuff, hmm?”

“No, I’m more of a cartoon strip reader—”

“Joey has a graduate degree from Columbia, Martin.”

Sally and Harlow walked into the living room. Surprisingly, Sally quickly embraced me. She held me at arm’s length and clucked her tongue.

“My god, you’re still gorgeous. I’m eight years older than you but you don’t look a day older than Glynnis here.” Glynnis’ mouth opened in shock but Jordan gripped her arm to keep her from retorting.

“You’re too kind, Sally. It’s good to see you again and you’re selling yourself short. You’re still that beautiful girl I remember sitting by our pool all those summers so long ago.”

“Gran, we’re hungry. When’s dinner?” The twins asked in unison.

“I told you we had a guest coming over and dinner was going to be a little later than usual,” Jordan remonstrated his sons. “You guys had a big lunch at Shake Shack. You’d think that’d hold you over for a while…”

“Harlow’s setting the table right now.” Harlow was standing behind her, smiling at me and Rafe in turn. “Harlow? Harlow, set the table. Please.”

A few minutes later, as we walked the short distance to the dinner table, one of the twins, I don’t know if it was Billy or Bryce, sidled up to me and whispered, “So, Harlow told me you used to be a man. I’ve got five bucks she’s pulling my leg.”

“She’s wrong. I’ve always been a woman.”

“I knew it! Who’d believe you were ever a guy?”

“Who’s up for dessert? Homemade pecan pie cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Your favorite, Jordan.”

The twins practically jumped out of their chairs with excitement. Rafe, seated to my right, laughed.

“I don’t know where they put it. It’s great to have a fast metabolism like them. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to middle age spread myself…”

“You look fine, Rafe. The hairline’s a little higher but you’re still a hunk—”

“Nice try, Joey. I’m an old man. My son and his wife are expecting. Baby’s due in February. They’d be here for the holidays but travel’s kind of difficult, you know. But just think about it. I’m going to be a grandfather soon.” He shook his head.

“Joey, can you help me in the kitchen?”

“Of course, Sally. Lead the way. Excuse me, everyone.”

When I entered the kitchen, Sally was already cutting up the cobbler into squares and placing them on dessert dishes.

“Pour out seven cups of coffee, please, Joey.”

“Sally, why did you really invite me for dinner?”

“Rafe told me you’re engaged. Where’s the lucky guy?”

“He’s in LA for a weekend management meeting. Alastair should be back Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

“I remember Alastair from Rafe and Sarah’s wedding. Good looking young man. Very well-spoken. Wasn’t he married to that movie star?”

“Lulu Brooks. They split up about six years ago.”

“Show business people are very unstable. But you know that.” She turned to me, put down the knife, and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “Do you love him? Or are you feeling the years going by and you fear being alone?”

“Sally, you’re not my therapist. What’s it matter to you? You’ve never had a high opinion of me, as I recall. You called me a fag, a pervert, a homo, a tranny…and those are the nicer names you called me.”

“There’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Help me spoon it out and top off the cobbler. Put two scoops on the two for the twins. They’re insufferable but I can’t help spoiling them.” She turned back to me. “I’m sorry if I called you those things. I’m a boomer. We didn’t know about gender dysphoria—is that what it’s called? My mom thought you were “corrupting” Rafe’s morals. My dad liked you though. He thought your problems stemmed from your dad’s emotional abuse. Maybe that’s the case,”

“Like I said, you’re not a therapist. Not even an amateur one.” My voice got a little heated. “Thanks for the dinner. Give the twins my dessert.” I turned to walk away when Sally gently grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t go, Joey. For Rafe’s sake, stay. Hear me out. I’m not your biggest fan, I’ll admit to that. But Rafe has always loved you. Bumping into you yesterday at the airport, he was the happiest I’ve seen him since Sarah passed. He’s here through the holidays. And I assume you are too. Could you see your way to spending a little time with him? When you’re married to Alastair, the last hope he has will have died.”

“I thought this was all settled thirty years ago. I told Rafe I could never be the person he needed me to be. Would he have Harlow now? Would he be two months from being a grandfather?”

“Please consider it, Joey. Rafe means the world to me. I hate seeing him so miserable. You say Alastair’s not back until Tuesday? Martin knows Bob Wankel, the CEO of the Shubert Organization, and he can easily get Rafe two tickets for “Some Like It Hot.” It just opened this week! It’s sold out for like months in advance.”

“Rafe can ask me and I’ll see. That’s all I can promise, Sally. A lot of water has gone under the bridge.”

“That’s good enough, Joey. Just give Rafe a chance. I know you still feel something for him.”

“Hey, guys, the natives are restless. Where’s dessert?” asked Harlow as she popped her head into the kitchen.

“It’s coming. We better bring these out, Joey. Harlow, make yourself useful and put the cobbler on this tray. I’ll bring out the coffee.”

“Hey, dad, it’s snowing.” We all gathered around the large windows facing Central Park. One of the twins (again it was either Billy or Bryce) asked their father if his old sled was still in the apartment. When he was told that Sally had probably thrown it out years ago, the other twin asked Martin if they rented sleds in the park.

“I don’t think we’re getting more than a dusting, boys,” countered Rafe. “Not enough for sledding. Barely enough to make a decent snowball.”

“It’s starting to come down harder, dad,” Harlow interjected. “Maybe you should call Joey a cab now before the traffic gets bottled up.”

Taking his phone out, Rafe started dialing. “Harlow’s right. Better safe than sorry.”

Ten minutes later, as Rafe helped me into the Uber, he shielded his eyes from the falling snow and shyly asked me if I had any plans for the next day, Sunday. I shook my head.

“Keep tomorrow night open. I’m working on tickets for “Some Like It Hot”…if you’d like to see it with me.”

“Call me. Good night, Rafe. I had a good time. Tell Sally she should write that cookbook.” I closed the car door and waved to him through the glass. He stood there, oblivious to the heavy snowfall as the Uber drove away. Finally, I turned around in my seat, somewhat troubled by everything that had transpired that evening.

I tried to sleep in on Sunday morning but found myself looking out the window onto Perry Street and the city beyond, blanketed in at least half a foot of snow, at the ungodly weekend hour of 8 AM. The smell of El Pico Dark Roast wafted into my nostrils from the GlobalNet mug in my right hand. My phone rang. It was Rafe.

“Joey, it’s Rafe. Hope I didn’t wake you up. I took the chance since you’re such an early riser. Even on Sunday—”

“Right. Sunday in New York, Joey. Sunday in New York. I can’t believe it. See you in a bit.”

I decided to go back to bed and give myself another couple of hours of sleep. I drifted off with thoughts of Christmases past and visions of sugarplums danced in my dreams. Then there was the Christmas of my 15th year. The year my life changed forever. It might not have happened if not for the fact that Port Jefferson, my hometown, has a proud tradition of holding a Charles Dickens Festival every December, including semi-professional performances of a stage adaptation of A Christmas Carol. Other than being a busy shipyard in the last century and at one time being the residence of P.T. Barnum, the annual Dickens Festival was this quaint little seaport’s biggest claim to fame and putative tourism.

On the first weekend of December, the entire town turns out in Victorian Era garb to parade down East Main Street (renamed for the occasion Dickens Alley). And everyone in the community auditions for roles in the annual production of the Dickens classic. Up until the age of 10, every boy in the village wanted to be cast as Tiny Tim. Rafe was Tiny Tim when he was nine. He practiced limping for weeks in anticipation of the auditions. The biggest part I’d ever gotten was as one of the “other” children in the Cratchit family.

The exhaustive rounds of auditions always began in mid-October. Since the pool of stage hopefuls was pretty limited (the same people tended to audition every year), the play’s director and leader of the theater troupe, Barney Randolph, undoubtedly had already cast each part in his mind before even hearing the first horribly wrong-sounding London accent attempted. The small band of professional actors led by Randolph, of course, took on the main roles. The rest of us competed for the secondary parts. If you ended up with more than two lines, you’d get a mention in the local paper’s review.

Rafe and I had just started our first year of high school that Fall. Although we were still good friends, our lives seem to diverge more and more with each passing month. Beyond Rafe’s interests in basketball and baseball and with that little hussy Kelly Richards hanging around, there was precious little opportunity for me and him to spend much time together. Not the way we used to.

I found myself having more female friends than male friends in school. For whatever reason, they liked me more than boys did. I wasn’t good at sports or obsessed with getting to third base with girls like they were. But the girls didn’t fancy me as a possible boyfriend either. Maybe they sensed I was more girl than boy, especially since puberty hadn’t really arrived for me at the late age of 15.

But the biggest obstacle in Rafe and I being as close was the fact his dad had fired my dad just that past summer. For good reason undoubtedly. Dad was a bad drunk and it showed in his haphazard attitude toward work. With Metheny Architecture closing in on a mega-million-dollar contract to design new hotels for The Harriot Hospitality Group based in Washington, DC, having an unreliable head of engineering was a real hindrance. My father was still unemployed, claiming Rafe’s father had black-balled him in the industry by spreading lies about his “promiscuous” behavior with anything in a skirt. And my parents’ marriage was hanging by a thread. It was a toss-up as to which one would file for divorce first.

So, it was my dad who didn’t want to hear of me fraternizing with the son of his enemy. Mrs. Metheny, on the other hand, was still friendly with mom, my sister, and me. She would invite us to every social occasion involving her family or her husband’s company. Unfortunately, Kelly Richards’ father worked for Metheny Architecture too and she’d monopolize Rafe’s time at every barbecue or pool day that summer.

I was called back for the second round of auditions and had just finished my 3 minutes of cockney speech that sounded a lot like Bugs Bunny reading from A Tale of Two Cities. I thought Mr. Randolph had just wandered backstage to take a break when he approached me, a big smile on his face. Mom was standing by the coffee vending machine, chatting with Rafe’s mother, yawning between sentences. Rafe’s mom looked just as weary.

“Joseph, my boy. Another fine reading—”

“Thank you, Mr. Randolph. And you can call me Joey. Everyone does.”

“Alright…Joey. I have an idea. An idea that involves you.”

My mother quickly ran over, almost spilling her full cup of coffee. “I hope you’re casting my son in a decent part. You should have cast Joey as Tiny Tim several years. Now he’s outgrown it. So what do you have in mind?”

“Mrs. Prentiss, as you know, competition for these roles is intense. There are many worthy actors in our sleepy little village. Sometimes it’s just a matter of timing—”

“Two years ago, Joey badly sprained his ankle. He was on crutches for weeks. He limped into the next year. And you still didn’t pick him for Tiny Tim!”

“Let’s not rehash old grievances…however legitimate they might be. Today, a genius idea, if I say so myself, came to me as Joey was reading. Such a waste.”

“Waste of what?” I asked, becoming annoyed.

“Waste of beauty. You know, Joey, it’s such a shame you weren’t born a girl. You’d be Hollywood material easily.”

“Hey, you’re talking about my son. Who is definitely male. Admittedly very cute…but in a boyish way. He’s only 15. He hasn’t grown his man muscles yet—”

“Mr. Randolph, that’s very weird of you. Thank you but I’m auditioning for one of the male parts—”

“Oh no, you’re too…pretty for that. I’m casting you in the role of The Ghost of Christmas Present. It’s a stroke of genius. A woman in the role normally given to a man. It’ll certainly give our production a bit of advance buzz. Maybe this year The Times will finally send someone to review it. You’ll be famous, Joey!”

“Helen,” Mrs. Metheny interjected, “you can’t allow this. This will scar the boy emotionally for life, having to act in drag in front of the whole town. Mr. Randolph, whatever kind of perversity you big city theater people engage in, it won’t stand here in Port Jefferson. My husband—”

“I’d like to try it, Mr. Randolph,” I blurted out before my mother could respond.

“Are you sure, Joey? It could be very embarrassing. Think about all the kids in school. Do you want them to laugh at you?”

“They laugh at me now anyway, mom. At least I’d have something over on them. None of them are going to have as big a part as me. It’s not a big deal, mom.” She looked into my eyes and just nodded.

“Okay, Joey. But don’t go through with it if you change your mind between now and opening night. It’s alright. You wouldn’t be letting anyone down. You’ve got to be comfortable with this.”

“I am, mom. I am.”

“Joey, I’m really not a fan of you doing this. Why don’t you do something backstage like Rafe. He’s on the lighting crew. He says it’s fun being a tech. Or you could be assistant stage manager. You’ve got such a good memory; you’ll probably know everyone’s lines better than they do.”

“Well, that’s settled. Joey, come by after school tomorrow and we’ll measure you for wardrobe and see what Mrs. Crampton can do with some makeup and a wig.”

Mom and Mrs. Metheny were still animatedly discussing my questionable decision when Rafe came down from the rafters to ask me what the hub bub was about. When I told him that I was going to play The Ghost of Christmas Present as a woman, his face took on a look of grave concern.

“Joey, the guys in school won’t like that. You’re putting a target on your back. All the time you’re spending with girls, acting like you’re a girl yourself, always sitting with them at lunch…they’ll think you’re a fag—”

“Do you think I am?”

“No, of course not, Joey. Mom says you’re, how does she put it…you’re delicate. A delicate boy. I think Randolph’s off his rocker. Think it over, Joey. Save yourself a lot of trouble.”

“So what if boys get violent with me. Would you care?”

“You know I do, Joey. But I can’t be with you every minute of the day. Like I told you before, just watch your back.”

“What would I do without you, Rafe?”

Starting Friday, November 12th, and on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays through December 30th, there were a total of 30 performances of A Christmas Carol. I played The Ghost of Christmas Present in all 30. Although Meryl Streep would have nothing to worry about, my reviews turned out to be very respectable.

My character delivered the main message of Dickens’ story. You can hear the author’s own concern for contemporary morality in The Ghost of Christmas Present’s stern words of opprobrium to Scrooge:

“Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live; what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.”

To Mr. Randolph’s dismay, The Times did not send a reviewer but the local paper and The Long Island Press actually mentioned me, saying I was a young actress to watch in the future. Apparently, the reporters didn’t believe Mr. Randolph when he insisted that I was a 15-year-old boy named Joseph. The caption beneath the picture of Mr. Randolph on stage as Ebenezer Scrooge and myself as The Ghost of Christmas Present identified me as Joey Prentiss, gender ambiguous.

The situation at school was diametrically opposite. Instead of adulation, what welcomed me when I walked the halls of Port Jefferson High School was derisive catcalling and even a few mean, threatening looks from many of the boys. Rafe and a few of his friends (mostly sons of men who worked for his dad) kept the rabble at bay. The girls, for the most part, congratulated me on playing such a pivotal role on stage. Some confessed they were envious of how beautiful I looked in my costume, makeup, and wig. I even received a modest stipend from the village council (hypothetically everyone other than the theater troupe members were unpaid volunteers) because of the positive reviews and increased ticket sales.

After New Year’s Day and after the final performances on December 30th, my almost perfect world collapsed around me as my mother and I were summoned to Rafe’s house for a “discussion” with his parents. My dad was supposed to come as well but, as with other family matters, he’d opted out. He was probably driving around Port Jefferson and Bethpage going from bar to bar, drinking his problems away.

“Matt and I decided to wait until the play ended its run before having this talk,” Mrs. Metheny began. Mr. Metheny sat in his customary easy chair, a pained look on his face. Rafe was trying not to meet my eyes as he sat on the couch with his mother. “Helen, I’m very sympathetic to your situation. I know things between you and Ross are difficult. Matt tried his best to get through to him but…that’s not why we asked you to come over tonight.”

“I think I know what you’re going to say, Sylvia, but there’s nothing wrong with Joey. He’s delicate, like you’ve said before. He’s not gay. He likes girls. The thing with the play. That’s just acting. He enjoys acting…and he got paid a stipend for it. With Ross out of work—”

“Joey’s my best friend in the world, mom. You know that. There’s nothing strange about him. He can’t help it if he looks like that—”

“Rafe, be quiet. You’re too young and too close to the situation to understand. At the very least, Helen, you should get professional help for Joey before it’s too late—”

“I’m not crazy! I…I just like doing girl things sometimes. Maybe it’s because I’m so close to my little sister…”

“You don’t see Rafe dressing up like a girl because he’s close to Sally, do you? Helen, I’m no psychiatrist but it’s shameful how Joey’s had to grow up without any male role models. Don’t hate me for saying this but Ross is one sorry excuse for a man.”

“So, what do you suggest, Sylvia? With Ross being out of work, I can’t begin to afford to take Joey to a therapist. We’re barely scratching by on my teacher’s salary.”

“We’ve been friends for so many years, Helen,” Mr. Metheny interposed. “Let me help you find the right therapist for Joey. It’s something Sylvia and I would like to do if you’ll allow us. We’ll carry the costs—”

“No, Matt, we don’t want charity. And, for another thing, I don’t believe Joey needs therapy. It’s a phase he’ll grow out of. You know, his puberty hasn’t fully taken yet—”

“Mom, can you embarrass me even more?”

“I was afraid you’d say that, Helen. Given your laissez faire attitude on the matter, Matt and I think Rafe shouldn’t interact with Joey as often and as regularly as he has. For both their own good. We both work at Port Jeff High and you know Joey’s been the unfortunate target of derision and even intimidation. While we hope nothing bad ever happens to Joey, we can’t let Rafe get too involved with the whole situation.”

“We want Rafe to devote his time and energy to school, not to being Joey’s unofficial bodyguard,” Mr. Metheny emphasized. “I’m sorry, Helen, but Rafe’s on the fast track to M.I.T. We don’t want any detours. You can see our trepidation in the matter.”

My mother sprung up from her seat and took my hand. “Well, I think I know when we’re not welcome. Come on, Joey, let’s go home. Thank you for a notably unpleasant evening. Goodbye. We can let ourselves out.” As she pulled me out of my seat and led me to the front door, I turned back toward Rafe but his head was down, obviously avoiding having to meet my eyes.

For the next two years, Rafe and I mostly studiously avoided each other. Of course, in a small town like Port Jefferson and a high school class of just under 100, we did run into each other now and again, even had brief conversations. For his part, Rafe always apologized for his parents’ behavior but it was cold comfort. I had had very few friends, even among the girls, and now that Rafe and his cohort had ostracized me, I was an island at school. I kept my nose to the grindstone and studied hard, hoping that Columbia wouldn’t revoke my legacy status so I could afford a college education. I survived but won’t claim I actually thrived during my sophomore and junior years at school.

After a hearty lunch of Shanghai Soupy Dumplings, Bean Curd Puffs, Moo Shu Pork for Rafe, Singapore Curry Chicken for me, and pineapple slices for dessert, Rafe and I walked the two blocks to the entrance to the park at Central Park West and 67th Street for our postprandial stroll through the snow.

We hadn’t spoken much as we ate. I wasn’t feeling loquacious and Rafe seemed to be monitoring my mood very closely. As we trudged through the snow already made slushy by thousands of pedestrians, past the site of the old Tavern on the Green, now a Visitors’ Center, and crossing West Drive, where the finish line of the annual NYC Marathon is located, we followed the path along the north rim of the Sheep Meadow. Rafe stopped a young couple walking hand in hand in the opposite direction and asked them to take a photo of us with his phone. He offered to do the same for them and I stood to the side of the path, snapping pics of the wintry scene with my own phone. By the time Alastair returned from LA, the snow would probably be washed away by the rain forecasted in the coming days.

Continuing east as directly as the path allowed, we came upon The Mall, a formal promenade, lined with tall oak trees, with statues of Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Shakespeare at its southern end. The sight of snow partially covering the heads and shoulders of these literary giants struck a chord in my artistic sensibility and I aimed my phone’s camera lens at them.

“Do you ever regret not finishing your doctorate in English, Joey? You always loved literature and writing.”

“There was a time when I just felt lost. I was this close to ending it all. Discussions about what career I wanted to pursue were the furthest thing from my mind—”

“Yes, I know. Elizabeth. I’m surprised you still see each other.”

“That’s something that happened recently and I wasn’t the one who initiated the contact. It was her daughter Jocelyn. She kind of begged me to see her when I was in Boston last year.”

“I remember meeting her that time I visited you at Columbia. You’d already moved into her loft. I told you then she wasn’t right for you.”

“You were jealous. How could you know after a few hours one afternoon?”

We headed north past the band shell and arrived at the Bethesda Terrace, overlooking the beautifully tiled Arcade, the grand staircases, and the Bethesda Fountain (aka “Angel of the Waters”). As we stood in the shelter of the terrace, we could see the lake, the Loeb Boathouse to the east, and the Ramble directly across the water.

“I know I asked you so many times almost 30 years ago and even at the wedding—”

“Rafe, I gave you an answer every time. You just didn’t accept it.”

“We loved each other, didn’t we? You had already decided to transition—”

“I would have made you the object of ridicule and even disgust in business circles. His wife used to be a man! You’d have lost all the contracts your father worked so hard for so long to procure. You know how conservative the culture was. Still is.”

