Chapter Fourteen

            I reread the instructions on the waxing kit. After solution begins to gel, grip and pull in one quick motion.

            I look at my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror. The pink blob under my nose looks like I have some weird fungus. But I remember Madge the makeup artist’s warning about my visible whiskers.

            Grip and pull.

            Grip and pull.

            Grip and…

            I didn’t cry at my grandfather’s funeral. I didn’t cry when I learned the producers of this show thought I was a girl. I didn’t even cry when Old Yeller died.

            I’m crying now.

            I go fetal with the unexpected pain. Tears run down my nose onto my raw upper lip. I swear to God that if I ever get married, I will never, ever complain about my wife taking too long in the bathroom.

            And just when I think I’m going to black out, my phone buzzes.

            Someone’s calling me on my new device. Who the hell has this number? Shakily, I look at the screen.

            It’s Mila. She must have programmed her number in. She even included a selfie, a photo of her smiling and flipping me the bird.

            Warily, I answer.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, Shannon.  Mr. Lawrence just called me.”

            I tentatively poke at my lip, which brings fresh waves of pain. “What did he want?”

            “He said…hey, are you okay? Are you crying?”

            I make an effort to control my breathing. “No. Just doing some aerobics. Out of breath.”

            “Um…okay. Anyway, Mr. Lawrence said they won’t need you for the next few days.”

            I freeze. “Did I really offend Miss Jenkins?”

            Mila laughs. “No, I mean they’re postponing filming the movie. Miss Jenkins has a bad cough.”

            A cough. She can’t work because of a cough. Okay, sure, you obviously can’t make a movie when the star is hacking all over the place. But I remember my father’s frequent bouts with bronchitis. And how he’d still leave for work at five in the morning because you can’t take a doctor’s note to the grocery store.

            “Shannon? You there?”

            I sigh. “Yeah.”

            A long pause. “I’ll call you when we figure out what’s going on. So the weekend’s all yours.”

            More dead time. Great. “Yeah. Thanks.”

            We’re both quiet, but neither of us hang up. Then we both speak at the same time.

            “Shannon…”

            “Mila…”

            “You go first.”

            Feeling like an idiot, I say it anyway. “Mila, you want to grab a coffee or catch a movie or something? I mean, while we’re waiting for the filming to start again?”

            I’m really swallowing my pride here, but she’s literally my only contact. I know she’ll laugh at the idea, but at least I’ll get credit for trying to mend fences.

            To my surprise, she sounds genuinely regretful. “Sorry, Shannon. I’m going out of town.”

            “That’s fine. Take care.”

            Again, we don’t hang up.

            “Hey, you sure you’re okay there? I could text you some…I dunno. Stuff to do in that neighborhood. A community calendar or something.”

            No, I don’t need her to arrange a playdate for me. “No, I’m fine.  I’ll just catch up on…I’m fine.”

            Another pause. “I really am leaving town tomorrow.”

            “Have fun. Call me when you hear anything.”

            I hang up.

            So now what? Two, three days of waiting? I know how these things go. The delays could last weeks. Last until the school year starts again. Last until Becoming cancels my episode.

            And me, here alone with my one remaining lip and a credit card that I’m sure they’d accept at the bus terminal. Not to mention any men’s clothing store.

            But I know I’m in too deep to stop now. Production will resume and they’ll finish my episode.

            And it’s Friday night. I do have an invitation to sing karaoke.

*

            I’m disappointed to see that the bar is more crowded than the last time I was here. A lot more crowded. I guess it’s because of the weekend. A line now snakes around the corner. I hope there’s no cover charge. I wish I had this phone when I met Sherona so I could call her now and ask where I’m supposed to find her. Or if we could meet somewhere quieter instead.

            I finally make it to the front of the line. The girls in front of me are not asked to show ID, much to my relief. I move to follow them.

            “Hold it.” The doorman is holding up a palm.

            I’m confused. Maybe there is some sort of a cover.

            “Is there a problem?”

            He shakes his head. “We’re full tonight. Why don’t you come back, maybe Monday. Three-for-two margaritas.”

            I’m trying to process this when another group of girls squeeze by me. I’m momentarily distracted by their tight tops and short skirts. Maybe we could all find something to do when they realize they’re not letting anyone else in.

            He lets them in.