“Fuck capitalism. I told you then I’d walk away from the firm if that happened. I never gave a damn about my inheritance. Sally could have it all; I didn’t care.”

I turned into the cold breeze, away from Rafe’s eyes, and squeezed his arm. I hoped he couldn’t hear the choke creeping into my voice.

“I believed you, Rafe. And I loved you more than you’ll ever know. My heart was yours from the time we used to ride our tricycles down the driveway of your house. But I could never give you children—”

“Joey!”

“No, it’s not a silly little detail, Rafe. You deserved to have a family like any other man who married a cis woman. You’re a good father. I can tell from the way you interact with Harlow. And the way you talk about becoming a grandfather soon. I could never give you that.”

“Joey…I…” His voice trailed off into silence as he took me fully into his arms and gazed into my teary eyes. We embraced for a long time, just holding on to each other as if we could reach back through the lost years and be who we were 30 years ago again.

A half hour later, we walked past Strawberry Fields on our way to the 72nd Street exit. We would take the subway downtown to Times Square, emerge from the underground, and walk over to 44th Street where the matinee of Some Like It Hot at The Shubert Theatre was set to raise its curtain at 3PM.

After the cast of Some Like It Hot joyfully received its third and final ovation, Rafe and I meandered out into the slushy streets of midtown along with the rest of the theatergoers. Flagging down a taxicab, we had a brief discussion about where to enjoy a late dinner. I nixed the idea of going to Zhou Dynasty, having eaten there with Alastair just days ago on my birthday. We settled on Caffè Pedrocchi, closer to Alastair’s apartment in the West Village.

A lovely meal of Northern Italian dishes like Risotto con i Rovinassi (risotto with chicken livers) and Osso Buco (lamb shanks braised with vegetables, white wine, and broth) was still being digested as we walked the handful of blocks to the apartment. The question of whether or not to invite Rafe upstairs was answered when, serendipitously, I managed to hail a cab as it turned the corner of Perry Street and West 4th.

“I’d invite you up but it’s getting late and I’m bushed. Maybe we can get together later this week. I’m sure Alastair would love to see you again. Bring Harlow too—”

“Yeah, I’d love that. When is Al returning?”

“Monday night or Tuesday morning. Give me a call.” Rafe reached for me but I side-stepped him to close the passenger door, deftly blowing him a kiss while backing away from the curb. He waved and turned to the driver to impart his instructions.

The tryptophan in my cup of almond milk hot cocoa wasn’t doing the trick. Still unable to fall asleep, I remembered the soporific effect some of Alastair’s jazz records had on me, although when he played them, he wasn’t trying to put me to sleep. Sorting through his shelves of LPs, I landed on a Bill Evans album, Nirvana. Evans on piano and Herbie Mann on flute should mellow me out. I lay down in bed and listened to Satie’s “Gymnopedie” on Alastair’s classic Bang & Olufsen system set at low volume, tendrils of nothingness curling around my senses.

High School was an ordeal. After Rafe’s mother insisted we see less and less of each other, we grew far apart, only passing each other in the hallways, nodding to each other or briefly exchanging pleasantries. Rafe was always popular. He played all three varsity sports and dated all the equally popular girls. He took Kelly Richards, captain of the cheerleading squad, to the Junior Prom. I didn’t go.

That night, me and a couple of my female friends who didn’t get asked either, went rollerblading at the rink in Harborfront Park. There was a sparse crowd, undoubtedly because most of the kids of our age were at the prom. We had some contained fun skating around and around, trying hard not to keep crashing into each other as the sound system blared “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang.

“Why didn’t you ask anyone to the prom?” Maddie asked me as we took a break to slurp on a couple of Sprites through butterfly silly straws.

“Me? Maddie, most people think I’m actually a girl who’s pretending to be a boy. Everyone else thinks I’m gay. I’m not Mr. Popular.”

“You mean like Rafe Metheny? I think he’s got a thing for you. He just won’t admit it to himself.”

“Rafe’s not gay. We were best friends for a long time and then…well, our families don’t mingle anymore since Rafe’s dad fired my dad and my parents separated.”

“At least you get to spend summers in LA. Even if it’s with your dad—”

“And his new girlfriend. But she’s cool. I think she understands me better than my father does. Or my mother for that matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t go blabbing this around, okay? I’ll tell you but it’s not for public consumption. Can I trust you?”

“Of course, Joey. What’s so hush-hush?”

“She lets me dress up and we go out shopping together. She understands it’s a phase I’m going through. Like she’s real tolerant and everything. We keep it from dad. He’d blow a gasket if he knew.”

“Oh my god, Joey. Do you think it’s a…a healthy thing to do? I thought you said you’re not gay.”

“I’m not!” I threw my cup of Sprite with the silly straw into the trash bin and rolled out toward the center of the rink. Turning back, I started to warble “Celebration” at Maddie. Then I crashed into Cyndi, the other friend I had come to the rink with.

I was in the middle of reading the most difficult chapter of Joyce’s Ulysses, “Oxen of the Sun,” which recounts the protagonist Stephen Dedalus’ attendance of a party in a maternity hospital, told in parodies of various popular literary styles. I wasn’t making head or tails of it when my sister Erica bopped into my room.

“Mom says there’s a phone call for you.”

“I’ll be down in a minute. Did she say who?”

“Yeah, it’s Rafe. Wonder what he wants.”

“Hello?”

“There’s really nobody else who’d go with you?” There was a long silence.

“I didn’t ask anyone else, Joey. I’ve been thinking about me and you. We used to be best friends. You want to see The Clash. I’ve got two tickets. Why not?”

“Oh, great, and I’m paying for the train too. Thanks, Joey.”

That Sunday, at exactly 12 Noon, mom called me down from my room. Rafe is nothing if not punctual. He was standing in the foyer, wearing a Clash t-shirt, and holding a plastic bag in his right hand. Mom was speaking to him, probably confirming when we’d get back from the city.

“Hey, Rafe. I’m ready! Let’s go.”

“Joey, I brought you something to wear. It’s a Clash t-shirt. I hope it fits.” He handed the plastic bag to me. I was a little disappointed he hadn’t gotten me a corsage. Silly thought, I know.

“Oh, thanks. I’ll go and swap out my polo shirt for this gnarly t-shirt right now!” I started to climb up the stairs to my room.

“Honey, you can change down here. Rafe’s seen you without a shirt on.” She laughed but I attacked the staircase two treads at a time.

I was surprised to see Rafe’s sister Sally sitting behind the wheel of her Ford Fiesta, parked outside our house, a look of utter boredom on her face.

“Sally’s driving us to the station?”

“It would’ve taken us 45 minutes to walk all the way to the station. Sally’s home for the weekend and she volunteered.”

After some perfunctory amenities with Sally, she stepped on the accelerator and we started on the 10-minute drive to the train station.

“Thanks for the t-shirt, Rafe. It was really nice of you to think of getting it for me. How did you figure out my size? It’s almost a perfect fit.”

“He didn’t figure it out,” Sally interjected. “He bought it for Kelly. No surprise that girls’ sizes fit you, Joey. Although Kelly would probably fill it out better up front.”

“Sally, Joey didn’t need to hear that. Sorry, Joey. I did buy it for Kelly…but you look really good in it. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No, Rafe. I like it. I’m not offended. I’ll wear it to school so Kelly can see what she missed out on—”

“Hey, little bro, mommy packed a little lunch for you guys.” She tossed a paper bag over her right shoulder at Rafe.

“Rafe, you told your mom?”

“She kinda found out. I mean, Kelly’s mom shops at the same Shoprite on Nesconset Highway. She wasn’t against me taking you.”

“Poor Joey she calls you, all the time.” Sally turned into the parking lot of the train station. “She’s really hopeful that spending summers with your dad might straighten you out.”

“Tell your mom I really appreciate her concern.”

“Let’s not get testy now. Anyway, your train’s due in half an hour. There’s a comic book store a couple of blocks that way while you wait. Have fun, kids. Call me from a payphone tonight and I’ll pick you up. If I’m still awake, that is.”

A few minutes before three in the afternoon, our LIRR train chugged into Grand Central Station, just a 10-minute walk from Bonds International Casino at Broadway & West 44th Street. Although the place (there were two shows today, one at 5PM, the late show at 10PM) didn’t open its doors until 4PM, there was probably a line of ticketholders from here to kingdom come already.

The day before, the Fire Marshals cancelled the show when double the 1,800-person capacity showed up, with or without tickets. Promoters had over-sold the 8 original dates and had to extend the engagement well into June so all the ticket buyers wouldn’t be ripped off. Hopefully, we would be within the first 1,800 in line so they wouldn’t turn us back and offer to exchange our tickets for a future date.

We settled in about a thousand deep in the ticketholders line. Sally was prescient in telling us to browse the comic book store near the train station. Copies of the latest issues of The Fantastic Four, Batman, Teen Titans, X-Men, and Daredevil kept us busy while we waited. Finally, with NYC Police watching nearby, they roped off everyone who came after the 1,800th ticketholder and let us rush into the venue.

It was a madhouse of screaming fans jockeying for position in a ballroom without seating. Rafe pulled me along as he dashed as close to the stage as possible. I just barely evaded some serious elbows to the face and ribs. Other blows, intentional or accidental, were parried by Rafe. We camped down about 20 feet from the stage and had to wait another 40 minutes before The Clash actually emerged from wherever they were sequestered.

The music itself was exhilarating and they played for more than two hours, going through a setlist that included every important song they had recorded since they burst on the punk rock scene in the UK in 1977: “London Calling,” “Train in Vain,” “(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais,” “Guns of Brixton,” “Charlie Don’t Surf,” “The Magnificent Seven,” “Police and Thieves,” and “Radio Clash” among the favorites. A five-song encore was highlighted their cover of Vince Taylor’s “Brand New Cadillac” and their own “Janie Jones.”

Outside in Times Square as the sun set in the sky, simultaneously exhausted and energized by the concert we’d just witnessed, we made a fateful decision. With my stomach grumbling, we could either walk over to the Blimpie’s across the street and split a meatball hero or, as Rafe preferred, we could head downtown to have a sit-down pizza dinner at John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street. Pizza it was. We hurtled down the steps of the subway entrance and took the first 1 train that arrived. Disembarking at Christopher Street, we walked the few blocks to 278 Bleecker Street.

“So, tell me truth, Rafe. How many girls did you ask before you got down to the bottom of the list and called me?”

“I didn’t ask anyone else. It’s the truth. Like I said on the phone, I’ve been thinking about you, about the times we had together. We were best friends, Joey.”

“The best. Like the two musketeers. Ha ha ha.”

“Three musketeers, Joey. I think there was always a third person with us all the time.”

“Who? My sister? You always thought she was a big nuisance.”

“No, I mean…you, Joey. You’re two people in one. There’s Joey, the scrawny little boy with the giant brain who shrinks from groups of people…a loner. Maybe a sad loner—”

“I’m happy and well-adjusted, Rafe. You’ve been reading Sally’s college psychology books, haven’t you?”

“Then there’s…there’s a beautiful girl hiding behind or inside that lonely little boy. I don’t know what to call her. Does she have a name. Her own name?”

I reached over with a napkin and dabbed some pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth. He held onto my hand with a grip that wouldn’t let go.

“Don’t, Rafe. You’re hurting me!”

One of the counter boys rushed over to our booth when he heard me yell.

“You alright, Miss?” Rafe released my hand and lowered his eyes to the table.

“Yes, I’m okay. We were just horsing around. Just got a little too rough.”

“You should watch your strength, man. You could have hurt the little lady.” He turned away when another patron called his name and left us in peace.

“You see, everybody sees it. When are you going to admit to yourself what your real self is?”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s not admitting who you really are. Maybe that’s why Kelly had a fight with you.”

“You don’t get it, Joey. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m not trying to denigrate you—”

“Like your mother?”

“I won’t make excuses for her but she’s a high school English teacher not a medical doctor. She’s not a bigot. She’s just a mother concerned about who her son associates with.”

“She thinks I’m a deviant. Yeah, we’ve heard this chapter and verse already. So, you must think I’m one too.”

“No, I’m trying to understand you. Maybe help you if I can. I’m only 17. A lot of stuff that’s going on in the world just confuses the heck out of me. But I know one thing. I…I like you. I care a lot about you. You mean a lot to me.”

“Well, you could have fooled me. Where was your caring the last two years?”

“You know my parents. And your dad wasn’t much help either. He almost ran my dad over that time in the company parking lot—”

“That’s a lie! Your father made that story up!”

“Quiet down. They’ll think I’m a wife-beater or something. Let me get the check and we’ll get out of here before that kid calls the cops. A little night air might calm you down.”

Sunday night in The Village is pretty quiet and the streets are fairly deserted. Working people have to get up early on Monday morning. The bridge and tunnel kids have to catch the last buses and trains. The ones with cars want to beat the traffic leaving Manhattan. We had to cross over to the east side in order to catch a subway back to Grand Central Station. The last train to Port Jefferson departs at 9:45PM. It was a little past 9 as we hurried through the confusing maze of streets and random alleyways.

“Slow down, Joey. You’re going the wrong way. We have to cross the street here.”

“Leave me alone. I can catch the train myself. Thanks for the concert. Let’s never do this again!”

He caught up to me and grabbed my t-shirt. I fought to get away from his grasp.

“Let go! I’m not kidding. I can get home by myself!”

“Hey, douchebag, leave the girl alone.”

Two older teenage boys were walking toward us, a few feet away from us, now coming closer.

“Mind your own business. We’re just having a discussion, man.”

“Hey, babe, come over here. We’ll protect you from this goon.”

“Yeah, it ain’t safe for a young girl like you to be on the streets at night.” The other boy grabbed me and held me in a vise-like grip, laughing as the first boy threw a right hand at Rafe’s jaw. He ducked out of the way and tried to rush to my aid.

“Hey, let her go!” The first boy two-handed the back of Rafe’s head and he fell almost at my feet.

“Jerry, this girl’s got no tits,” the other boy declared as he reached under my t-shirt. His other hand grabbed for my crotch and recoiled. “She’s got a dick too! She ain’t no girl!”

“Couple of fags, we got here. I hate fags!” He picked up Rafe by the shoulders and punched him flush in the face, his right eye already puffing up and reddened.

“Help! Help! Rafe!” I tried to kick him in every area of his body my foot could reach but the second boy was either wearing shin guards and a cup or just too drunk to feel pain.

“Come on, Jerry. It ain’t worth it. Some cop might come by.”

“Okay.” He tried to punch Rafe in the mouth but Rafe moved quickly enough to just catch a glancing blow. “Shit, I wanted one more shot. But fuck it. Let’s go. Drop that sissy, dude.” I was plunked onto the ground and they both tore off in the direction of West 4th Street.

It seemed like an eternity but after a few minutes, a single patrolman ambled by, spotted us and rushed to see what was going on. I was cradling Rafe’s head in my arms. He was moaning softly but his wounds didn’t seem that severe. A black eye and a split lip were the sum total. I was a mess. My t-shirt was torn in a couple of places (which might have seemed like a fashion statement for a punk rock chick) and my hair was a good impression of a badly constructed bird nest.

“What happened here, Miss?”

“We ran into a couple of punks, officer,” Rafe said, his delivery slow and painful. “They ran off a few minutes ago.”

“There’s no sign of them. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“I’m alright.” He managed to stand up and, still wobbling a bit, he leaned on my shoulder. “No need. My lip’s already stopped bleeding. And I’ll put a cold compress on this eye when we get home.”

“What about you, Miss? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need a hairbrush and a change of clothes. Maybe if you can point us in the direction of the subway that can take us to Grand Central Station—”

“It’s just two blocks that way. Can you make it?”

With Rafe lightly leaning on me, we crossed the street and headed toward the subway.

After calling Sally from a payphone at Grand Central Station, we caught the last train to Port Jefferson and settled in for the two-hour ride. I bought a box of tissues and a comb at one of the kiosks in the station. Cleaned up the dried blood on Rafe’s face and combed my hair into a reasonable arrangement on my head. There wasn’t much I could do about his black eye but I found a two-pack of aspirin in a foil wrapper in my wallet (my mom probably put it there when I joked about getting migraines trying to learn algebra) and gave it to Rafe with a cup of water.

When the conductor came by to punch our tickets, we were asleep, our heads together, our breathing synchronized.

“Miss, excuse me. Tickets?”

I woke up with a start, realized it was the conductor, and held out our tickets for him to punch. He slipped them into the slot above our seats.

“Your boyfriend get into a fight, Miss?”

“Yeah, we got jumped by some toughs in the Village.”

“Looks like he got the worst of it. New York’s a dangerous place. Take my advice. The island’s a better place to raise a family.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Sally picked us up at the Port Jefferson station a few minutes after midnight. She yawned through our quick explanation of how Rafe got his black eye.

“You’ve got a few hours to polish up your story, Rafe. Mom and dad are asleep. I’ll just nod if they turn to me for my two cents. I guess I should be a good sister this one time—”

“But it’s all true. It happened just that way.” I might have squeaked out that last part.

“You could avoid all of this if Joey didn’t look so convincing as a girl.”

“I’m not trying to fool anybody. People jump to conclusions.”

“Everybody, alright. Everybody. Owww!”

“Don’t touch it, Rafe. I can put some ice cubes in a towel and apply a cold compress to it. It’ll take 15 minutes.”

“Well, mom and dad are already asleep. What’s another 15 minutes?” Sally asked no one in particular.

I guess what happened that day rekindled our friendship. For the remaining month of school, we’d eat lunch together and walk to and from school together. We’d talk on the telephone often. He and Kelly grew apart until, ultimately, they officially broke it off. That’s when the jokes and nasty rumors started. But, really, were we that different from other close guy friends? It came down to the way I look. And I can’t help that. I am what I am. But I’m as confused as Rafe is about what I really am.

After school ended on June 26th, I left to spend the summer in LA with my father, per the agreement arrived at by my parents when they legally separated. As he promised, Rafe wrote to me every week and I looked forward to our senior year. After we graduated, we’d be geographically undesirable again, me at Columbia, he at M.I.T. in Boston. So, make hay while the sun shines.

Monday morning, wrapped in my warm terrycloth robe, I answered a video call on my phone from Alastair. Even for Alastair it was early. 9:30AM for me, 6:30AM for him. It looked like he was calling from his room at the retreat where GlobalNet had just held its year-end meeting.

“Good morning, Jo. How’s my bride-to-be?”

“Love you too, Alastair.” We disconnected.

I started to dial my sister when a voice call came in from Rafe. I was going to send it to voicemail but changed my mind and picked up. Oh, Rafe. What rough beast slouches to Bethlehem to be born?

(Author's Note: I apologize profusely for taking so long to post the latest chapter of this story. Real life has been quite bothersome lately and the energy to write ebbed to a standstill on certain days. However, I can see light at the end of the tunnel and hope to resume posting on a regular schedule. Thank you for continuing to read and I hope you comment as well.)

I had barely disconnected the video call from Alastair when caller ID displayed Rafe’s name on the screen. This was getting to be an everyday thing, after 25 years of interacting perhaps 3 or 4 times total. I accepted the voice call.

“Good morning, Rafe. What mischief are you up to today?”

“It’s a must, Joey. A must! See you tomorrow.” He disconnected.

I had already planned on shopping on Monday afternoon but for Christmas gifts for Rafe’s family, not for a formal dress. It struck me the penultimate time I had been in one of the two Hyatt Regency ballrooms; we were advised to dress casually. The night of our high school graduation. The last night I would see Rafe until November of that year when he paid me a surprise visit at Columbia.

Our senior year at Port Jefferson High was a mixed bag. The incident that occurred after The Clash concert at Bonds International in Times Square changed our relationship. In some ways we became once again the best friends we had been ever since pre-school days. We ate lunch together almost every day, walked to and from school together, listened to records in my bedroom, watched him play basketball and football on the school varsity, and so on. But he still dated girls like Kelly Richards and his parents were icy cold to me whenever I came over to see him.

There was one confrontation of seismic proportions in early November. Rafe was taking an elective photography class and his term project was to create a photo gallery of Port Jefferson’s most interesting sights that could be used in a tourism brochure. His choice of model was…me.

It was a silly, reckless, stupid, dangerous…and, for me, impossible to reject proposition. Rafe assured me that no one would recognize me in make-up, styled hair, and fashionable clothes. Erica volunteered to be my stylist, unbeknownst to our mother. I don’t know where Rafe obtained the various outfits he had me wear but they were all high street items. Even down to the bras and panties. So, on an unseasonably warm Saturday, we wandered around town, changing outfits in the back of his father’s Chevrolet van. I felt simultaneously scared witless and magnificently liberated. I tried not to stumble too much in my sister’s low-heeled shoes and boots while being conscious of gently swaying my hips.

The funny thing about the whole day was, even when we came across kids from school or, in one case, our Chemistry teacher and his wife, no one recognized me. Rafe had to explain to everyone that I was a family friend from New York City who wanted to get into modeling. I said nothing and just gave them a mysterious Mona Lisa smile when they nodded at me.

Saturday had been the perfect day to do the shoot, not only because it wasn’t a school day but Rafe’s parents had planned to spend most of the day in the city visiting friends and running errands. We thought we could get away scott-free before they returned sometime in the evening. So, it was quite a shock when the van tooled up the driveway of Rafe’s house to find mom and dad’s car already parked there. My sister Erica was panicked. Rafe swallowed hard and advised us to sprint up the stairs to his room as soon as we stepped in the house. I knew this was a doomed strategy as soon as Rafe, allegedly an honor student, had proposed it. But, dressed as I was, I wasn’t in a position to argue.

We got as far as the middle of the living room when our thundering footsteps alerted Rafe’s mother, who came quickly out of the kitchen, her hand held up as a stop sign.

“Rafe and Erica, go into the kitchen! There’s some orange juice in the fridge. I want to speak to Joey alone. Now, please…” They gave me forlorn looks but did as they were told.

“Joey, sit down. We’re going to have a little talk, you and I.”

I sat down on the sofa, remembering to keep my legs together underneath my skirt. For good measure, I crossed my ankles and smiled innocently at Mrs. Metheny.

“Rafe told me he was shooting photos for his term project but I had no idea he would be using you as a model. My dear boy, will you do everything my silly son asks you to?”

“He was very persuasive, Mrs. Metheny, and you know I’d do anything to help Rafe. He was having a lot of trouble finding a girl to be the model—”

“That’s what he told you? I bumped into Kelly Richards’ mother at the Shoprite just last Tuesday and she was gushing about how beautiful her daughter was going to look in Rafe’s tourism brochure.” She placed her hand on my shoulder, felt the bra strap underneath my top, flinched, and replaced her hand to stroke it. “Do you want to be a girl, Joey?”

Fidgeting under her touch, I tried to sound convincing. “No, Mrs. Metheny. Not at all. It’s just that Rafe really needed a model and he was under a lot of time pressure and my sister said she could do my makeup and style my hair and she’d given Rafe my sizes and stuff and…”

“I’ll talk to Rafe, Joey. He has to stop this fascination with you, trying to turn you into a girl. It’s not normal. He has to stop taking advantage of you. I know he’s not doing it maliciously. We all love you. Rafe’s dad thinks so highly of you and how you’ve managed to keep your grades up despite the problems at home. Generally, you’re a wonderful influence on Rafe. I wish he was as serious about his schoolwork and his future as you seem to be—”

“Do you think Rafe is just pulling a prank on me, Mrs. Metheny? Because that’s not true. He knows I…I enjoy dressing up. And I’m not gay or anything. Honest.”

“Okay, I believe you, Joey. But this “dressing up” has to stop. For your sake and Rafe’s sake as well. It’s not something two young men should be doing. I won’t say a word about this to your mother or Rafe’s father. But I will have a talk with Rafe. Now…” She handed me a tissue. “Dry your eyes. Your mascara’s going to run. Go upstairs to the bathroom, use my cold cream to remove your makeup and change back into your normal clothes.”

I dabbed at my eyes, trying not to sniffle, and walked toward the stairs. Erica, who’d been eavesdropping behind the kitchen door, climbed up the stairs with me.

Rafe rang the buzzer on the door at five minutes of 5PM. I’d been ready for half an hour and opened the door to find Rafe holding out a box containing a wrist corsage of pink sweetheart roses, a broad smile on his still handsome face.

“For you, Joey. Pink roses to match your rosy cheeks.”

“Oh, Rafe. I told you not to give me a corsage. It’s not the senior prom—”

“Trying to make up for missed chances, Joey. I should have asked you to the prom instead of Kelly Richards.”

“Oh that would’ve been just ducky. Our mothers would have had us institutionalized. And everyone at school would’ve tarred and feathered us, dropped us right into The Long Island Sound. This was 1981 in Port Jefferson not Greenwich Village—”

“They’d never have suspected. You’re my prom date from New York City. You would have been the belle of the ball in taffeta.”

“Thanks for the thought, Rafe, but I’m not going to wear that to the gala. I’m 58 years old!”

“I’ve heard that 58 is the new 18—”

I put my overcoat on and picked up my purse. Pushing Rafe out of the doorway, I turned to lock the apartment door.

“I assume your car is downstairs.”

“Yes, milady, your carriage awaits. Are you sure you won’t wear this?”

When we reached his rental Beamer, I noted that the interior was empty of passengers.

“I guess everyone else is in Martin’s car?”

“Oh, yeah, you’ll see when we get to the hotel.”

“You didn’t comment on what I’m wearing, Rafe. Is it okay? I went a little conservative. Not festive enough for a Christmas gala?”

“You look fine. Port Jefferson’s not a social mecca like New York or Los Angeles. As long as the price tag’s not showing.” I swatted him on the shoulder as he chivalrously opened the passenger side door for me.

Less than two hours later, we had just checked our coats outside the Hyatt Regency Ballroom. The cocktail hour was already underway but Rafe took me aside before I stepped inside. He led me back to the hotel lobby and told me to pose in front of the Christmas Tree, brightly festooned with tinsel and lights. After snapping a burst of pics with his phone, I returned the favor and ordered him to do the same. He looked very handsome in his tailored blue suit, a classic look for an evening event like this.

When we entered the ballroom, we could hear Christmas standards being played with a soft jazz lilt by a quartet sequestered in a corner of the stage. Rafe and I looked to be late arrivals as all the tables were occupied, cocktail glasses tinkling amid hushed conversations. When Rafe pointed out our table, I realized I’d been set up…again.

“I don’t think the rest of our party is late, Rafe. What’s going on?”

“They decided to go see Some Like It Hot instead. Martin’s friend was able to get seven tickets for tonight. You know the show’s sold out through March of next year—”

“No, really, Rafe. Tell me the truth.”

“It was Sally’s idea. She wanted us to have some time together. And I agreed wholeheartedly. Don’t be upset, Joey. The gala’s nice and there’s dancing after the main program. Indulge me. It might be last time we spend together for a long while.”

“We’ve barely seen each other in 20 years and now you’re worried about not seeing me for a long while? We’re not courting, Rafe. I’m getting married soon. How would you have managed tonight if Alastair had returned from LA yesterday? Just stared daggers at him for four hours?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course, I realize you’re getting married. I feel the need for some closure between us. We used to mean a lot to each other.”

“That’s a geological age ago. We had our closure when you left to take over your father’s firm and moved to D.C.”

“That, remember, was your choice, Joey. Don’t say it was mine—” The waiter came to our table and asked for our cocktail orders. “The lady will have a glass of Chablis, slightly chilled. I’ll have a vodka martini.”

“I could’ve ordered for myself.”

“I know what you drink, Joey. Was I right?”

“Yes, but…oooh, you’re so infuriating sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

Throughout the evening, people kept stealing glances our way. Well, it was an odd sight. Two seats filled at a table for eight. They must have thought we were some kind of billionaire couple slumming at a charity gala in the sticks. I had to fight the urge to slump down in my chair. Rafe, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He applauded at all the right moments in the opening remarks made by the Chairperson of the Port Jefferson Community Chest. I sipped my second glass of Chablis and tried to keep my yawns to a polite minimum.

The centerpiece of the program was a performance of a scene from the local Theater Three’s annual production of A Christmas Carol. I can never doubt that the universe has a way of speaking to you, perhaps announcing its inscrutable plans for you. Here I was, sitting in the ballroom of the hotel that hosted my high school graduation party, next to my first love, and they’re performing the scene from A Christmas Carol that most likely changed the direction of my life and, for all intents and purposes, tore that love from my very hands.

When Rafe recognized the scene as the one where Scrooge is confronted by The Ghost of Christmas Present, he looked directly at me, smiled, and mouthed “you.” For Rafe, it was an incident of minor import but for me, it was the event that forced on me the realization that Rafe and I could never be more than good friends, at least as long as I was Joseph rather than Joanne.

Dinner was served immediately after the Dickens scene (the audience gave the players a thunderous ovation) and Rafe and I chose the chicken rather than the fish dish. It was decent. Rafe joked we could go for pizza afterwards if we were still hungry. I seriously thought about going for pizza at that very moment. But Rafe said the auctions were the best part of the gala.

For a backwater town, Port Jefferson actually put up some impressive items for auction. A 14-day Mediterranean cruise with 6 ports of call was the top shelf item. The winning bid for that came to almost $22,000. I didn’t recognize the older couple that won. Not surprising. I haven’t lived in Port Jeff for 40 years. There was an autographed game-used football from some NFL quarterback who went to Port Jefferson High. That went for an amazing $2,000. There was pizza for a year from Bob’s Pizzeria on East Main Street. I nudged Rafe when that went up for auction but he didn’t bite, literally. There was a pair of paintings from our local celebrity painter, a new age primitivist, that ended up going for $5,000. A set of handmade wicker chairs and table that reminded me of the wicker chairs I had purchased at an estate sale the year before for my erstwhile house in Southampton. Other smaller items included a year’s membership in a popular health club in Stony Brook and four season’s tickets to New York Islanders hockey games.

A successful auction was had by all and the floor was cleared for dancing. Of course, Rafe took my hand and led me onto the dancefloor. The people who thought we were some celebrity couple made room for us, which just made me more self-conscious about how bad a ballroom dancer I was. Although Elizabeth and I did show out with the tango moves when she took me to that Argentinean restaurant in Los Angeles last summer. Truth to tell, she was the one actually dancing. I was being dragged around the dancefloor. In a sultry manner, nevertheless.

Rafe held me close as we slow-danced to the cocktail jazz that the band was playing. We said barely a word to each other, just moved to the music, our breathing the only sound that intermingled with the song the girl singer interpreted.

I thought about the night of our high school graduation party. The angry words exchanged between Kelly and Rafe as I stood by myself, an outsider, alone without a date, dressed even more casually than the most casually dressed members of the sports teams. I was startled when Rafe ran over to me and grabbed my arm. We exited the hotel and jumped into the car Rafe’s dad had bought him as a graduation gift. A steel blue Camaro Sport Coupe. As they say in all those B movies, we burned rubber, headed nowhere and everywhere at once.

Rafe stopped at a 7-Eleven on Nesconset Highway and bought a six-pack of Miller Lite. As we drove aimlessly around, Rafe unloaded all of his discontent to the night air. His parents had moved to Georgetown in Washington, D.C. because his father’s architectural firm had received a multi-million-dollar contract to design and build a dozen new hotels along the Eastern Seaboard for the world-famous Harriot Hotels company and their headquarters were in our nation’s capital. He was obligated to spend the summer in D.C. before attending M.I.T. in Boston, starting in September. He intended to declare engineering as his major. And he knew that I was headed to Los Angeles for the summer again to stay with my father and his girlfriend. In the Fall, I would matriculate at Columbia in the city. He almost screamed out that we might only see each other once or twice a year for the next four years at the very least. Given his emotional state and the six-pack of beer which he threatened to chug in record time while driving, I managed to out-chug him so he could stay relatively sober behind the wheel. When he reached for a can, I’d beat him to it. He really didn’t notice since he was in mid-rant. I was getting less lucid as the hours went by. I basically fall asleep when I’ve drunk a lot.

Sometime after midnight he must have stopped driving because I don’t really remember any more of that aimless rant-filled trip around the North Shore after we turned off the highway and apparently back-tracked toward town.

I heard a voice nearby muttering something I couldn’t quite make out. It took an effort but I opened my eyes. The sun was bright in the sky. It seemed clear I was lying on my back on wet grass. I turned my head slightly to the right and saw Rafe hovering above me. Finally, I could understand what he was whispering.

“So beautiful. Why are you so beautiful? It makes no sense. I love you, Joey…”

“Rafe? Rafe, where are we? Are we dead? Did you crash the car and kill us last night?”

“No, we’re alive. Good morning, Joey. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

“It’s good we’re not dead. Remind me never to ride in any car you’re driving again—”

“We’re on Mrs. Caruthers front lawn. Jesus, how did we get here? It’s 6:30 in the morning. Sally’s gonna kill us. She must think we’re dead.”

“How can she kill us if we’re already dead? Where’s your car?” I got to my feet and looked around. It was a suburban neighborhood on a typical late Spring morning. I couldn’t see Rafe’s car anywhere.

“That’s a good question. We couldn’t have walked very far from it…before we collapsed on the lawn.”

“Hey, you young hoodlums! Get off my lawn! I’m calling the police!”

Mrs. Caruthers, a widow in her late ‘70s, was wearing a ratty old bathrobe and brandishing a broom like a martial arts staff. I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it. We ran like the wind off her lawn in different directions until I turned and saw Rafe disappearing from view. I changed course and caught up to him. I was always a faster runner than him.

Sally didn’t kill Rafe when we showed up at his house half an hour later but my mother read me the riot act. She would have been even more long-winded but I had to catch a plane to Los Angeles later that day. It would be a whole two months before she’d be able to finish her harangue.

Somewhere in the dizzying emotional cocktail of memories of graduation night mixed with the seasonal musical warmth of a Christmas standard, there appeared a space where I allowed Rafe to kiss me deeply and tenderly, carrying the force of missed opportunity and regret. I think I actually swooned for a brief moment, so much so that Rafe had to hold me up as the song ended.

“It’s late, Rafe. And a long drive home. Thank you for the evening. I had a nice time.”

“I had the best time, Joey. The kiss was worth waiting 30 years for.”

We stood still in the middle of the dancefloor, even as the band started another Christmas song, a jaunty rendition of “Jingle Bells” done Andrews Sisters style. I brushed Rafe’s cheek.

“You know this is all I can give you, Rafe. A kiss goodbye, dear heart. Our lives have taken divergent paths. My future is with Alastair. You have a grandchild coming and a daughter who still needs a caring father—”

“Shhh. Don’t spoil the moment we just had. Come on, let’s head back home.”

Rafe held my hand all the way to his car in the parking lot. The only time he let go was when we had to put our coats back on after retrieving them from the checkroom. And that was only a matter of seconds. I’m sure everyone thought we were a middle-aged couple acting like teenagers. Which was funny since, in reality, we never acted like this when we were teenagers. Rafe came closer to kissing me at the time than ever holding my hand.

Even this late in the evening, it was a nearly two-hour drive back to the West Side of Manhattan. I begged off any conversation on the trip home. I felt exhausted and drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat next to Rafe as he drove, having stopped whistling some old pop song when I emphatically requested he do so.

He didn’t stop talking though, even if his voice remained barely above a whisper.

“I’m glad you’ve found someone, Joey. I hope Alastair and I can spend some time together before Christmas. Listen to me, I sound like a father who wants to give his daughter’s date the third degree before he takes her out…”

I must have murmured something in reply, not sure if I was dreaming this “conversation.”

“I guess I acted like a protective father when you introduced Elizabeth to me that time I visited you at Columbia out of the blue. She and I took an immediate dislike to each other, that much is true. But you have to admit, in the end, I was absolutely right about her. She did break your heart…”

After the graduation night party and the kerfuffle of the early morning hours of the next day, Rafe and I didn’t see each other for several months. I spent the last of my summers with my father in Los Angeles while Rafe reunited with his parents in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. In September, Rafe began classes at M.I.T. in Boston and I moved into Columbia University’s Carman Residence Hall on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

For the next two years, Rafe would visit me at school once a semester for a few days at a time. Although Sally had married Martin by this time and lived in an apartment only a dozen blocks from the Columbia campus, Rafe always chose to stay in one of the Harriott hotels in midtown. He’d get his father’s secretary to book the rooms. Usually, because of his father’s relationship with Harriott, they were gratis.

During his visits, we would take advantage of the city’s innumerable cultural events and culinary hotspots. With a Gold Amex card in hand, money was no object. I had the sense he was trying to impress me, going further than one would for a mere friend, even of such longstanding.

Each time, I would ask him if he was seeing anyone. He would smile and just say he was “socially active.” In return, he’d ask me the same. I answered honestly that I had few friends in school, never mind any kind of social life. A girl had asked me out once to see a festival program of classic noir films but she transferred from Barnard to Bryn Mawr almost immediately afterward. My sister thought I probably drove her to it somehow. Another time I plucked up the courage to ask a girl I worked alongside in Butler Library out to see a Talking Heads concert. She smiled sweetly and declined my offer, saying, “I don’t swing that way but I hear Lori is a lesbian so you should ask her…” This girl had shelved books in the stacks side by side with me for months!

Outside of these semi-annual visits (I visited him once in Boston in the Spring of our sophomore year), our only communication was by long-distance phone calls and letters and postcards (collecting postcards was one of his weird hobbies). I had to work summer jobs in the city both to earn some extra spending money and to keep out of my mother’s way. She re-married during my freshman year. To a fellow teacher at Port Jefferson High School. A nice guy, but I figured one less brat under foot would be a welcome balm for the middle-aged newlyweds. Rafe, for his part, had to spend summers working in his father’s architectural firm. The plan all along was Rafe would work alongside his dad after college and one day inherit the firm.

It was a party I had no desire to attend, even though it was being held in the common area on my dorm floor. One of the guys was celebrating dropping out of school and there was music, dancing, all kinds of noise and frivolity going on. The door to my room was not thick enough to hold back the din of voices and rock music so, sighing melodramatically, I surrendered and wandered into the mob of celebrants. I decided to do the socially correct thing and congratulate Eddie Gleason on becoming a roadie and guitar tech for The Cramps, a “psychobilly” rock band led by a husband-and-wife team who went by the impossible names Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.

Eddie was surrounded by my other floor mates and girls I had never seen before. One of them, a blonde girl wearing an NYU t-shirt appeared to be detached from the lively discussion going on. I sat down on the sliver of space on the couch that was available and offered Eddie my right hand. Eddie pressed his finger into my cheek as he always did. He thought it was funny.

“Hey, Joey, nice to see you’ve decided to join the living.”

“I was trying to study but the racket got too loud. So, here I am. Congrats, man.”

“Joey, meet my lady, Elizabeth. She’s an English major like you, except she’s at NYU, a decidedly second tier institution of learning. No offense, babe.”

“No offense taken.” She nodded at me and turned to the girl behind her to re-light her joint. She took a drag and held it out to me. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“No, thanks. I don’t partake.”

“Yeah, Joey’s a straight arrow. Well, he’s an arrow of some sort, I think. We can never quite figure him out. There’s beer on the table. Help yourself.”

“I’ll drink to your future success in music, Eddie.” I walked over to the table and picked up a can of Coors. “I’d prefer a Heineken but this’ll do, I guess,” I said to myself.

Elizabeth strolled across the room to the table, ostensibly to select a brew, but she looked straight at me, her head at an angle.

“You’re very pretty, Joey.”

“I’m a guy. Guys aren’t usually called pretty.”

“You don’t like being called pretty?”

“I guess I don’t mind.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Whoa, your boyfriend’s not ten feet away. He’s looking this way—”

“Ex-boyfriend. I’m not going on the road with him. He can throw his future away by playing at being a rock star but he’s not taking me down with him. I’m staying in school.”

“Good for you. Tough break for Eddie. If I were him, I’d rather stick with you than be a fuckin’ roadie for a couple of weirdos.”

“I think that’s a compliment. Thank you, Joey. I like you. There’s something…unique about you.”

“I’ve been told that before. But never in a nice way.”

“Let’s go back to my place. I’d like to show you the paintings I’m working on—”

“You mean etchings? Ha ha. That’s an old pick-up line.”

“Not interested? Don’t swing that way?”

“I’m not gay. People assume all sorts of things about me. They hardly know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you, Joey. Come on, let’s split this scene. It’s depressing the hell out of me.” I put my can of Coors, unopened, back down on the table. She did the same with her beer.

“What about Eddie?”

“Eddie who? Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the elevator. As the elevator doors opened, I could hear Eddie asking someone, “Where’s Elizabeth?”

Four months after I moved into Elizabeth’s loft apartment on Grand Street in the Tribeca section of downtown Manhattan, Rafe paid one of his semi-annual visits. I told him about my new address but he was dumbstruck when he emerged from the elevator to see Elizabeth and me standing there, hand in hand. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned Elizabeth to him.

By the time I placed the tray holding the demitasses of espresso and a plate of biscotti on Elizabeth’s antique coffee table, Rafe and she were deep in conversation. I felt ignored as they proceeded to interrogate each other like police detectives with a murder suspect. They were sparring over me!

As their animated discussion of me proceeded, Rafe would turn toward me now and again, a disappointed, almost hurt puppy expression on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about my relationship with Rafe, from early sandbox days to the present. She had never been curious about my early life in Port Jefferson. She did, however, wanted me to listen to her go on endlessly about her broken relationship with her mother. Having met her recently when her parents visited the loft during Spring Break, I thought she was a rather pleasant woman.