            Just like that. There’s like four of them. So why couldn’t I…

            And then it hits me. The club isn’t full, but it is crowded. And the doorman wants to make sure that they fill the place with the right kind of people. Guys who want to spend money, and girls who will bring the guys in.

            And I am neither.

            I shuffle off to the side. And I got all dressed up too. This new sweater and these cute boots Rochelle picked out for me.

            POWER TOOLS!

            SPORTS!

            BEER!

            I shake my head and force my way upstream, out through the waiting crowd. I’m trying not to be offended. I’m really trying.

            “Shannon! You made it!”

            It’s Sherona. She bursts out of nowhere, accompanied by two other girls, not the same ones from the other night. I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from Sherona’s cropped top. Very cropped.

            Sherona grabs me in a hug. “I was hoping you’d come! C’mon!”

            She takes me by the hand and whisks me inside. The doorman doesn’t stop me.

            We all manage to cram around a little table and order a pitcher of daiquiris. Someone passes us the book of karaoke songs.

            “Ooh, they have ‘Lullaby of New York!’ Shannon, will you sing that with me? Would you mind doing the guy’s part?”

            Would I mind. Ah, Sherona, I may not have the face for Broadway, I sure as hell got the pipes. Be prepared to be blown away.

            The club is crowded and noisy. We’re all pushed together. Sherona keeps touching my hand. It’s loud enough that she has to practically push her lips to my ear for me to hear her.

            I’m so enjoying this. Not the physical closeness, but just being part of the group. These cool, attractive women want to hang out with me. That would not have happened to me in boy mode. And you know what? I’m good with that. Now I can relax. I won’t waste time trying to impress them. I can just have fun. Sing. Drink. Hang out.

            I’m finally making friends.

            This is awesome.

            “Hello, ladies.”

            Two guys have walked up behind me. I didn’t notice them coming, but I could sure smell their body spray. They’re overly dressed, frat rat types. They both carry a drink in each hand.

            The first passes his drink to one of Sherona’s friends. And the second…passes one to Sherona.

            Everyone (else) smiles. The girls scoot over to make room for the intruders. I’m shunted away from Sherona, and kind of away from the table as well. I can’t reach my drink.

            Okay, fine. It’s a free country. I sit there, irritated, as conversation blooms around me. After repeatedly shouting for people to repeat themselves, I give up. Another guy joins our table. Three guys. Three girls. And Shannon, none of the above.

            One of Sherona’s friend’s name is called, and she walks to the stage for her turn at the microphone. As everyone claps and cheers, I reclaim my place at the table. The guy I’m now sitting next to gives me a fake smile.

            “Hey, Shannon,” says Sherona. “Tell everyone why you’re in L.A.!”

            I’m about to modestly wave off her question and make her worm it out of me. Then I realize that no one here is actually interested and I have about two seconds to keep their attention.

            “I’m filming a TV series with Natalia Jenkins.” I decline to mention what sort of a TV series.

            This catches the group’s interest. “Get out!” says one of the dudes. “Is she that smoking hot in real life?”

            I guess I could be catty and imply she looks much worse in person, but I decline. “Even prettier close up.”

            “So what’s she like?”

            It’s all an act. She’s completely fake. “She’s about the sweetest person you ever met.” Ahem. “The other day we were on the set. It was between takes and—”

            “Sherona!” barks the MC. “Sherona and, um, partner! Come on up and show us what you’ve got!”

            Ah, time for our song. This is going to be great. Just wish I had my pitch pipe here, but I guess that doesn’t matter.

            And then I realize Sherona is already halfway to the stage. With the new guy.

            His friends bark and whoop as he mutilates his half of the duet. Mutilates! God, this was my audition song for the musical my sophomore year. I didn’t get the part, but still.

            Everyone at the table takes their turn at the microphone. Except me. No one notices I don’t get a turn. And I don’t try to sign up for one.

            Fortunately, Karaoke ends after about an hour. I’ve managed to dig in with my elbows and knees to hold on to a place at the table. Finally I can maybe talk to Sherona again.

            “C’mon,” says her stalker. “Let’s dance.”

            I’m not a good dancer. Even I don’t kid myself about that. I hope—I pray—that Sherona will turn him down. Or that no one else will join them.