Finally, tired of being left out, I suggested we all go over to Chinatown and have dinner at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Silver Palace on Mott Street. It was a 5-minute walk from the loft. We all agreed and walked west at sunset, three abreast, with me sandwiched between Rafe and Elizabeth. Of course, the two of them argued over the check until I surreptitiously stepped away and paid the cashier myself. Then they argued over who should leave the tip. I just placed a fiver on the table, got up, and walked out to get some fresh air. I should have anticipated this, shouldn’t I?

The next morning, I walked over to the kitchen area to find Elizabeth on the phone, talking to Rafe. When she saw me, she quickly ended the call.

“What’s going on? Was that Rafe?”

“Yes, I told him our plans for today—”

“I didn’t know we had “plans.” Rafe was just going to drop by around six and see what we wanted to do. There’s a Le Corbusier exhibit at MOMA that’s got all these detailed scale models of his most famous buildings—”

“Oh, mercy, Joey! That sounds like SO much fun! I told Rafe we’re going to see Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan at The Lone Star Café tonight—”

“When did you get the tickets?”

“Tickets? Silly boy. We don’t need tickets. Eddie and I used to get in all the time for free. We know the doorman. It’s Eddie’s uncle or cousin or something like that.”

“We don’t have to wear like Western outfits, do we? I mean Lone Star’s country music, right?”

“Leave that to me, Joey. I have the perfect outfit in mind for you. You’ll see.”

The Lone Star Café stood on the corner of 5th Avenue and 13th Street from 1976 to 1989. Known for the gigantic iguana on its roof, The Lone Star was the pre-eminent venue for country music and allied genres. The biggest country artists and some rock and blues giants performed there, giving the lie to the belief that New York City was not a serious market for country-inflected music. As with everything else in NYC, it drew celebrities from every field of human endeavor to fill the room on any given night. That night Willie Nelson was the headliner but special guests included Bob Dylan, The Band, and, for comic relief, Bill Murray.

When Elizabeth discovered that I had dressed en femme in the past, she was unexpectedly accepting. In fact, she encouraged me to do it whenever I felt the urge (which I insisted I rarely if ever did). I made the mistake of telling her that I had once spent the better part of a day traipsing around Port Jefferson in various feminine outfits at the behest of Rafe, whose excuse was that he needed a model for his school art class project. Her eyes glowed with the light of a thousand suns whenever I spoke about it. Meeting Rafe was the last piece of the puzzle for her.

“I can’t wear that, Elizabeth. I’m not a drag queen. Rafe will be very upset. You’re wrong about our relationship. It’s not sexual—”

“You could’ve fooled me. The heat between the two of you is palpable. Darling, that boy is absolutely in lust with you. Totally. I think he’ll just explode when he sees you in this outfit.”

“Don’t make me do it, Elizabeth. Please.”

“I’m doing it for you, Joey. It’s got nothing to do with me. You and Rafe need some closure. It’s time to shit or get off the pot. Excuse my French.”

“He’ll probably never want to see me again.”

“Well, that’s your closure for you.” She entwined her arm around my waist and started to change the part in my hair with her other hand. “And then you can forget all about him. He’s not right for you. He doesn’t love you like I do.”

The outfit Elizabeth forced me to wear was, sadly, one of those huge fashion mistakes of the ‘80s. A maxi-length skirt, wide belt and crew-neck top, all in pastel colors. I looked like a refugee from an episode of Degrassi High or a Brat Pack movie. I drew the line at a side ponytail. Elizabeth wore a sensible denim mini skirt. When I upbraided her about that, she shrugged her shoulders and said she wasn’t the star of the show tonight, I was.

In the final analysis, I didn’t feel that embarrassed when I saw Rafe in his get-up. Acid washed jeans! My God, did he have no shame? Of course, it didn’t assuage my fears of going out in public dressed like a teenage girl…again.

“What do you think, Rafe? Doesn’t Joey look nice? Just they way you like her to look—”

“Did you just say her?” I crossed my arms and my lower lip formed an unconscious pout. Seeing that, both Rafe and Elizabeth broke out in laughter.

“It’s not funny. Just say the word, Rafe. I’ll go and change.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rafe. You know Joey’s been dying to dress up for ages. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

“Joey, is this what you want to wear?”

“Well, would it upset you? Really, it’s Elizabeth’s idea.”

“You look nice, Joey. I like your hair parted that way.”

“See, I told you, Joey. Rafe’s all for it. Let’s mach schau! As they said to The Beatles in Hamburg. The first show starts at 9. We’ll have enough time to grab some dinner first.”

“We’re…we’re…going to a restaurant? Dressed like this? I thought we’d just hit the Lone Star and come back home for a late dinner. I can cook a steak for you, Rafe, if you’d like—”

“She’s the perfect little homemaker, Rafe.”

The doorman at The Lone Star palmed the twenty Elizabeth slipped him and waved the three of us in. Inside, a large crowd was already gathering in front of the stage. Some of Willie Nelson’s band were already warming up, although the show wasn’t scheduled to start for another 20 minutes. A few of the band members were holding conversations with people in the crowd. I recognized Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher right off. Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd were there, bottles of beer in hand. Robert Duvall and Dustin Hoffman were standing at the bar, taking in the scene. Rafe pointed out someone who looked suspiciously like Linda Ronstadt but I wasn’t convinced. There were other celebrities we probably didn’t recognize.

We hurried to position ourselves close to the stage. Willie came out promptly at 9. As he was strapping his guitar on, his gaze fell on me and he actually winked at me. I smiled and probably blushed. I was going to excitedly tell Elizabeth and Rafe that Willie had winked at me when Willie charged right into his traditional concert opener, “Whiskey River.” I’d never been a big country music fan but Willie had me bopping to “Whiskey River” like I was a line-dancing veteran.

About half-way through the first set, Rafe asked us what we wanted to drink. He was thirsty and was going to make a run to the bar for a beer. We told him we’d have whatever he was having and he made his way through the crowd.

“I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. Give my bladder some room for the beer. Wanna come?”

I shook my head. I was really into another up-tempo number from Willie, “On the Road Again.” Elizabeth slipped away and I found myself alone, an island in a sea of Willie fans. As if sensing my unease, Willie looked down and winked at me again. I smiled in return and forgot all about my worries, even though Rafe and Elizabeth hadn’t come back yet. Willie was already into the last verse of his big hit, “Always on My Mind.”

I was trying to find a line of sight to the bar and see what was holding Rafe up when I felt a man’s rough hand grab my left buttock. I turned around and was face to face with Lonnie Duffy, the actor who starred in the popular police drama, Glock on the Beat. His breath reeked of beer, at least two 40-ounces worth. I tried to slap his hand away but he had a strong grip.

“Hey, baby, looks like your friends left you high and dry. You know who I am?”

“Yes, I do and I’d like you to take your hand off me!” His other hand was trying to cup my crotch through the skirt.

“Let’s go make some music of our own. You look like a girl who’s up for some fun.”

“Hey, take your hands off…her!” It was Rafe, three bottles of beer in his left hand, ready to swing at Duffy with his right.

“Go away, junior. You lost your chance. She’s with me now—”

The three bottles crashed to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere, including the other patrons. Rafe’s right cross landed solidly on Duffy’s jaw but, unexpectedly, he only wobbled for a second before popping back up to deliver his own jab to Rafe’s chin. That staggered Rafe but he put his head down and charged Duffy, wrapping his arms around him and driving him into the lip of the stage right in front of Willie Nelson. The band stopped playing and The Lone Star’s security guards rushed in to pull Duffy and Rafe apart. Quickly, the guards escorted us into the manager’s office. We were told that the police had been summoned. I took a pack of tissues from my purse and tried to clean up blood oozing out of Rafe’s split lip. The manager shot daggers at us with his eyes and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

The police arrived within five minutes and carted us off to the nearby police station where Duffy decided not to press charges, probably fearing the scandal would cost him his cushy TV job. I was going to press charges myself when Rafe reminded me in so many words that accusing Duffy of molesting me would be problematic for everyone concerned. That’s when I remembered that Elizabeth never returned from the Ladies’ Room. The cops allowed me my one phone call and I dialed the loft. Shockingly, Elizabeth answered.

“Elizabeth! What happened to you? Did you fall in or something? Why are you home?”

“What’s with the attitude, missy? You’re calling from Rafe’s hotel room, probably snug as a rug beneath silk sheets—”

“Elizabeth! Rafe and I are at the police station. You’ve got to come and pick us up. They’re being nice and releasing us. I’ll explain later. Just come pick us up.”

The next day, I accompanied Rafe to the train station. He was going to catch the 10:15 back to Boston. We stood on the platform and Rafe started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Me. I’m laughing at me. I’ve been blind. All this time—”

“Blind? Blind to what?”

“That you really don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you.”

“I love you, Rafe. As a friend. As a really, really good friend. The best. Look, you’ve come to my rescue so many times. I remember the time I almost fell off the monkey bars and you used your spider strength to hold on to me—”

“I love you Joey but more than as a friend. I don’t how but there must be a world where we can be together. You’re the most beautiful—”

The train rumbled into the station and I pulled Rafe back from the edge of the platform.

“Next time you visit, Rafe, I’ll cook you that steak I promised. I’ve gotten really good at cooking. Elizabeth doesn’t really cook…”

“Don’t argue with me, Joey, when I tell you. She’s not good for you. She’s got her own agenda in that squirmy mind of hers. She’ll break your heart one day and soon. I don’t know if I’ll be there to put back the pieces—”

“You’ll be there, Rafe. We’re best friends forever. Forever and always.”

“Take care, Joey.” He stepped into the train and didn’t look back as it pulled out of the station.

Years later, I was right. He was there to put the pieces back together. Elizabeth decided to sell her loft and use the money to pay for medical school. In the wake of that decision, our relationship ended. The fact that I had started to seek counseling in advance of transitioning was the last straw for Elizabeth. It had all been fun and games but now it was serious.

Rafe was a junior architect for a firm in New York City by then (he and his father had had a falling out of sorts) and was living on the Upper West Side. He offered a temporary place for me to stay until I could get a place of my own and I gratefully accepted. He waited for me on the stoop of his building. A friend for life.

Rafe woke me up when we arrived at Alastair’s apartment building. I had slept through the entire two-hour trip from Port Jefferson. I yawned and apologized for being a zombie.

“That’s alright, Joey. Having you sitting here next to me the whole time after the evening we had at the gala…just being with you again after all these years. You can’t imagine how much this has lifted my spirits. And just in time for the holidays.” He laughed.

“I had a nice time, Rafe. Thank you. I enjoyed myself too.”

“Joey, Harlow is looking at some apartments on the East Side. She’s graduating in May and she’s hellbent on finding a job in the city. Would you have some time tomorrow to help us out? You know much more about the city and the East Side specifically than Sally or Martin. And, as you know, I’ve lived in Maryland for almost 30 years…”

“Where are you looking?”

“Harlow says 2nd Avenue—”

“Well, I haven’t lived there in 25 years so…alright, what time?”

“We’ll pick you up around noon. There’s a nice place we can have lunch…”

Within a two-block radius of St. Mark’s Place in Manhattan’s East Village, you can have your choice of lunch cuisine: burgers and fries, fish and chips, sushi, Korean BBQ, Shanghai soup dumplings, Margherita pizza, or a felafel sandwich.

Harlow, Rafe’s daughter wanted pizza, but since I was their guest for the afternoon as they looked at co-op apartments in the area (for Harlow after she graduated from Georgetown in May), I voted for Mamoun’s, where I had their delicious signature felafel sandwich.

Of course, I asked for baba ganoush rather than their customary hummus. Harlow and Rafe didn’t agree with me that baba ganoush was healthier than hummus. It’s eggplant vs. chickpeas. Eggplant contains nasunin, an antioxidant that improves blood flow to your brain. It is also high in Vitamin C, which supports your immune system. Baba ganoush is lower by 72 calories per cup than hummus as well. I let them chew on that!

Many of the buildings on either side of 2nd Avenue from St. Mark’s Place to East 10th Street have been recently renovated into co-ops and condos. A bittersweet result of the ongoing gentrification of New York real estate. When I had lived in the East Village, after rooming with Rafe in his one-bedroom West Side apartment for several months, it was a veritable ghetto. There were homeless squatters in Tompkins Square Park. In the late ‘80s, riots broke out as police clashed with squatters and protestors alike. In 1990-91 when I moved in, you routinely had to step over prone, semi-conscious people as you came home from work.

After lunch, like troops making serpentine maneuvers across a battlefield, the three of us spent two hours checking out the buildings on 2nd Avenue until we reached the intersection of the avenue and East 9th Street. It was the building I had lived in 30 years ago, now brand, spanking new co-op units. They escorted us to the model apartment on the top floor.

While Rafe and Harlow examined the shiny new components of the re-configured one-bedroom apartment, I took in the view from the windows overlooking the neighborhood. To the west, St. Mark’s Church stands, its grounds surrounded by aging willow trees. They might have been planted just about the time I moved out of this building. To the east, you can see the northern tip of Tompkins Square Park. Rafe suggested we stroll through the park after Harlow’s done looking at apartments. He assures me the park is now navigable, unlike in its squatter-filled days. The voices of Harlow, her father, and the building manager faded in the distance as my mind reached into its memory bank to view once again the panorama of the time when Rafe and I actually lived together. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. To quote an obscure British writer of the 19th century.

“I think I can get a job and find my own place in a few weeks. Thanks so much for letting me crash until—”

“You can stay here as long as you want, Joey.”

We were sitting on his sofa in the middle of his sparsely furnished West Side apartment. It was definitely not anyone’s idea of a cool, urban bachelor pad. The sofa was not one that pulled out into a bed and it was rather lumpy in spots. The thought of having to sleep on that for more than a few weeks was disturbing. That aside, I was grateful to Rafe for letting me stay in his place on such short notice. It had only been days since Elizabeth had “notified” me that she was selling the loft on Grand Street and my tenancy as well as my relationship with her was terminated. My sister Erica had driven me and my meager possessions across town. She screamed at me and took Elizabeth’s name in vain several times as we crawled through mid-town traffic.

“No offense, Rafe, but sleeping on this lumpy sofa is not my idea of 4-star hospitality.”

“Well…you can sleep in my bed. I mean, it’s a California king size bed. Sally bought it for me as a housewarming gift. It’s big enough to sleep three…comfortably.”

“That would be…kind of awkward, embarrassing even. No, Rafe…just…no.”

“OK. It’s a suggestion. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a really large bed—”

“Rafe!”

It took longer to find a job than I had anticipated. My faculty advisor, Professor Edwards, offered me a teaching assistant-slash-researcher position but the amount I’d make wouldn’t cover Rafe’s monthly cable TV bill. And, given the baleful trajectory of my life recently, I’d lost the desire to complete my doctoral studies and teaching, at any level, was beyond the pale.

While I looked for gainful employment, scoring an interview every other week or so, I made myself useful by “decorating” Rafe’s apartment. He was unexpectedly quite free with my use of his credit cards as I picked up some kitchen necessities, utilitarian furniture, a few cheap but stylish posters to place on his bare walls, and some cds of music I liked (well, I needed to listen to something while I dusted). There was the moment when I caught myself sorting through the tie racks at Barney’s. Not for myself but for Rafe!

It dawned on me that, in the space of less than a month, Rafe and I had morphed into something more than temporary roommates. My days were spent in a manner not foreign to the stay-at-home wives who lived in our building. I picked up Rafe’s dirty clothes, did the laundry, cleaned, dusted, squeezed melons and sorted through green beans at Key Food, sampled the charcuterie bundle at Zabar’s before buying (the counter man at Zabar’s called me Mrs. Metheny since I always used Rafe’s credit card. It would infuriate me until I got home and then, for a good ten minutes, I’d watch Oprah and just cry), and cooked Rafe’s favorite dinner at least twice a week (he really liked mac and cheese).

We did things couples would do. Renting tapes from Blockbuster and sitting shoulder to shoulder watching goofy French films, falling asleep from fatigue or boredom. Going to street fairs and buying silly hats or cheap jewelry to wear. One time, during the Sixth Avenue Street Fair on the Sunday before Memorial Day, because Rafe had his hands full with the African baskets I had insisted we buy, I fed him a Jamaican beef patty from one of the food stalls. The crowd around us chanted, “Kiss her!” Finally, Rafe bussed me on the cheek. The crowd then chanted, “On the lips!” Blushing, I grabbed Rafe’s arm and we moved quickly away before they asked us to do more.

I discussed these matters with my therapist, Dr. Kwan, in my twice-monthly sessions. She just nodded and made some quick notes on her legal pad.

“It’s not like Rafe is asking me to do any of this. It seems to just organically happen. I’m just glad I’ll be able to live on my own once I get a job.”

“Is that something you really want, Joey?”

“What do you mean, doctor?”

“It sounds to me like you’re not unhappy about your current living situation. In fact, you’re as chipper as I’ve seen you in the six months we’ve had these sessions.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not having daily fights with Elizabeth. And rooming with Rafe is a lot less stressful than living with Elizabeth. Don’t you think that’s the reason, doctor?”

“The hour’s almost up. Let’s pick this up next time. If you secure a job by then, we can discuss your feelings about finding a new place to live.”

Then there was the issue of Rafe’s girlfriend, Rose Darling. Her full name was Rose Marie Heather Darling but preferred Rose Darling ever since her college roommate introduced her to the recordings of Steely Dan.

Rose was a Corporate Events Planner. At the time she was dating Rafe, she had just been promoted to Senior Planner for The Javits Center. The very model of the modern career woman, Rose was also stunningly beautiful. I could see why Rafe would be very smitten with her.

Due to their busy schedules, Rose and Rafe usually got together only once a week, usually on Saturday night. Dinner and a movie or a concert/show and then an overnight stay at Rose’s East Side apartment. About two months after I’d moved in, Rose accompanied Rafe home one Sunday morning with the express purpose of meeting me. Rafe had told her that I was a childhood friend who’d been “kicked out” by my ex. I would be staying with him until I got a job that would allow me to get my own place.

Of course, Rafe hadn’t bothered to tell me to expect Rose that morning and I was sitting at the kitchen table, having my second cup of coffee and munching on a slice of buttered toast, when they walked in.

“Joey, this is Rose. Rose, Joey.” I got up from the table and wiped my hands on my bathrobe.

“Pleased to meet you. Rafe, why didn’t you call me first? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake. And the place must look a mess—”

“Oh, no. Rafe’s apartment has never looked as neat and clean. And those art posters. You must have picked those out. Rafe thinks impressionism is what Rich Little does. You know, impressions of famous celebrities. And the couch. It’s so tidy, you’d never believe anyone had been sleeping on it just hours ago—"

Rafe jumped in. “Joey doesn’t sleep on the couch anymore. It was killing his back.”

“So, where do you sleep? Don’t tell me on the floor in a sleeping bag—”

Again, Rafe interjected. “Well, you know my bed is a California king size. Joey’s a pretty small guy—”

“You…you two sleep in the same bed?” She kept her eyes on me. I tried to cover my embarrassment with my coffee mug.

“Oh, Rose, it’s no big deal. We’re old buddies. We even took baths together when we’d stay over at each other’s houses—”

“Yeah, when you were 3 or 4 years old. Not when you’re grown men! Don’t you think this is…strange? Curious? Odd...”

“I’ll be moving out as soon as I get a job—”

“You’ve been here two months already. Are you even looking for a job?”

“Hey, Rose, don’t talk to Joey that way. He’s my best friend. He can stay here as long as he wants. And it takes time to find the right job. He’s not going to deliver pizzas—”

“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now, Rafe. But I’ve got a meeting at the Center at noon and I need to change. We’ll talk about this. I’ll call you later in the week.”

Rafe leaned in to kiss Rose on the cheek but she was already pivoting to the front door. Within seconds she had let herself out, slamming the door behind her. I looked at Rafe.

“You could have handled that better, Rafe.”

“She’s that way sometimes. It’s o.k. Say, is there any coffee left?”

But it didn’t turn out to be o.k. Their relationship petered out over the next few weeks as they saw each other and spoke on the phone less and less. Ultimately, Rose used the excuse of her all-consuming new responsibilities as Senior Planner to call off their involvement. Rafe took it like a man, an indifferent man, that is. He shrugged his shoulders when I probed to see if he was hiding his hurt feelings. At the moment, it gave me a frisson to see his non-reaction to his broken romance with Rose. Was Rafe simply a cold fish after all?

The week after they officially split up, we had our weekly Blockbuster night. This time, I had chosen to rent the classic Truffaut film, Jules and Jim, again. Rafe had never seen it and, oddly for him, he didn’t yawn halfway through it and nod off before it ended. One of my favorite films, it is a heady brew of romance and tragedy, idealized love and its wretched reality.

The story revolves around a love triangle: Jules and Jim, good friends, both fall in love with Catherine, a mercurial beauty whose inability to remain in place emotionally dooms their lives. Although she marries Jules and has a daughter with him, Jim cannot forget her and, in an inescapable turn of events, the three enter a menage a trois, living under one roof with Catherine and Jules’ daughter.

A miscarriage and Catherine’s divided loyalties separate the trio as Jim turns to an old girlfriend, intending to marry and forget Catherine. A chance meeting in Paris some years later leads to Catherine desperately trying to rekindle her love affair with Jim. When he demurs, she drives the two of them off a bridge to their deaths. In the end, Jules is left alone to raise their daughter Sabine.

When the movie ended, I hid my face from Rafe. He pulled my hands apart and saw the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Why?”

“Because. Because I can empathize.”

“With…”

“All three of them. I’ve been all three of them at one point or another. Stop looking at me, Rafe. I know I’m being silly—”

“You’re beautiful when you cry—”

“That’s stupid—”

“You look like Jeanne Moreau. No, you do. When you smile. You have the same crooked grin.”

“You’re telling me I look like a woman?”

“You are a woman. To me.”

Rafe moved his face closer, his lips pursed, eyes closed. I hesitated, then gave in to my feelings. Our lips met. It was a sweet, tender kiss. He knew I hurt. Not because of the movie we had just watched. For the years of not knowing who I really was. Even now, there was no certainty. I was like the Jeanne Moreau character, Catherine, unwilling or simply unable to choose between Jules and Jim. In the end, will I also destroy our lives like Catherine did? I separated my lips from Rafe’s and gently pushed him away.

“We can’t, Rafe. We shouldn’t. It’s not fair to you.”

“Why?”

“I can’t be to you what you need. Not now, maybe not ever.”

“I thought you were on the track to SRS. That’s why you’ve been seeing a therapist. To prepare you for transitioning. You’ll be a woman then. I mean, to me, you’ve always been—”

“I’m at the very beginning of the process, Rafe. There’s no guarantee that I’ll opt for the surgery. In the end, probably but… I’m not sure where I’ll be as a woman when I do. It’s a change in gender not necessarily in sexual orientation.”

“You mean you’re not attracted to me? You don’t have the same feelings I have for you? I love you, Joey. I’ve loved you forever.”

“I love you too, Rafe. I do. But I’m not sure I love you in that way. Not the way that you want. Or deserve. You deserve to have a wife and kids. To be like everyone else in society. You don’t want to be stuck with an…an oddity like me. I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed. We can talk with clearer heads tomorrow.”

Much later that night, I pretended to be fast asleep when Rafe finally slipped into bed. He kept his distance from me, lying almost on the far edge of the bed, facing away. After a few minutes, I could hear his rhythmic breathing. I had to fight the urge to turn and hold him close to me. It was an urge that transcended the physical. I loved Rafe in a way that neither he nor I could fully understand. For both our sakes, I knew I had to move out. Even if I had to deliver pizzas.

I redoubled my efforts to find a job. In the meantime, Rafe and I settled back into a less volatile domestic routine. I don’t think Rafe ever really accepted my reasoning but, in the next two months, we acted more like friendly roommates than potential lovers. For all intents and purposes, it was a happy time in our lives. Rafe was doing well at his architectural firm, having been promoted to project manager. He had decided not to work for his father after graduating from M.I.T. This led to bad feelings between the two but Mr. Matheny was not a man to hold grudges. Rafe was always welcome to return to the fold should he change his mind sometime in the future.

By a stroke of luck, I happened to bump into Eddie Gleason, Elizabeth’s old boyfriend, in Tower Records, shopping for cds. He was no longer a roadie for The Cramps but had carved out a career for himself as a jingle writer for an advertising agency. He proudly told me he was the one who wrote the jingle for that toothpaste commercial that runs seemingly a thousand times a day. After I told him about having split up with Elizabeth, I mentioned I was looking for a decent paying job. Remembering I was an English major with ambitions to write the Great American Novel, he gave me the name of the head copywriter at his agency. I contacted him and arranged for an interview. It was a bonus to discover he was also a Columbia alumnus. Perhaps my luck had truly changed.

To make a long story short, I learned they weren’t hiring in the copywriting department but there were opportunities in sales and program research in the TV networks from whom the agency bought advertising time. He gave me an entrée to someone at the FOX Network and, three weeks later, I was hired as a research analyst in the programming department.

Rafe was visibly dismayed when I told him. Add a month’s salary to the rapidly shrinking amount in my savings account and I would have just enough to rent a modestly priced apartment in the East Village. It meant Rafe and I had possibly six more weeks together. A rather subdued Rafe and I celebrated by having a veritable feast at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, The Silver Palace. Of course, even in a funereal mood, Rafe was able to put away two orders of General Tso’s Chicken. He also washed it all down with several glasses of Smith-Madrone Riesling, a Napa Valley white wine that goes well with Chinese cuisine.

I helped Rafe weave his way into the cab we hailed outside the restaurant. On the way home, Rafe made me promise to grant him a final wish before I moved into my new apartment.

“That’s weeks away, Rafe. Remind me then.”

“No, I’m giving you time to prepare for it.”

“Prepare?”

“You’ll see.” He dozed off as the cab turned up Broadway toward the Upper West Side.

It was a hot August night, to quote Neil Diamond, and Rafe and I were in line to enter S.O.B.s (Sounds of Brazil), the famous dancehall on Varick Street in The West Village. I would move into my new apartment on 2nd Avenue and East 9th Street on the first day of September. This evening of dancing to the salsa beats of Willie Colón was my parting gift to Rafe. The promise I had made to him weeks ago in that cab ride home. I had to prepare for it because Rafe insisted I dress up one last time for his pleasure. The outfit, the shoes, the hairdo, and makeup. My sister Erica helped out, going shopping with me and arranging for me to get the works done at the salon she frequented. Rafe wasted several rolls of film taking countless pictures of me throughout the evening. Joey stepping out the door of the apartment. Joey gingerly getting into the cab on the way to S.O.B.s. Joey half a block away from the entrance to S.O.B.s. Joey standing on line, waiting to go in. Joey trying to salsa dance. And so on.

The highlight of the night was Lonnie Duffy trying to pick me up. Again. Apparently, the star of Glock on the Beat, now in syndication after being cancelled, didn’t recognize me from the last time he tried to pick me up, seven years ago at The Lone Star. Rafe had taken a bathroom break so Duffy must have thought the coast was clear. He was much more laid back in his approach this time, trying to actually chat me up. I was about to remind him about our previous encounter when Rafe returned to the dance floor. Duffy took one look at him and, obviously, the weight of memory crashed onto his feeble brain, recalling the beating he’d received from Rafe years ago. He did a 180 and went off to hunt other game.

At the end of the evening, as we drank cups of chamomile tea to prepare for bed, I relented and allowed Rafe to kiss me good night. That turned into a real make out session and I let Rafe go to bed first, telling him I needed time to take my makeup off and put my clothes away. When I finally slipped into bed, he was out like a light.

After I moved out in September, we would try to get together on a regular basis but, as time went on, my new job started to dominate my life as Rafe’s job dominated his. By Thanksgiving of that year, we were tantamount to whispers in each other’s lives. Our answer machines were full of apologies for last-minute cancellations and work-related excuses.

In December, Rafe had an announcement to make and I dropped by his West Side apartment to hear it.

“Dad’s latest round of chemo didn’t work out. The doctors think there’s nothing more they can do. They give him six months—”

“Oh, Rafe, I’m so sorry.”

“The upshot of all this is that I’ve agreed to take over the company. It’s his final ask and mom’s too. I’m leaving for Silver Springs in two weeks.”

“I’ll miss you, Rafe. We keep moving away from each other, it seems.”

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Joey. We don’t have to be apart. Come with me. We can build a life together in Maryland—”

“Rafe, I—”

“Johns Hopkins is just 40 minutes away from Silver Springs. You can have your SRS there—”

“Your family won’t have me, Rafe. You know that. They’ve never accepted me. This would turn into a shitstorm. You don’t deserve that.”

“My father likes you. He accepts you—”

“Fine. The only one in your family who does and he’ll be gone in six months. I didn’t mean it to sound that way—”

“So, the answer is no?”

“I wish with all my heart it was yes, Rafe, but our lives are headed in different directions. It’s better if we part ways now. I’ll always love you, Rafe. I’ll never, ever forget you.”

We hugged. I kissed him. A kiss that would be the last between us for 30 years. And then I took the stairs down instead of the elevator. He waved goodbye, a forlorn look on his face. I ran down the stairs and out into the street, my eyes red and watery.

Rafe’s voice, thirty years later, calling to me. I turned away from the window. Turned away from the tops of the willow trees surrounding St. Mark’s Church. Turned toward Rafe and Harlow crossing the room toward me.

“Joey, I think we’re done here. Harlow really likes the layout and the neighborhood is greatly improved over what it was when you lived here—”

“Daddy, I’m supposed to meet Jenny for an early dinner and then we’re seeing Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center. They’re performing the score live to go along with the movie! Thanks for your help, Joey! See you later, Dad.”

After she left, Rafe turned to me, a wry smile on his face.

“It’s a nice brisk day for a walk in Tompkins Square Park.”

“It’s not the most scenic park in the city, Rafe.”

“The only sight I want to see in that park is the sight of your face. We don’t have much time to spend together. Christmas is just a couple of days away. We can walk and talk.”

He extended his hand to me. I took it.

It was the second day of winter and the afternoon sun was already waning in an overcast sky when Rafe and I entered Tompkins Square Park. After his daughter Harlow had gone home to get herself ready for an early dinner and a special showing of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center, Rafe proposed that we stroll through the park. As this might be the last chance for us to spend time together for a possible span of years, I acceded to his wish.

Rafe stopped at The Temperance Fountain and pointed out the sign board standing some feet to its side. A poster announced nighttime walking tours of the East Village that commenced at 6PM, Mondays through Saturday, right here at the Fountain.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

I shook my head no. He plucked his phone out of a coat pocket and looked at the screen.

“It’s almost 4. Let’s have afternoon tea at The Palm Court in the Plaza and take the walking tour tonight. It’ll be fun. It’s been 30 years since I’ve seen this part of the city after sundown.”

“The Palm Court? Even for afternoon tea, you need a reservation—”

“I confess, Joey. I made the reservation earlier this morning before we picked you up for lunch. It was Harlow’s idea—”

“What if I had plans for the afternoon?”

“I guess I like to live dangerously? In any case, I’ve never been so maybe I might have gotten lucky and met an attractive, unattached blonde who reminded me of you there.”

“You cheeky bastard!”

“Seriously, Joey, we’d better hurry. The reservation is for 4 and that gives us half an hour to get uptown—”

“You didn’t plan ahead and order an uber in advance?”

“Actually I did.” Looking at his phone. “In fact, our uber just turned left off the FDR Drive onto East 10th Street. It should be here in…2 minutes.”

“You planned an entire day out, didn’t you? Under the pretext of showing Harlow apartments in the East Village…”

“She is moving here after graduation and you did live here for a while…”

Afternoon tea at The Palm Court in the Plaza Hotel is not an ordinary coffee break at Starbucks. Indeed, it’s tantamount to afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace with the Monarch. The interior of the Palm Court resembles an outdoor café in Tangiers, with its ceiling-high palm trees, trellis detailing, and custom furnishings with cane accents. The stained-glass dome allows sunshine to highlight the sumptuous items on the menu.

We ordered the Plaza Signature Tea. A pot of Earl Gray from China, with bergamont and safflower petals. A selection of sandwiches including salmon, English cucumber, honey ricotta, and foie gras macaroon. Cherry and truffle scones. Pastries and sweets such as lavender macaron, strawberry and cream delice, lemon verbena egg custard, and chocolate Manjari black forest sable. All for $125 per person. For an extra $30 per person, a glass of Brut champagne could be added. I vetoed that, even as Rafe nodded devilishly.

“I don’t know if you recall, Joey, but Sara and I stayed here at The Plaza for two nights before we flew to Paris for our honeymoon—”

“I do remember that. Your mother and sister repeatedly mentioned your honeymoon in Europe during the welcome dinner. In fact, Sally made a point of telling me your entire itinerary, with details of your hotel accommodations. She even regaled me with a minute-by-minute account of how the women from both families took Sara shopping for her trousseau on Fifth Avenue.”

“I apologize for Sally. I didn’t know she’d been such a bitch to you at the wedding—”

“Well, you were kind of busy…”

We tucked in and, for the first 20 minutes, we allowed the classical music being piped in to accompany our meal and provide us with an excuse to not speak. Our eyes did a furtive dance and I felt myself blushing like a teenage girl admiring the cute dimples in her date’s whisker-free cheeks. Even now, forty years later, Rafe could make my heart melt when he flashed his goofy grin at me.

“I had serious reservations about accepting the invitation, Rafe. I was shocked that you’d even invited me in the first place. You hadn’t seen me since I had the surgery—”

“You looked even more beautiful than I imagined. I was so stoked to see you…finally as the woman I’ve always known you to be.”

“I was shocked your mom allowed you to invite me—”

“Well…she wasn’t happy about it. But you know who convinced her? It was Sara. She wanted to meet you. I guess I talked about you a lot.”

“Sara was a sweet girl. You made a great choice, Rafe. She gave you two wonderful children. And she was head-over-heels in love with you. I could tell.”

Rafe pulled out his phone and scrolled to a picture of his family of four in a gondola, on vacation in Venice, at least a decade ago.

I held Rafe’s phone in my left hand and took in the smiles on the faces of his family as they sat in the gondola, leisurely drifting down a canal in Venice. For a brief moment, I saw my own face in Sara’s place, laughing with joy, my arms around Rafe and Harlow. My husband and my youngest child. I had to take a quick sip of tea to clear my head. I didn’t want to start to cry.

“You must know how I feel, Joey. When you lost Emily. I wanted to come to the funeral but I was swamped with business shit. Sara offered to go in my place—”

“I understood, Rafe.” I returned his phone. “It’s not even five. What do we do for an hour before the walking tour starts?”

Rafe placed his Amex Black Card on the tray on which our check had been proffered. Our server almost clicked his heels when he saw it and gave Rafe an admiring glance.

“Are you a billionaire yet, Rafe?”

Laughing, Rafe answered my jab. “A few years ago, I would have said I’m working on it. Now, I’m looking at selling the firm—”

“What are you thinking of doing?”

“Traveling. Seeing the world. I looked at some brochures online for around-the-world cruises recently. I’d start small. Maybe a Mediterranean cruise. I might even buy a seat on one of Jeff Bezo’s spaceflights. Of course, it’d be a tragedy to travel alone.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble meeting someone new, Rafe. You’ve probably got half the single women in D.C. in cold sweats right now trying to figure out how to snag you.”

“The only woman I’m interested in is spoken for.”

“Rafe…I…” Rafe took my hand in both of his.

“I’m not a fool, Joey. I know my chance with you ended 30 years ago. I just wanted to spend some time with you before you absent yourself from my life again. Maybe in another 30 years, Joey, we’ll find each other in the same nursing home.”

“Or another life. One in which I was born female instead.”

“Do you believe in the multiverse, Joey? Do you think somewhere in another universe, Joey and Rafe are living happily –”

“With two kids, a two-car garage, a paid-up mortgage, nice neighbors named Bill and Sue, and a house convenient to shopping, medical care, and good public schools?”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“I hate you, Rafe Metheny! You paid $300 to see me cry my eyes out, didn’t you?” I shot up from my seat. Before I started to really blubber, I hurried to the Ladies’ Room. I ended up comically zigzagging through the room as one of the servers pointed me in the right direction.

We decided to wait for our uber back to Tompkins Square Park in the lobby of The Plaza Hotel. After refreshing my makeup, I had gathered my emotions enough to sit silently on one of the Chesterfield sofas in a corner of the lobby, to one side of a wall-length fixed window. Rafe was reading texts he’d received during the day while I listened to my “calming” music – Satie and Debussy. We avoided looking at each other but Rafe’s hand gently nudged mine and we interlaced fingers.

The music spurred memories of the time after Rafe left New York to take over his dying father’s architectural firm in Washington, D.C. I had moved to that tiny apartment on 2nd Avenue and was doing well at FOX, advancing from analyst to manager to director of Programming Research. Rafe and I tried to stay in touch but our work and his family issues made it difficult to physically get together. Over time, our contact dwindled to a phone call now and then and, perhaps, a semi-annual visit, specifically when Rafe’s business presented the opportunity to come to New York.

About a year in at FOX, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that our employee health insurance package had newly added transgender issues to its coverage. Rumor had it that this came about because the child of one of its highest-ranking executives was MTF trans. With some trepidation, I approached our HR department with my own situation. I was relieved to find that they were more than professional about it. They set me up with a therapist (who I found much easier to work with than my previous one) and an endocrinologist who prescribed a regimen of HRT for me. I began to undergo the Real-Life Test, gradually presenting in a more feminine mode. While it was not all smooth sailing, most of my co-workers and bosses accepted me as a transwoman. The best moment came when our owner’s son rode the elevator with me alone and did a double take when he saw me in a skirt and floral blouse. He invited me to lunch one day soon after and encouraged me to transition, saying that, unlike his father, he believed in the axiom, “live and let live.” I walked back to the office with a decided strut in my step. A little bit of acceptance goes a long way.

In 1994, after more than three years of HRT, I had GRS done at St. Francis Memorial in San Francisco. I spent almost a month recovering from the surgery in San Francisco. It was a painful time, made tolerable because my Aunt Lori came up from Los Angeles to stay with me and act as my caregiver.

Lori wasn’t really my aunt. She’d been my father’s girlfriend during the years he’d lived in Los Angeles after my parents separated. Lori was an unrepentant hippie chick, 20 years younger than my dad. My father demanded I spend summers with him and, early on, Lori discovered that I cross-dressed. She kept my secret from dad and we had loads of fun shopping for clothes and generally acting like two teenage Valley girls, although I was the only one under the age of 20. Even after dad died when I was in college, Lori and I stayed in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and being steady pen pals through the years. She lives in Riverside nowadays. She and her daughter are yoga instructors.

In the Spring of 1995, almost 4 years since Rafe and I had parted ways, I was shocked to receive a wedding invitation from Rafe. He was marrying a woman named Sara in June. From the looks of it, it was going to be one of those ballyhooed society weddings that receive a ton of column inches in the Sunday lifestyle section of The Washington Post. As I surmised, the wedding was being held at the D.C. Harriott Hotel, just a few blocks from The White House.

My first instinct was to politely decline. I was certain Mrs. Metheny would be relieved to know I wouldn’t be showing up to ruin her son’s gala wedding. I was also reluctant because Rafe had yet to see the “new” me. He had planned to visit me in San Francisco the year before but had to cancel due to “business” conflicts. I took his excuse at face value but wondered if he was ready to close the door on my chapter in his life. Certainly, I knew he felt I had rejected him when I declined to accompany him to Maryland four years before. But it was for the best. For him and me.

Alastair Knowles was a recent addition to the FOX universe. After winning an Emmy for his work with Ed Bradley on CBS’ 60 Minutes, the 28-year-old wunderkind had been recruited to be in charge of Non-Fiction Programming for our primetime network. Friends at CBS warned me he was a skirt-chaser. I scoffed and said he’ll do a 180 when he discovers I’m a transwoman. That is, if he even gives me a second look. But after six months working in the same building, seeing each other at meetings, running into each other in hallways and kitchens on several floors, we became…I guess the proper term would be…buddies.

It began with discussions of industry topics while filling our mugs with the bilge that comes out of those k-cup coffeemakers, moved to popular movies, comic books, strips, anime, music and finally graduated to our personal lives. At least once a week (when he was in New York and not in his office away from the office in L.A.), he’d drop by my tiny office to invite me to lunch. Sometimes it would be a hotdog from the street vendor across the street; sometimes it would be The Russian Tea Room or a pub like The Playwright on West 49th Street if it was a nice day for a longer walk.

The day after I received the invite to Rafe’s wedding, for whatever reason, it ended up on top of my desk when Alastair sauntered in just before noon.

“That’s a colorful envelope. Party invitation?”

“Oh, hi, Alastair. Yeah, sort of a party. It’s a wedding invitation.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Rafe Metheny.”

“Oh.” In exchanging our life stories, I had told Alastair all about Rafe. Sometimes I felt cheated because what Alastair told me about his life wasn’t all that dramatic. Basically, he was the only child of an English father and a French mother, who had moved to the States just a year before he was born. Alastair’s father, Robert Knowles, had been a political reporter for ABC and CBS until his death in an airplane crash in 1988. After an exemplary scholastic career culminating in a degree from Harvard, Alastair went to work at CBS News as a writer-producer, ending up as Ed Bradley’s right-hand man. He dated a lot of women but he didn’t deign to talk about his conquests. At least not with me.

After reading the invitation, he stroked his bearded chin and exclaimed, “Accept it. Go! You know you want to.”

“I don’t think so. I told you about Rafe’s mom. And his sister Sally. Oh my God. The other thing is…who would I get to be my plus one?”

“It’s a two-day thing, right?”

“Yeah, the welcome dinner is Friday night, the ceremony and reception are on Saturday.”

“No problem then. We’ll miss one day of work—”

“We?”

“Of course. I’m your plus one.”

“No, Alastair, I can’t ask you to come with me. I’ll check with my sister and she if she can trust her husband to watch the kids for a couple of days—”

“Nah. We’ll take my car. Your bucket of bolts will probably die somewhere west of Philadelphia.” He stared me down before I tentatively nodded yes, o.k., you win.

“Won’t your current girlfriend – what’s her name again? – be upset to see you going to a wedding with another woman?”

“Who? Amanda? We broke up. Last night. She was fun but exhausting. You know?”

“Spare me the details, Alastair.”

He handed me a pen and prompted me to reply to the invite. “Be sure to check the box for bringing a guest. Otherwise, I’ll have to share your hotel room. And my back is problematic so sleeping on the floor or in a chair just won’t do—”

Friday, June 16th, 1995, was a hot day in New York City. At 11AM when Alastair picked me up at my apartment on 2nd Avenue, it was already in the mid-80s Fahrenheit. He whistled when I emerged from the building in my summer frock, carrying my overnight bag. I was shocked to see Alastair had shaved off his beard. I whistled in return.

“So what’s with the no beard look, Alastair? You think these society girls will swoon over your clean-cut looks—”

“They normally do. But I’m not hunting big game. I’ve got the first prize right here in the passenger seat—”

“Save the sweet talk, mister. We’re just wedding buddies this weekend.”

“You’re a hard nut to crack, Joanne.”

“Legumes are that way, Alastair. Now, how long will it take to get to D.C.?”

“It’s 4 hours give or take 10 minutes on I-95. We have time to stop for lunch in Princeton.”

“You know places for lunch in Princeton? And I’m not having a hotdog, Alastair…”

Sitting in a booth in PJ’s Pancake House on Nassau Street in Princeton, New Jersey, about two hours after we left Manhattan, I remarked to Alastair that we were probably the oldest patrons in the room.

“Yeah, well, the university’s just a few blocks that way.”

“How do you know about this place?”

“My high school girlfriend went to Princeton. Whenever I visited her, we’d have breakfast here. The pancakes are really good.”

“Suppose I’m not in the mood to have pancakes for lunch?”

“I’m still trying to figure out what your real appetites are—”

“We’ve had lunch dozens of times—”

“Not talking about food.”

“Hand me the menu, will ya? Maybe I can get a green salad.”

“I’m really looking forward to meeting this Rafe character. Sounds like a real jerk. One of those rich kids full of entitlement. How could he even think of dumping someone like you. I mean, you’re the most remarkable woman I’ve yet to meet in this industry.”

“Some people would beg to disagree with you.”

“That you’re remarkable?”

“No, that I’m a woman.”

“None so blind as those who will not see, Joanne. Fuck ‘em. And fuck Rafe for dumping you.”

“I dumped him, not the other way around.”

“Technically. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, did he?”

“Alastair, you don’t know all the facts. It’s not all Rafe’s fault.”

I ended up throwing caution to the wind and had the burger and fries. I’ll go light on the welcome dinner tonight to make up for it. Rafe actually ordered a stack of pancakes. He said it was nostalgia.

It took us another two and a half hours to reach The Harriott Hotel in Washington. On the way, Alastair insisted on playing his mix-cds. Insisted because, after all, it was his car and he was doing all the driving. Some of the songs were, in my opinion, straight trash. A lot of Beastie Boys and hip hop and rap. But then there was a stretch of decent pop stuff I could actually enjoy listening to. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I didn’t ask him to but Alastair held my hand all the way from the parking lot to the hotel. I suppose he wanted to impress upon everyone that he was my “date.” Which came in handy when we walked into the lobby. Acting as official greeter was Sally, Rafe’s older sister. The look on her face when she saw me and then Alastair was priceless. Her jaw almost hit the floor.

“Hello, Sally. I see you’ve been drafted to be the official greeter—”

“Joey. You…you look…”

“I had the procedure done almost a year ago, Sally. I thought Rafe would’ve told you.”

“Did he? I guess he must have. It slipped my mind?”

“Sally, this is my friend Alastair Knowles. Sally is Rafe’s sister. You’ll meet her husband Martin at dinner.”

Sally took me aside and, in a whisper, asked, “Does he know about you?”

Alastair said in a loud voice, “Yes, I do, Sally. And it makes her extra special to me. I suppose Rafe wouldn’t agree—”

“Alastair, please. We’re guests here. Sally, it’s good to see you. It’s been years.”

“It’s…good to see you too, Joey. Do you still go by Joey?”

“It’s officially Joanne now but I answer to Joey too. Especially if it comes from a friend.”

“You guys should check in. The welcome dinner’s at 7 in the banquet room. You’ve got time to freshen up. Maybe even have a lie down. Are you in separate rooms?”

“Yes, Sally. I checked that box on the invite. See you later at dinner.”

Out of the corner of my eye, as Alastair checked us in at the front desk, I caught a glimpse of Rafe and Sara, apparently just now returning from rehearsal, walking toward the bank of elevators. They were chuckling over some joke Rafe had just made. His head swiveled when he heard Rafe say my name to the desk clerk.

I smiled. He took Sara’s hand and quickly approached. Before I could open my mouth to exchange greetings, he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me for dear life. Sara looked on, a confused look on her face.

“Joey! I’m so glad you came! Sally, look at Joey! She’s…she’s beautiful. You look marvelous.”

“I can’t breathe, Rafe.” He released me. “You look handsome as usual too, Rafe. Is this your bride-to-be? Sara?”

“Oh, yes, Sara. This is Joey Prentiss.” To me. “She knows all about you, Joey. She knows we’ve been best buds since we met in a sandbox.”

“Joey, I’ve wanted to see you in the flesh for years. Rafe can’t stop talking about you. You know, a girl can get a little jealous hearing how highly her husband-to-be regards you. And your back story is remarkable—”

“Remarkable is the word,” interjected Alastair. “Hi, Rafe. I’m Alastair Knowles. I’m Joanne’s plus one.”

“We work together at FOX. He was nice enough to agree to drive us down here. Rafe, you know what a terrible driver I am. 3 to 1 odds I wouldn’t make it past Philadelphia.”

“So you two aren’t…?”

“We’re workplace friends.” I looked down at the carpet, not wanting to look straight into Rafe’s eyes.

“We’re going up to our room and freshen up. You guys should settle in and do the same. See you at dinner. Let’s talk between speeches. O.K.?”

“O.K.? Joey?”

I turned toward Rafe’s voice. We were standing near the Temperance Fountain at the entrance to Tompkins Square Park. Apparently, the last hour since we sat down in the lobby of The Plaza had elapsed with me in a fog of remembrance. I couldn’t recall getting into the uber, the ride downtown to the park, even walking through the crunchy snow to the fountain.

“O.K. what?”

“We’ll do the walking tour on our own. Looks like they left without us. We got here five minutes late. Are you alright, Joey? You look a little dazed.”

“I’m fine, Rafe. Really.”

“You’re cold. It’s chilly after sundown. The wind whips around too.” He stepped close to me and wrapped his arms around me. “This’ll warm you up. Better?”

“Oh, Rafe! I’m sorry…”

“Sorry about what?”

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t answer him. His shoulder muffled my sobs as he held me tight against the dark night’s cold wind. Rafe kissed the top of my head and sighed.

I handed Rafe a mug of hot chocolate as he stood by the windows of Alastair’s apartment, peering out onto Perry Street, seemingly deep in thought.

“Thanks, Joey.”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I don’t know if they’re worth that much. No, just flashing back to the wedding. That was the first official farewell tour.”

“First? I didn’t know there was a second—”

“It’s funny how Alastair ends up being there for both. Yes, I know he’s not here physically right now. But that ring on your finger announces his presence nonetheless.”

“It doesn’t mean we can’t stay in touch. We’re friends for life, remember?”

“I take back what I said at The Palm Court. I am a fool, Joey. A fool for giving up on us thirty years ago and still a fool today for thinking I could bring you back into my life…after all these years.”

“It was a decision we both made. Maybe not at the same time but eventually you accepted the logic behind it. Sara made a much better wife and partner for you than I would have ever been. You know down deep that’s true.”

“If you say so. I should have tried to find out. I was weak. I did what mom and Sally expected me to do. Take over dad’s company. Marry a nice girl, have kids, give mom grandchildren, bury my own hopes and dreams. You were always the stronger one between us, Joey. God, I folded like a house of cards, the first time I was tested—”

“Hopes and dreams, Rafe? You can’t begin to count the hopes and dreams I’ve had shattered in my life. I don’t know how I’m still here, mind and soul relatively intact.” I gently placed both hands on Rafe’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes. “We can’t re-litigate the past, Rafe. We can only make the best of the present. Sell the company, put those travel plans into action, reward yourself for the successes you’ve achieved…your family, the building designs you’ve made—”

“The cherry on top would have been getting back together with you. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

“What’s this about a second farewell though?”

“Martin and Sally have a country house in Kingston, upstate. They spend Christmas and New Year’s up there every year. Harlow and I are heading up there on Friday, Christmas Eve, with the rest of the gang. So…tonight’s the last time we’ll see each other for…who knows? Another couple of decades? I think my joke about meeting up again in a nursing home might turn out to be prescient.”

“That’s too gloomy by half, Rafe. Now that you’re taking early retirement, you’ll have enough time to see your friends more often. I’ve heard there’s things called airplanes that can take you anywhere in the world within hours. Or, better yet, drive across country, see the USA in your Chevrolet…”

“If that’s an invitation then I’m accepting. Are you sure Alastair won’t mind?”

“He wouldn’t try to stop me from seeing you, Rafe. He knows there’s a bond between us that’s way beyond any romantic suspicions.”

Rafe looked at the gold Omega Speedmaster watch on his left wrist as he placed the empty mug in his right hand on the coffee table.

“I guess this is good night and goodbye…for now. I’ve had a wonderful day, Joey. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and congratulations on your nuptials. Be happy, Joey.”

“I will, Rafe. It’s taken six decades but I think I’ve gotten it right this time.” I helped Rafe with his overcoat and walked him to the door. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and I followed him with my tearing-up eyes as he made his way slowly to the elevator, looking back over his shoulder twice. We exchanged waves as the doors closed.

The tryptophan in my cup of hot chocolate refused to bring on sleep. Almost two hours after Rafe left, I was still sitting in Alastair’s favorite easy chair, thoughts gnawing away at me. Thoughts about Rafe’s wedding. I could still hear the song Sara had the band play for the bride and groom’s first dance at the reception. I could still see Rafe and Sara slow dancing to it, her face a portrait of joy, his smile more restrained but still wide as he whispered in her ear something that made her giggle. Alastair, sitting next to me, grabbed my hand and squeezed.

The slow torture of conflicting emotions started at the welcome dinner on Friday evening. It was held in the Banquet Room of The Washington, D.C. Harriott Hotel. I’m sure they’d gotten a good deal for having the wedding weekend there, though neither Rafe’s nor Sara’s families had any worries about the expense. The hotel, located just a few blocks from The White House, had been built decades before Rafe’s father began designing for The Harriott Group. Still, you could tell by the presence of so many Harriott family members as invitees that there was never a question as to the wedding venue.

As is customary, there were speeches galore from both sides of the aisle. Rafe’s best man and Sara’s maid of honor actually used a PowerPoint presentation to accompany their comedic and “embarrassing” anecdotes about the bride and groom. I almost gasped out loud when one of the slides was a picture of Rafe and me on a playground seesaw when we were about 5 years old. Rafe’s best man, blessedly, did not identify me. The slide was just one in a series tracing Rafe’s childhood from toddler to teenager. Still, I unconsciously shifted in my seat so that I was out of the line of sight. Just in case someone like Sally might point me out to everyone.

After dessert and coffee, the guests mingled. Predictably, Rafe and Sara made a beeline to our table, with Martin and Sally in tow. After Rafe introduced me to our immediate neighbors as a childhood friend, there came the inevitable question.

“But why didn’t I see her in any of those photos? I certainly would have recognized such a pretty girl,” declared a woman from across the table.

“Oh, she was in a lot of those photos,” Sally interjected.

“I don’t recall seeing her. She couldn’t have changed so much from when she was a child,” stated another woman at the end of our table.

“Some people change a lot,” Sally teased. “Some people even change sex—”

Rafe put his arm around my shoulders. “Sally is being a little clumsy in trying to tell you that Joey here has transitioned to her true gender. She is now, as she always was meant to be, a woman. I’m very proud to have been best friends with Joey since we were knee high to a grasshopper.”

Everyone at the table seemed stunned. There was an awkward silence that lasted a full minute before one man directly across from me remarked, “You’re joking, right? She was a man?”

“Here we are in the capitol of the United States of America and the stench of bigotry seems to be gaining in redolence at this table—”

“Alastair, please. I don’t think the gentleman was disparaging me. Were you?”

“Oh, no. I was just…shocked. You’re very feminine. I would’ve never guessed. I apologize if you thought I was being offensive—”

“It was a normal response to an abnormal circumstance,” Sally pointed out. “After all, I think Joey’s the only transexual I’ve ever personally met.”

“I think they prefer to be called transgender these days,” the woman at the end of the table offered.

“Yes, that’s true. But it’d be fine if you just call me Joanne or Joey.”

Sara took hold of Rafe’s arm and nodded toward one of the other tables. “Darling, we should circulate. There’s the Hendersons and Uncle Walt waving to us.”

“See you tomorrow, everyone. Are you all taking the White House tour in the morning?” Rafe asked.

Everyone nodded. Before they all walked off, Rafe turned to me and winked. Sally caught the wink and frowned but Martin pulled her away before she could say something to Rafe.

I caught sight of myself yawning in the full-length mirror in my hotel room, wearing Rafe’s white dress shirt that I’d secretly kept all these years since the brief time we’d shared an apartment. I was halfway across the room to the bed when there was a knock on the door. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand and read 11:12PM. Buttoning up my shirt, I went to the door and asked who it was, thinking it was probably Alastair.

“Joey, it’s Rafe. Can I talk to you?”

I opened the door, clutching the shirt around me, regretting not having availed myself of the robe provided by the hotel.

“Rafe, it’s late. What in the world—”

“Joey, so that’s what happened to my shirt.” I pulled him into the room and closed the door.

“How do you know it’s yours?”

“My monogram’s on the cuffs.”

“Oh. Do...do you want it back?”

“No, frankly, you look better in the shirt than I ever did.”

“What do you want, Rafe?” We sat down on the two chairs on either side of the bistro table. I made sure to pull the shirt tails down to cover my thighs. Rafe’s eyes widened.

“I’m still in love with you, Joey—”

“Rafe, you’re about to get married in front of almost two hundred family members and guests tomorrow. It’s a little late in the day literally to have second thoughts. Especially second thoughts about the two of us. We quit this “relationship” four years ago when you left New York.”

“Answer me honestly, Joey. Do you love me…still?”

“I’ll always love you, Rafe.” He reached for me. I parried his hands. “As a friend. A forever friend.”

“I’d rather marry you.”

“You love Sara, don’t you?”

“Well…yes, of course.”

“She loves you?”

“Yes…I mean…I don’t know. She might be marrying me for my money—”

“Rafe! Her father manages or owns half of the commercial property in downtown Washington. She’s worth more than you, for chrissake! She seems to be a lovely girl who’s head over heels in love with you. It’s over between us. In fact, there was never really an “us.”

There was a stricken expression on his face that slowly morphed into a pleading look. He slumped in his chair. I poured a glass of water for him. He downed half of it in one gulp.

“I’ve moved on, Rafe. As I thought you had. I mean, you’re getting married tomorrow!”

“It’s this guy, Alastair? Are you and he a thing? Is that who you’ve moved on to?”

“You asked for honesty. Okay. My gender has changed from male to female. Actually, I’ve been living as a woman for almost 4 years now, even before the surgery. But you know that. What you don’t know. What you never asked—”

“I’m sorry, Joey. Running the company pretty much took all my time. I’ve had at most two weeks of vacation in 4 years—”

“You’ve had enough time to meet, date, and get engaged to Sara, Rafe. We barely spoke on the phone for two hours total, never mind actually seeing each other.”

“I accept all the blame. I should have made the time. Prioritize our relationship. Even living in two different cities, it could’ve worked. And with your transition, my mother would’ve gotten on board. She would have…”

“You never asked whether I was attracted to men after transitioning. It’s not something you can control.”

“You loved me before you met Elizabeth. Our love was pure. Not dirty and perverse like your relationship with her.”

“I’m still sorting things out, Rafe. Alastair is just a friend from work. A good friend but that’s all it is. He talked himself into being my plus one. He’s got the better car.”

“So there’s still hope? I could call the wedding off. We could start over again. I’ll spend weekends in New York. I’ll do anything, Joey.” He got down on his knees before me. I turned my head away, sad to see him reduced to groveling.

“Get up, Rafe. It’s no use. We had our chance. We can go on blaming each other all we want but the stars just didn’t align for us.” I led him to the door. “Go back to your room. Go back to Sara. She’s going to be your wife now. Save all your love for her. Don’t hurt everyone by doing something rash, especially yourself.”

“If I can’t have you, Joey, then it’s all meaningless—”

“Don’t be melodramatic. You have a wonderful future with Sara ahead of you.” I gripped the door handle. “We’d only end in tears. You know that.” I opened the door and gently nudged him through. I kissed two fingers and brushed them against his lips. “Good night. Your life really begins tomorrow. Get some good sleep.”

I closed the door and sank to the floor, crying until I had no tears left to shed and drifted off to sleep.

The wedding ceremony was scheduled for 5PM and guests were not expected to arrive until 4PM, so after taking the tour of the White House in the morning with all the other out-of-town guests, Alastair and I lunched on Maryland Crab Cakes at the oldest restaurant in town, the Old Ebbitt Grill, and spent the afternoon visiting the Smithsonian Museum, then strolling the National Mall from one end, the Washington Monument, to the other, the Lincoln Memorial. We got back to the hotel with just enough time to change into our formal attire for the ceremony to be held in the courtyard.

The cocktail hour lasted from 6 to 7 and then the formal reception promptly started in the main ballroom. The newlyweds were introduced and took the floor for the first dance. The sight of Rafe and Sara moving slowly across the floor, smiling, whispering to each other, laughing, and giggling, reminded me of what I had told Rafe the night before. That they seemed truly happy in this traditional moment brought a smile to my own lips. But then a frisson of regret struck me as I realized a major part of my life was now behind me, forever lost in the temporal stream.

After the first dance, everyone was invited to join in on the dance floor. Alastair proved to be quite a nifty ballroom dancer. His French mother had insisted upon dance lessons for her son when he hit his tween years. After stepping on his feet the third time, Alastair advised me not to keep staring at Rafe and Sara.

“You keep dancing me toward them, Alastair.”

“That’s for Rafe’s benefit not yours. I still can’t believe he visited your room last night.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you—”

“You snuck that tidbit in between bites of your crab cakes. I don’t blame him though. If it were me, I’d never give up on you.”

“Shut up and dance, Alastair. Oh, no, Sally’s moving toward us. Make a sharp left.”

Fortunately, they asked everyone to return to our tables. Dinner was served. They changed the seating so we were placed with a different group than at the welcome dinner. But apparently word had gotten around, most probably the source being Sally, that I was transgender. There was a lot of polite discussion of my “condition” until Alastair thankfully changed the subject. But, then, Alastair loves to talk about himself. He regaled our tablemates with anecdotes about everything from his Harvard days to working on 60 Minutes with Ed Bradley to the Emmy-winning segment he produced on the 30th anniversary of the release of The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.”

“Did Keith Richards actually dream that riff and woke up to hum it into a tape recorder?”

“Yeah, he supposedly added the phrase, ‘I can’t get no satisfaction,’ and then collapsed back into a deep sleep. Ha ha.”

They cleared away our first course and replaced it with the main course. That ended Alastair’s monologue as we all dug into the grilled chicken with sweet summer vegetables. A boring but safe entrée. One of the guests at our table did have an alternate dish – beef brisket with mashed potatoes.

Toasts from the best man and the maid of honor interrupted our meal. Apparently, they had kept some material in reserve for the reception. It got the expected laughs and chuckles from the assemblage. Next, we applauded as the parent dances proceeded. Sara’s father quite adroitly led his daughter across the dance floor. Rafe’s mother openly cried as her son danced with her while the band played “Forever Young,” the Bob Dylan classic.

Once again, we were asked to fill the dance floor for another session of uncoordinated movement. This time they played more “current” music…for the kids. Now we were beyond the scope of Alastair’s terpsichorean skills. The selections from the band swerved wildly from “Cotton Eye Joe” to “This is How We Do It.” I had to show Alastair how to do it. I was glowing with lady-like perspiration when they wheeled the enormous multi-tiered wedding cake into the ballroom. After the cake-cutting with the bride and groom’s obligatory feeding of the first slices to each other, coffee and dessert were enjoyed by everyone.

As the final rite before the reception ended, all the eligible women lined up to receive the bouquet toss from Sara. Technically, that group included me but I chose to stand a bit off to the side, looking on with Alastair. Before Sara turned her back, she winked at me. Her toss went high and to the left, hitting Alastair smack dab in his face. He caught the bouquet as it bounced off, just before it landed on the floor. When he straightened up, holding the bruised bouquet, he blushed a deep crimson. Sara vigorously pointed to me. Alastair handed the bouquet to me. It was my turn to blush as the party applauded politely. I locked eyes with Rafe, standing behind Sara. He quickly turned away. As did I.

Rafe and Sara made their grand exit from the ballroom to applause and glow-sticks. It was almost 11PM when the guests said their farewells to everyone. Alastair and I fell in line with the guests who were ambling to the elevators, heading to their rooms on the upper floors. Stopping Alastair, I took him aside and suggested getting some air on the balcony. He nodded and took my arm in his.

From the balcony, in the cool breeze of a late Spring night, we could see the White House illuminated against the dark, just a few blocks away. I hardly noticed Alastair’s arm circle my waist as we pondered the evening skyline.

“Cold?”

“Actually, it’s refreshing. It was very stuffy in the ballroom. And the dancing got me a little…”

“Sweaty?”

“Women don’t sweat, Alastair. We glow—”

Sylvia Metheny, Rafe’s mother, emerged from the shadows. It was Alastair who first noticed her standing behind us. She had been watching us for a minute or two.

“Joey, can I speak to you?”

“Mrs. Metheny. Of course.”

Nodding at Alastair, “Alone. Please. There’s an alcove just over there. At this time of night there’s no one about—”

“Excuse us, Alastair. This shouldn’t take too long.” I gestured to Sylvia to go into the alcove. I followed.

In the alcove, Sylvia lit up a cigarette.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke indoors.”

“Are you going to call the cops on me?”

“No, of course not. What is it you wanted to say, Sylvia?”

“When Rafe wanted to invite you, I vehemently objected. It was Sara who insisted. I thought that was strange but I conceded the argument. I want to thank you for not disrupting the wedding—”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Do you know why Rafe rarely called or visited you these last 4 years?”

“Yes, he’s been swamped with work, running his father’s company. I understood.”

“That’s part of it. I made it clear to him I didn’t want you in his life. I wanted him to lead a normal life. With a normal woman.”

“I see. And I suspected as much. But to be honest, Sylvia, I never expected to be invited. Whatever was between Rafe and I ended years ago. I ended it. So, I was never a threat to your vision of Rafe’s future.”

“Oh, yes, you definitely are. He was going to take a month off from his work to help you recover from your surgery in San Francisco. I told him I’d vote him out of the company if he did. I still hold the controlling shares on the board.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He wouldn’t stop obsessing about you so I set him up with Sara. She’s a wonderful girl. Matt and I became fast friends with her parents from the first day we moved here, right before you two graduated from high school in Port Jefferson. Sara’s perfect for Rafe. Perfect for his future.”

“I agree. I wish only the best for them. And I’m sure they’ll produce lovely little grandkids to fill your dotage with joy and delight. Are we finished? Anything else you want to say to me?”

“I wanted to tell you that I have nothing against you. I’m glad you finally resolved your gender issues. You look wonderful. Honestly, you’re beautiful. And your friend, your plus one, seems like a nice young man. I wish you happiness, Joey. I…was thinking solely as Rafe’s mother. He deserves the best life. The best. His father worked very hard to see that his children…he didn’t live to see it. It became my mission when he passed on. You see that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, Sylvia. But it’s all in the past. You have nothing to worry about now. Good night, Sylvia.” I turned to step out of the alcove.

“Please don’t hate me. Joey. I did it for Rafe’s sake.”

“Poor Rafe.” The only words I uttered as Alastair walked me to my room. I inserted the key card into the door lock and pulled down the handle.

“Would you like to talk about it? There’s some wine in the minibar. I’m a good listener.”

“No thanks, Alastair. I’d like to get up early tomorrow and head back to the city, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s brunch tomorrow morning. It’s on the itinerary. And it’s free—”

“I’ll come by your room at 8. I’ll buy you brunch in Princeton on the way back. Pancakes. Your favorite nostalgic meal.” I smiled wanly and opened the door. Alastair was about to say something when I entered the room and closed the door behind me.

Friday morning. Christmas Eve. Alastair had called the night before to tell me he was taking the red eye from LAX and would land at JFK at around 8:30. A ride through rush hour and he’d be at our doorstep at 9:30. I was drinking the last of my morning cup of coffee and surfing the net on my tablet, reading the latest posts from my favorites on Substack, when the doorbell rang at a little past 9. Excitedly, I rushed to the door, thinking Alastair had made better time than he’d expected. When I looked through the peephole, I was surprised to see Rafe standing there holding a small, wrapped package at his side. I opened the door.

“Rafe! I thought you were leaving for Kingston today. Come in.”

“Morning, Joey. We are leaving today. I stopped by to give you your Christmas present.”

“Oh, Rafe. I didn’t get you anything. You shouldn’t have—”

He handed me the small package. It was professionally wrapped with a lovely bow and ribbon.

“Open it. Harlow’s in the car downstairs. We’re double parked.”

I carefully unwrapped the package to discover a slim rectangular box with the Tiffany & Co. logo emblazoned on it. Inside the box was a black Tahitian pearl necklace. I held it up against the light.

“Rafe, these are expensive. I’ve seen these going for $10,000.”

“$12,500 to be exact.”

“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”

“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”

“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”

“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”

“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.

The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.

“Alastair! You’re home.”

“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”

“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”

“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”

“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”

“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.

The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.

“Alastair! You’re home.”

I rushed to him as he dropped his bags and leaped into his arms, crushing his lips with a big, overly dramatic kiss. Overly dramatic, yes, but I really was happy to see Alastair. I’d missed him terribly.

“Mmm. Now that’s what I call a welcome home. Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes, Alastair. It’s Rafe. He dropped by to give me a Christmas present—”

Alastair offered his hand to Rafe. “Hello, Rafe. It’s been almost 30 years since we met at your wedding. Elizabeth told us about Sara’s passing. My condolences.”

“Thank you, Alastair. And congratulations to you and Joey on your upcoming nuptials. When Elizabeth told me you and Joey were…do people still call it dating when it’s two mature adults? To be honest, I always thought you two belonged together—”

“Well, it took us 30 years and two marriages to other people to figure that out. You’re invited to the wedding, of course, as soon as Joey can tell me where and when this blessed event is going to take place.”

“Alastair, we talked about that. It’s going to be in Los Angeles after the new year in Philippa and Paul’s backyard. She practically insisted. She’s such a great friend. Who I never would have known had you not come back into my life—”

“Funny how some things remain in the past while others return…with a vengeance. Joey, remember when you and Elizabeth used to go on and on about Nietzsche’s theory of eternal return?” asked Rafe.

“We were comparing notes on our disparate disciplines, science and literature. She said Nietzsche’s Eternal Return reminded her of Poincaré’s Recurrence Theorem where dynamical systems will, after a sufficiently long but finite time, return to a state close to or exactly the same as their initial state…”

Touching the string of black pearls now decorating my neck, Alastair looked into my eyes and asked, searchingly, “Are there things in the past any of us might wish would return?”

I kept silent but conveyed my feelings about the scene playing out among us with my eyes in reply. Alastair seemed to understand. He backed away toward the door.

“You know, I haven’t had anything to eat in hours. They dish up a great breakfast at The Little Owl. Their bacon is to die for. I’ll order it to go. Rafe, you’ve eaten there, right? No? They used its exterior and the building for Friends. Their apartment? And the restaurant downstairs? It’s a five-minute walk from here. Grove and Bedford. Jo, can I get you anything?”

I shook my head and caught up to him at the door, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Alastair. I’m leaving in a few. My daughter’s double-parked in front of the building. See you at the wedding. I’m retiring as soon as the sale of my firm is finalized so a trip to the West Coast sounds irresistible. Especially to see two good friends tie the knot.”

The door closed shut behind Alastair and I turned to see Rafe on his phone, telling Harlow to find another parking space.

“I’m doing my best, Pookie. I’ll call you when I’m coming out.” He disconnected.

“Pookie?”

“Her gran…my mom…gave her a plush puppy dog when she was like three and, for a reason only known to her, she named it Pookie. We just started calling her that. She hates it. Of course, that’s why I keep calling her that.”

“Sit down, Rafe.”

“Sounds ominous, Joey.”

“Seeing you this past week. It’s been so…so wonderful.” I held his face in my hands. “You’ll never know how hard it’s been on me. It’s taken every fiber of my being to resist taking your hand and going off with you, Rafe. I would have followed you to the moon if you had asked…thirty years ago.” I shook my head and tried to smile. Tears began to fall. His eyes softened and he leaned in to kiss me.

We kissed tenderly. His passion grew and he gently pushed me back onto the couch. I pushed back and, as if a switch had been flicked, I disengaged our lips, sitting up quickly.

“No, Rafe, I’m committed to Alastair now. He loves me. I love him. We’re getting married soon.” Rafe traced the tears on my cheek with a finger. “What we had…if we had anything at all…belongs in the past. I don’t believe you can relive the past. No matter how much we want to.” Rafe shifted to the far end of the couch and his face was a portrait in anguish.

“I thought time was on my side, Joey. I thought I’d wait you out. Eventually, we’d get back together even though we were hundreds of miles apart. You never gave me that sign.”

“I did, Rafe. I never had one date or even thought about anyone else for three years after you moved to Washington. You never made a move. Then, when I had my surgery, I told you I’d be in San Francisco for a month, recuperating. Maybe I was too subtle by half but when you told me you were too busy…”

“I was swamped by company business. I couldn’t get away—”

“No, it was your mother, Rafe. She told me she threatened to basically disown you. At the wedding, after the reception—”

“She…she told you?”

“Yes, so I know the truth, Rafe. If you’d truly loved me—”

“Joey—”

“As much as I loved you. I loved you so much! So much I was willing to sacrifice everything we ever had together so you could live the kind of life your family wanted for you. A great career, a wife, children. To give Sylvia the grandchildren she so desperately hoped you’d give her…”

“Joey—”

“You can never imagine the betrayal I felt. I wasn’t planning to attend your wedding. I wanted to decline the invitation. Just check the box that would make you vanish from my life. You know who practically forced me to come? Alastair. Because he knew I would benefit from a real closure. He was right. And what Sylvia told me after the reception clinched it. In the 27 years since that July night in Washington, I’ve tried to keep thoughts of you out of my mind. I’ve been very successful. Then we bumped into each other at the airport…”

“I thought the universe was finally bringing us back together. Like it was fate. Kismet—”

“You didn’t need the universe to do that, Rafe. If it was truly in your heart.” Rafe stood up from the couch and began to put on his overcoat. “Please take the pearls back, Rafe. Give them to someone you might meet on that cruise you’re planning to take.” I handed the pearls back to him, along with the Tiffany & Co. case.

“I’d like to come to your wedding, Joey, if you’ll have me. I want to see you happy. I do love you. I’m just a coward. I’m sorry.” I embraced him one last time. There were tears in his eyes.

“You meant a lot to me, Rafe. I want you to know that. Go. Go before Alastair comes back and hears me tell you that I never loved anyone as much as I loved you.”

From the window that looked out onto Perry Street below, I saw Rafe emerge from the building. He stepped up to the curb, looked in both directions, and took his phone out. He called Harlow. It was a brief conversation. After replacing his phone in his breast pocket, he turned around and looked up, trying to find the window to our apartment. I backed away from the window and waited until Harlow arrived to pick up her father. I watched their car head toward West Street to start its 2-hour trip to Kingston in upstate New York.

Minutes later, Alastair returned, carrying his breakfast in a bag.

“So that was his daughter? She favors Sara a great deal. How did your…uh…discussion go?”

“I cleared things up with Rafe. Whether it was satisfactory for him, I don’t know. But I was brutally honest with him.”

He threw his overcoat onto the couch, which provoked a frown from me, and started to unpack the breakfast he’d ordered from The Little Owl, placing the reusable containers on our kitchen table.

“I’m starving, Jo. I’ve got two cups of coffee. Want one?”

“I’m fine, Alastair. I’m going to change and go for a walk.”

“It’s a little more than brisk out there, babe. Let’s stay in. I’m a little sleepy still. I can never get any good shuteye on a plane—”

“No, I need some alone time. Oh, dammit, if we had a dog, I could just say I’m walking it.”

“I understand. It must have been a real trial having to deal with Rafe these past few days. And his family’s no picnic in the park—”

Having changed into a sweatsuit, I grappled with my anorak coat as I swiped a piece of bacon from one of Alastair’s containers. I stopped to enjoy its crispy goodness as Alastair reached out to finish zipping up my coat.

“When I get back from clearing my head, I’ll make us a little lunch. Then we need to do some shopping—”

“Shopping? Why?”

“I got a beautiful pashmina for your mom but I haven’t had the time to get anything for Sylvère.”

“How much time have you been spending with Rafe?”

“Oh, shut up, Alastair. Help me out. Is he a drinker? Should we get him a fifth of bourbon or a bottle of Courvoisier?”

“He wouldn’t be a Frenchman if he didn’t enjoy a stiff drink now and again. I’ll text maman and see what brand he prefers. Good thinking, Jo.”

The drive from the West Village of Manhattan to Greenwich, Connecticut normally takes almost exactly one hour via I-95. However, it’s a genuine slog when you undertake that trip on Christmas Eve afternoon. Alastair’s maman, Ottilie, was serving a traditional French Christmas Eve dinner at 8PM, so there was no concern on our part of being late. We set sail for the bourgeois backdrop of Greenwich at 3:30PM after securing Sylvère’s alcoholic gift and arrived at maman’s doorstep at 5:20PM.

Ottilie, a sprightly 78-year-old, greeted us at the door, only a shawl across her shoulders against the winter cold. Before a word could be uttered by either, she wrapped her arms around her son, kissing both cheeks. The second they disentangled arms, she went straight for my cheeks, also to “faire la bise,” as the French say.

I had, of course, spent many hours, spread out over almost 30 years, in her company. She was always delightful, a woman of much grace and humor, stylish in her day, and almost certainly the very model of Gallic beauty. Having lived in the States for over 50 years, there was little trace of her Parisian accent. She had begun to lose it even before then. She went from the genteel streets of the 5th arrondissement to the halls of University College London, where she met her future husband, fellow undergrad Robert Knowles. After marrying, Robert and Ottilie moved to New York City where Robert went to work as a journalist in 1966. A year later, their only child, Alastair, came into the world.

She ushered us into the house and, waiting for us in the living room, was her partner of 25 years, Sylvère, another French expatriate who had been living in the U.S. for over five decades. A tall man, even in his late 70s, he was almost eye-to-eye with Alastair, despite the slight stoop in his posture. A hardy handshake accompanied by vigorous shoulder cuffing and then Sylvère’s eyes turned to me.

“Ah, my petite fleur, Joanne! Beautiful as ever. Joyeux Noël!”
.
“Merry Christmas, Sylvère. Always the charmer. And that’s more French words than I’ve heard you say in the 20 years I’ve known you—”

“Alastair, these American women are brutally honest. It’s not good for a man’s ego.”

“I’m sure maman has read you the riot act once or twice, Sylvère.”

“Well, she’s lived here for so long she’s almost completely American by now…”

“Old man, stop bantering and be a good host. Ask them to be seated. I’ve set out the tea service and some butter cookies called sablés. Alastair, did you know there’s a new French bakery in town? That’s where I found these.”

“Oh, dear, Ottilie, I thought you baked these yourself. The icing is so cute. Little Christmas trees and…uh…”

“Santa Clauses?”

“Papa Noëls,” corrected Sylvère.

“Put those presents under the tree, Joanne and Alastair. Next to the ones labeled for you two.”

“Ottilie, you shouldn’t have. Alastair and I are far from children anymore.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t. I had my eye on a pink tricycle at FAO Schwarz that just screamed out your name Joanne but, alas, they were sold out.”

“Honestly, I could use the exercise. I’m getting a little tummy. Too many great restaurants in LA.”

“Nonsense. You look absolutely scrumptious, Joanne. In fact, I could make a fine meal of you—”

“Sylvère! I’m sorry, Joanne. You can take a Frenchman out of France but…you know what I mean. When you’ve finished your tea, could you come into the kitchen and give me a hand, sweetie?”

“Of course. I’d be glad to. Yum. These cookies are delicious.”

“Do you cook, Joanne?” Ottilie opened the oven and plunged a thermometer into the turkey roasting in the pan. She read the temperature, nodded, and pushed the pan back in, closing the oven door.

“A little. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for one.”

“But you and Emily had little Eliot, didn’t you?”

“Emily did most of the cooking. I did some baking back in the day. Eliot loved pies of any sort. Apple pie, sweet potato pie, lemon pie, blueberry pie. I baked them all for him.”

“I read in the newspaper where Eliot is dating Elizabeth’s daughter, Jocelyn, the doctor.”

“There’s more to that than I can say, Ottilie. What kind of glazing are you using on the turkey?”

“Oh, that’s Alastair’s favorite. Honey with Dijon mustard. Sweet and spicy. Just like Alastair.” She laughed and I laughed along with her, although I wasn’t sure what she meant by that remark.

“Help me prepare the Apéro, dear. That’s a French pre-dinner tradition, especially in holiday meals. Little bite-size goodies served with champagne. We have that in the salon. Afterwards, everyone migrates to the dinner table.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“See those blinis on that tray? The things that look like miniature pancakes. Yes, that tray. There’s some smoked salmon in the fridge. Put a sliver of salmon on each one and a dollop of sour cream. That’s in the fridge next to the…that’s it, sweetie. Chop up some dill and place a sprig on each one. Got it?”

“I’ve never had one of these.”

“They’re savory little bites of pure joy. Speaking of joy, Joanne. I’m so happy that Alastair finally proposed to you. I’ve always hoped he could find a true life partner. Someone who could return his love and devotion—”

“What about Lulu? They were happy for a time, weren’t they?”

“That woman? Don’t even mention her name to me. It’s a blessing they never had children.”

“If you’re hoping I’ll give you grandchildren—”

She took hold of my wrist to stop my chopping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t have an insatiable desire for grandbabies. I want my son to be happy. To be loved and cherished as I did his father. And I know you will do that…for my boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy.”

“He’ll always be my baby boy.” Noticing my silence, she turned me around to face her. “Why are you crying, dear girl?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a mother. To have a child that came out of my womb. But the universe played a dirty trick on me and had me born with boy parts instead of my proper bits…”

Ottilie hugged me. “I know. I know, cherie. But that doesn’t make you less of a woman. In fact, you are the only woman my son has ever really, truly loved. He’s been in love with you for 28 years. You are woman enough for him. Now, I hope and pray he’s man enough for you.”

I wiped my eyes, smearing my mascara, I’m sure. “He is, Ottilie. He is. He’s shown me what real love can be.”

“Now that we’ve cleared that matter up, go and fix your make-up. It’s Christmas Eve. No time for tears. Only for smiles and laughter. And good French cooking!”

Sylvère put on a cd of music by French classical composers as we ate our Christmas feast. I looked at the track list on the back of the jewel box and saw familiar names: Satie, Debussy, Couperin, Ravel, Fauré, Berlioz, etc. It felt as if we were in a French movie from the last century. Perhaps a bourgeois family dinner between the wars in a house on the outskirts of Paris, Neuilly-sur-Seine or Maisons-Laffitte.

Ottilie is a great cook. It was the most sumptuous holiday meal I had ever eaten. We started with foie gras, placed gently not spread over toasts of baguette. Then we enjoyed bowls of sweet and creamy butternut squash soup, topped with grated cheese.

The main course, of course, was Alastair’s favorite, honey-glazed roast turkey. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Ottilie had filled the turkey with a traditional French chestnut stuffing. The turkey was surrounded on its platter by side items such as roasted potatoes, chestnuts, and cooked apples.

Dessert was heavenly. Crème brûlée in pristine ramekins that looked like glamor photos in a French cookbook. Alastair and I managed to pierce the caramelized topping without collapsing the entire surface. Sylvère was impressed. When I complimented Ottilie on the crème brûlée, I asked her if it were a family recipe.

“Oh, my dear, no. It’s from an episode of that Nigella Lawson series that was on cable TV years ago on the Food Network.”

As we waddled away from the dinner table to sink our bloated forms into the cushy depths of the living room couch, I made an executive decision. Going over to the Christmas tree, I pulled Sylvère’s gift out from under it.

“Instead of opening your gift tomorrow morning, I think it could be put to better use right now.” I unwrapped the bottle of Courvoisier cognac and presented it to Sylvère. He smiled broadly.

“I knew it was a good idea for Alastair to ask you to marry him. You’re a woman of refined taste, Joanne. Ottilie, break out the tulip glasses.”

“I’ll help you, Ottilie.”

“We’ll need some ice too,” Alastair added as Ottilie and I walked into the kitchen.

“Alastair, my boy. Cognac should always be served at room temperature and warmed in the hand. What did they teach in the fleshpots of Hollywood?”

“Obviously, not the proper way to drink cognac.”

“So, this wasn’t your bedroom as a child, Alastair?”

Alastair turned in bed to spoon me, whispering in my ear, “No. My folks bought this house after I went off to college. This is a guest bedroom.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“The walls are paper-thin. It’s Greenwich but most of the houses in this section of town were built post-war. A lot of young couples starting out in life after the war ended. Quickly built, economically built, you know?”

“You don’t think Ottilie and Sylvère suspect we fuck?”

“I know. I feel silly but, still, that’s my mother in the other room. It’s weird.”

“Didn’t you and Lulu ever stay here overnight?”

“No. Maman hated Lulu. She wouldn’t let her set foot in the house.”

“Why was that?”

“It’s a long story and one I’d rather not talk about. Maybe I’ll tell you someday…”

“We can be really quiet, Alastair.”

“You’re a wild one, Jo.”

December 28, 2022. Alastair and I had just flown home to Los Angeles from New York. The moment it seemed we got off the plane, Michelle Gravesend, the Chief Content Officer at GlobalNet (Alastair’s boss) texted Alastair to remind him that we were expected to be on the company’s New Year’s Eve moonlight cruise. In fact, we were expected to board the yacht in Marina Del Rey at least a half hour earlier than our guests, in order to help greet them at the dock.

“Me too?” I asked.

“As the co-writer of GlobalNet’s next international box office smash hit – and soon to be in pre-production – it’ll be the first time our guests will have the opportunity to meet and interact with you. Also, as my bride-to-be, I want to show you off to that insular community we like to call…Hollywood!”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

“You like me showing you off?”

“No. Meeting all these Hollywood types. Is Chris Hemsworth or Idris Elba invited?”

“I thought you were more into the Paul Rudd or Tom Holland type—”

“I’d settle for Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Stone.”

“There’s a better chance of either of those two playing you in the movie than dating you, Jo.”

“Wait. Really? You’re joking—”

“We’ve had some preliminary discussions with them, among others. Jennifer is very interested actually. At least her agent tells me—”

“I’m going to check with Philippa to see if you’re pulling my leg.”

“She and Paul are coming on the cruise too. Ask her then.”

“If Philippa were believable as a Caucasian blonde woman, I’d have her play me. After all, she’s a transwoman…”

“I floated the suggestion to Michelle that you play yourself. In the contemporary portion of the story of course—”

“Alastair, that’s sweet. But two things. One, I haven’t acted since I played the Ghost of Christmas Present when I was 15. Two, the character in the movie is just that, a fictional character. Granted, it’s based on me but—”

“I know. A lot of people would be up in arms at how they’re portrayed…even though that’s exactly how they thought and behaved. Some were unnecessarily cruel, others just ignorant.”

“I changed things around enough so that no one can claim it’s libelous.”

After a light brunch at Bacari’s in Beverly Grove, Philippa and I went to our 11AM appointments at Weal & Spoke, the trendiest of trendy hair salons in Los Angeles, on West 3rd Street, a short distance away. I figured on spending a good 4 hours there before I could declare my hair presentable for the New Year’s Eve cruise the next evening. Philippa, on the other hand, would probably be finished an hour or more before me. Her youth and lovely Eurasian hair would make her stylist’s work quick and easy. Blow drying all that hair would be the biggest problem. Volume is one thing Philippa had no issue with.

By the luck of the draw, we were assigned to chairs facing each other and our stylists started work simultaneously, giving us the opportunity to converse freely and easily a mere few feet across from each other. We didn’t have to shout.

“Jo, are you really going to invite Rafe to the wedding?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

“If I were Alastair, I don’t think I’d want my bride-to-be’s “love of her life” making googly eyes at her all through the ceremony. I hope Rafe’s a teetotaler. Resentment and regret make for loud drunks—”

“Rafe would never do anything to hurt me or ruin such an important day in my life—”

“He married some other woman, Jo! That was bad enough.”

“We all make bad decisions, Phil. Not everyone’s as lucky as you were with Paul.”

“That’s true. So, now that you’re back in town…for good…we need to knuckle down on the wedding planning. We barely started putting together your guest list. Oh, by the way, Paul thinks he can get that jazz quartet we went to see in October to play at the reception.”

“Oh, I really liked them. Alastair’s a real jazz buff though. He’ll have to sign off on them. Are they still playing weekends at the Vibrato Grill?”

“I’ll check. Speaking of the Vibrato, I still can’t believe Herb Alpert was there the same night we were there.”

“Well, he owns the place, Phil. I wanted to go and get his autograph but he was preoccupied with an older couple at his table. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, that was Shuggie Brennan and her husband Bobby what’s-his-name.”

“Who?”

“Jo! You don’t know who Shuggie Brennan is? Hint, hint. She’s got something in common with the both of us.” I wracked my brain for a moment before it came to me. She’s the transwoman who had a string of hit records in the ‘70s and ‘80s. I must have seen her a couple of times on The Midnight Special.

“Oh, how dumb of me. You’re right. I should have recognized her.”

“Are you going to invite Elizabeth?”

“I guess I should. Maybe she’ll bring her daughter Joey as her plus one. I hope so. I wonder if she’ll still be with that chef guy when the wedding takes place.”

“You don’t think they’ll last until February or March?”

“Knowing Elizabeth? Nah, odds are against it.”

About two hours into our ordeal, Philippa and I sprang for coffee and banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery, up the street, for everyone. I ordered three each of the Red Velvet and Chocolate Hazelnut cups.

Sometime after 3PM, we waltzed out of the salon and our hair was perfect! The rest of the afternoon was spent at Philippa and Paul’s house in Los Feliz, playing with their daughter Clarissa. She complimented me on my hair. Smart girl! She had the makings of a couturier before the age of three.

Alastair and I were assigned the duty of greeting guests at the gangway ramp. With the cool breeze coming off the Santa Monica Bay on an ostensibly 50° Fahrenheit evening, I was shivering in my black strapless party dress. Alastair put his arm around my shoulders and that helped a little bit. That and nibbling on my neck.

Sadly, neither Idris Elba nor Chris Hemsworth showed up to be greeted by me. Apparently, mega stars in Hollywood have better New Year’s Eve parties to attend than the GlobalNet cruise that circled the bay from Point Dume in Malibu to the Palos Verde peninsula. The majority of the 100 or so guests were a handful of GlobalNet lead actors, co-stars, some other above-the-line production people, top tier executives, board members, and a major investor or two. Most of them knew Alastair by name if not by sight. Me, I was a new face and name. A few of the older gentlemen sneaked a kiss on the cheek rather brazenly. One of them even kissed Alastair!

Late arriving but a welcome sight were Paul and Philippa. We hugged and kissed both cheeks.

“It’s almost time for them to retract the gangway. Dinner’s about to be served, guys.”

“Mom couldn’t get Clarissa to sleep. She wanted to come to the party,” laughed Philippa.

“I have a sneaky suspicion your mom’s going to let Clarissa stay up to watch the ball drop at Pacific Park on TV,” Paul noted as they made their way up the gangway ramp.

Our late dinner was served at almost 10PM after the obligatory cocktail hour and mingling on deck. GlobalNet provided guests with a choice of four main courses: pan-seared chicken breast, smoked chili-rubbed Atlantic salmon (Alastair’s choice), Za’atar flat iron steak, and potato gnocchi with winter vegetables (my choice). Dessert was either chocolate toffee crunch cake or Spanish Basque-style cheesecake souffle. Unfortunately, Paul and Philippa were seated halfway across the room at another table with mostly other directors and writers and their spouses.

The main attraction at our table was a young actor named Trent Foster, who had just been Golden Globe-nominated for his role as a young Albert Einstein in the screen adaptation of the Philip Glass opera, Einstein on the Beach. Charmingly, he had escorted his mother to the party. She didn’t contribute much to the conversation at our table but was very effusive in her praise of the food.

“So, Trent, I never knew Albert Einstein was a surfer,” asked Alastair in a mocking tone.

“Poetic license, Al. I mean, how do you make the opera relatable to a general audience? We’re not producing this for a bunch of scientists and mathematicians. When’s the last issue of Scientific American that had a music review column?”

“Oh, Alastair, Trent had nothing to do with the adaptation. He’s an actor. He just reads the lines on the pages they give him. I thought you were very good in the movie. Especially when you recited poetry while riding your board on what looked like a tsunami wave,” I said with sincere admiration.

“Yeah, those lines were written by Christopher Knowles, a thirteen-year-old poet on the autism spectrum. Knowles is in his 60s now. Still in Brooklyn I believe. Say, Alastair, are you related to Christopher?”

“Uh, no. I am related to Chris Knowles, the comic book writer and artist, who did “Halo, An Angel’s Story.”

“No shit! I loved that comic book series—”

“Trent! Language, please.”

“Sorry, mom. Of course, it’s a little before my time. I wasn’t even born in 1996 when that first came out.”

“This souffle is just yummy! Trent, how’s the crunch cake?”

“Alastair, we’re having a little impromptu meeting at my table right now. Excuse us, Joanne. Everyone.” Michelle Gravesend, Alastair’s boss, stood behind Alastair’s chair, smiling her gracious host smile. “Go up on deck and enjoy the music. It’s a beautiful night.”

After making a brief stop at the Ladies’ Room, I joined the crowd on deck. On the way, I passed by Michelle’s table and everyone seated there was involved in an intense discussion. Alastair was seated to Michelle’s right. Surrounding them were Harold Leong, Chairman and CEO, George Hollander, CFO, Rick Baldry, Director of International Production, and Mary Legler, EVP of the Legal Department. I couldn’t help but notice Alastair didn’t look too happy about whatever they were saying.

I had planned to reconnoiter with Paul and Philippa, the only couple I knew at the party, once I was out on deck but they were hidden somewhere in the throng. I decided to avail myself of a glass of Chardonnay. While I was sipping slowly, keeping an eye out for Paul and Philippa, a young person of indeterminate gender approached me. They were incongruously dressed in a rumpled sweatshirt, torn jeans, and a moth-eaten ball cap. My first thought was: doesn’t the catering staff have to wear a standard uniform?

“Are you Joanne Prentiss?” Their voice trembled.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

They took off their cap and brushed their hair back in place. “I’m Marla Mulholland. You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Should I? Have we met?”

Their voice became squeakier and a torrent of words came out. “That’s my Twitch name. I’m the most streamed femboy in North America. I’m also on Only Fans but you have to pay to subscribe to that. I heard about your film and my friend who knows someone in the catering crew got me onto this cruise because they found out you were going to be here too. I’m really talented. You should watch my streams. Don’t let this get around but I’m really acting as this character of Marla Mulholland. It’s not the real me. I do it to get views—”

“Whoa, hold up, Marla, or whatever your real name is. I’m just the writer of this movie. I have nothing to do with casting.”

“But the main character is you, Joanne Prentiss. Wouldn’t you be the best judge of who could best play you on the silver screen?”

“That’s a fictional character. It’s not me.”

“But the character’s named Joey just like you. It’s you.”

“You’re too feminine looking to play the younger version of the main character anyway.”

“That’s no problem. I’m detransitioning. This whole femboy act is getting complicated.”

“You’re not trans or you’re tired of cross-dressing?”

“I have my doubts. It was fun for a while. And I was getting a lot of donations to my Twitch streams. But I do like acting! It’s what I really enjoy. The camera loves me too.”

“You’re very cute, Marla, I’ll give you that. But, like I said, I have nothing to do with casting.”

“Do you know Alastair Knowles, the production guy? My friend’s been trying to get in touch with him.”

“Is your friend an agent?”

“No, she’s my girlfriend. But she’s taking business classes at USC and plans on becoming one.”

“You need to get a real agent. They’ll be able to open up the channels of communication for you. It’s all about who you know in this town.”

“How do I get an agent?”

“Put together a reel of your best streaming bits. The ones that show off your acting chops. Then submit it to an agent who handles performers similar to you. Good luck. It’s the best advice I can give you.”

“Thank you, Joanne. You’re a sweetheart. Just the way I imagined you to be. I’ll do what you suggest. Since I’m here anyways, could you point out Alastair to me?”

“He’s in a meeting right now below deck. I don’t think he wants to be interrupted right now. Perhaps after midnight—”

“Oh, there’s Trent Foster! He’s absolutely dreamy, don’t you think? Thanks again, Joanne.” They walked quickly away toward where Trent Foster was standing, pointing at the sky, and surrounded by giggling women of all ages.

I turned to place my empty glass of Chardonnay down on the serving table when I almost crashed into Selena Portmanteaux, two-time Oscar winner and one of the grand dames of American cinema.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Oh my God, it’s Selena Portmanteaux!”

“And you must be Joanne Prentiss.” She offered her right hand. We shook.

“I didn’t see you come aboard. And Alastair and I were the unofficial official greeters.”

“My husband Derek and I were…a little late. We arrived after the yacht had already departed.”

“How did you get on board?”

“A dinghy. We hired a dinghy. It’s a real struggle getting on board a yacht from a dinghy wearing a party dress and heels.”

“I can imagine.”

“Here, have another glass. Chardonnay?” I accepted the offered glass and took a quick sip.

“Well, you look stunning, nevertheless.”

“Thank you. So do you, Joanne. You’re very impressive…in the flesh. Your photos don’t do you justice.”

“Are you working on a GlobalNet project?”

“I hope to. You could help me out, Joanne.”

“Selena, you’re kidding. Me? Help you? I’m sure Michelle and Alastair would jump over hoops to get you involved with the network. How could I help?”

She took me by the crook of my arm and led me to the railing, away from the maddening sound of raised voices and clinking glasses.

“Your script is remarkable, Joanne. The best I’ve read in years. I need to play you—”

“It’s not me. It’s based on me but—wait a minute! How did you get your hands on the script? Philippa and I haven’t even gotten the final notes on it yet.”

“Derek plays racquetball with Harold Leong every Tuesday at the Athletic Club. They’re tight and Harold passed along his copy of the most recent draft. I read it immediately!”

“Alastair doesn’t know?”

“Harold’s his boss not the other way around. Come hell or high water, I’m playing you, honey.”

“I’d be incredibly flattered but, Selena, I would love to have the part played by a transwoman. Michelle thinks it could be a real breakthrough role for the trans community of actors—”

“Michelle’s a businesswoman, first and foremost. Not to humble brag but if I headlined this movie, you’d all be rolling in dinero, big time. My films have grossed a billion dollars in the last three years. I’m internationally known…”

“But you’re a cis woman. Sorry but you couldn’t portray the nuances of being a transwoman—”

“I’m an Oscar-winning actor, Joanne. I can inhabit the main character’s world, feel what she feels, behave the way she would, say the things she would say. Alright, here’s my proposition. Let me birddog you for a month, two months. Observe you. Learn about your life experiences from you. Get to know the people, places, and events that have shaped you. Better than reading a biography. Living alongside the subject herself!”

“What about your husband, Derek?”

“Joanne! I’m not proposing we engage in wife-swapping, for godsake,” she laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t be sharing your bed at night. Derek and I will rent a place very close by and spend as much time with you as possible. More like a 9 to 5 gig. With occasional overtime.”

“I don’t know what to say other than it sounds ludicrous on the face of it. I don’t think Alastair would go for it either.”

“He will. If he values his job. I’m putting together an agenda for Michelle right now. Harold is on board already.”

“I could pull the script from GlobalNet—”

“Let’s be real, Joanne. You can’t. They own it. They paid for it, lock, stock, and barrel. Happy New Year. Oh, there’s Trent Foster. He’s delicious, don’t you agree?”

“I think you’re older than his mom—”

“That could be a factor in my favor.” She walked away but not before turning to smirk and shoot me a playful cat wink.

I finally found Paul and Philippa at the other end of the deck. They were standing at another serving table filled with glasses of wine and champagne.

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been searching for half an hour.”

“We moved around a bit. Paul wanted to chat up some people about a project we want to do that…” Philippa cupped her mouth and whispered,”…we’re thinking of producing ourselves.”

“Yeah, don’t tell Alastair,” Paul implored. “Nothing against him, you understand.”

“We want to be the captains of our own ship, you know.”

“Well, good luck. I hope this doesn’t mean we won’t ever work together again, Phil.”

“Oh, no, Joanne, we’ll write together. I promise. I think of you as my older sister—”

“I’m old enough to be your mother. Even if it isn’t physically possible,” I laughed.

“Joanne Prentiss!” a distinct British accent practically bellowed. I turned and had to stoop down to see to whom the voice belonged. It was Felicia Framingham, the well-known British character actress and unintentional chat show comedian.

“Joanne Prentiss! I must speak to you!”

“Felicia, I’m delighted to meet you. I’m a fan. You were wonderful in the latest Star Wars movie—”

“That was Dame Maggie Smith. I’ve never been in a science fiction film. Hate those things. All those special effects and loud explosions. Not for me.”

“Lord of the Rings! You were marvelous in that trilogy—”

“You’re older than I thought! Those films were twenty years ago, my dear. Regardless, I must speak to you about this transgender movie that my agent keeps mentioning. I believe there’s a role for an actor of my age, as it were.”

“Yes, the epilogue of the movie is from the viewpoint of the main character when she’s living in an assisted living home…”

“Well, I don’t really know who you are. I’m halfway across the globe and I rarely pay too much attention to what transpires here in the States but my agent tells me this will be quite the cultural landmark when it’s released and…” She turned to Paul and Philippa. “I’m all for cultural landmarks. I’m a lesbian, you might know.”

“I’d be so honored to have you involved in the movie.”

“What’s more it would be convenient for me. I heard you’re going to shoot this in London at Pinewood.”

“That’s Alastair’s plan. We have a working agreement with them.”

“Oh, yes, Alastair Knowles. I knew his grandfather the baronet. He wasn’t too happy when Alastair’s father married that French girl and moved to the States.”

“I wonder if he would’ve been happy to see his grandson marry a transwoman.”

“He would have choked on his cigar. But we live in a different society now. At least I believe we’ve progressed. My nephew became my niece. She married the loveliest girl.” Again, she turned to Paul and Philippa. “I told her lesbians are the best. I did, most certainly.” She turned back to me. “I have the most adorable grandnieces now. Both in university. She had stored some sperm before her surgery. You know, for the bottom bits. You didn’t do that, did you, dear?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me that I’d want to have children back then. I suppose that was a miscalculation on my part. Emily and I could have had our own children—”

“Emily?”

“Yes, my wife. She passed almost ten years ago.”

“A modern Tiresias. Indeed. Well, I actually came over here to get a glass of champagne. Another example of synchronicity, don’t you think? Oh, look, is that Trent Foster? He’s a lovely young man. Reminds me of an American soldier I knew at Cambridge. Very nice to meet you all.” She walked briskly toward where Trent was last seen with more vigor than you could expect from an 80-year-old.

“I see you’ve met Felicia.” Alastair picked up a glass of champagne and toasted all three of us in turn. “Michelle asked me to send Paul and Philippa down below. She and some of the other officers of the company want to talk to you two.”

“What’s this about?” asked Paul.

“You’ll see.” He patted Paul on the shoulder. “It’s nothing bad. Now, get moving.”

They left Alastair and me alone and he led me to the railing.

“Jo, I just got new marching orders from top management.”

“Marching, as in…you’ve been fired?”

“No, honey. They could’ve just done that by text if they wanted. It’s something that’ll put a crimp in our plans for the near future.”

“Don’t say we’re not having the wedding—”

“Well, it might have to wait a couple of months.”

“Oh, Alastair. I can’t wait to be your wife…officially.”

“It’ll happen, I promise. But, first, we’re going to spend a few months in Paris—”

“Paris? Paris, France?”

“No, Paris, Texas. Of course, Paris, France. Old Alastair has been told to shepherd two co-productions with Gaumont. One of them is an international remake and update of Jules and Jim with dual dialogue tracks in English and French. The other project is still being decided. Probably an American noir from the classic period.”

“Rafe used to laugh at me for liking Jules and Jim so much. It’s such a masterpiece.”

“I guess you’ll never stop thinking about Rafe and what could have been.”

“I love you, Alastair. Only you.”

We kissed. I held onto Alastair for an eternity. The murmuring in the crowd got louder as they realized the yacht had returned to Marina Del Rey, timed so that the ball drop at Pacific Park at midnight, and the fireworks display could be in optimal view as it crossed the bay.

In a few minutes, 2023 arrived. There was a roar of exultation. Many among us looked forward to a joyful new year. Including Alastair and me.

A week before Alastair and I were scheduled to leave for France, I got a voice call from Elizabeth in the middle of the day. That surprised me. Elizabeth hated talking on the phone and, if it was something important, usually waited until the evening to make a call.

“Elizabeth? It’s a surprise to hear from you. You normally text.”

“Text me the coordinates, Elizabeth. I’ll see you in Seattle.”