            Everyone gets up to dance. And that’s my cue. It’s time for me to leave. I’ll grab Sherona’s phone number and get out of here.

            “Hey, um…Shannon, right? Could you watch our purses?”

            “Actually…”

            “Thanks!”

            I don’t know what annoys me more, the fact that I’m now stuck here alone at this table, or that everyone assumed I wouldn’t want to dance.

            I drink my daiquiri, alone. And a couple of other people’s. I’m not used to alcohol, and I begin to feel tired and sad. If no one comes back and checks on me before this next song finishes, I’m going to go home. I’ll leave their purses to the wolves.

            I sit through three more songs.

            I’m reminded of the one school dance my father badgered me into attending. I didn’t dance that night either.

            And then, just when I really am totally probably going to leave on my own, Sherona returns to the table. Much to my shock, she takes me by the hand and pulls me away with her.

            I’m so stunned and delighted that I don’t realize where she’s taking me until it’s too late.

            The women’s room.

            Since I became a girl, I’d been using the women’s bathroom at the studio when I needed to, but it was such a cramped and sterile place, I never thought much of it. This, however, is a nightclub bathroom. A dozen women stand in front of the mirrors, applying makeup and adjusting their hair. I do my best to act natural.

            Sherona points to the front of her top, which is stained with some sort of liquid. “Asshole spilled his beer all over me. Jesus.”

            She dabs at her shirt futilely. I’d really like to help her with that.

            “God, Shannon, he didn’t even apologize. Men suck.”

            Despite my shaved legs and earrings, I feel I have to defend my sex. “Well, not all men are jerks.”

            She braces against the sink with both hands. “Could have fooled me. I’m getting sick of this. Sick of the bars and the assholes and getting groped. It’s really getting old.”

            I hand her another paper towel. “Maybe you should try something new.” Believe me, I’m an expert on that.

            She sighs. “Everyone else wants to come here, and it’s fun, I guess. But all the guys are the same. They just want one thing. You know what it’s like.”

            “Sherona, you’re not going to meet a nice guy at a place like this.” Well, you already have, but you don’t know that.

            She finally turns and looks at me. “I’m not, am I? Geez, I’m so tired of the pricks here. What I wouldn’t give to meet someone…I dunno. Funny. Sensitive.”

            I glance down at my manicured fingers. “Guys like that are out there.”

            “Yeah. It’s a nice thought. Find some musician or writer or painter or something. Someone not obsessed with his hair and my chest. Ah, a girl can dream.”

            I almost break down. I swear, I almost announce that I’m really the sensitive, artistic man she’s been looking for. My only excuse is that I’ve been drinking and apparently I’m the overshare type of drunk.

            But then Sherona turns back to the mirror, frowns, and removes her top. As she wrings it out over the sink, wearing only her bra, I realize that the gender reveal moment has passed. I stand there, contemplating Sherona’s tramp stamp and the constellations of freckles on her shoulders. Then I realize what I’m doing and quickly turn away. No need to add to the transphobic panic about guys in dresses leering at women in the bathroom.

            Sherona replaces her top and we return to the club. We immediately run into her ‘date.’

            “Hey, we’re all going to drive out to Freeworld. C’mon.”

            It’s not a request. And for all of Sherona’s hoping for a Prince Charming, she chooses to leave with this toad.

            “C’mon, Shannon,” she says. “Have you ever been?”

            The dude-bro interrupts me before I can answer. “Ah, the thing is my car’s kind of filled up. I don’t know if we have room for…” He smiles at me with such smarmy false sincerity. And it makes me really angry. None of his friends want to sleep with me, so there’s no point in me coming.

            I glance at Sherona, wondering if maybe she’ll stand up for me.

            “We could call you a ride. You could meet us there.” She almost sounds like she sincerely wants me to come. Almost.

            I slap on my best smile, the one even the people in the cheap seats can see. “I’m kind of wiped out, Sherona. Give me your number, we’ll get together some other time.”

            Her date’s relief is pretty obvious. And honestly, so is Sherona’s.

            I walk them out. And they all talk and laugh as they cram into what’s-his-name’s car and speed off.

            Sherona waves at me.

            I stand in front of the club.

            Funny, when I was male, I was used to people not wanting to hang out. Everyone thought I was weird. Nerdy. Pretentious.

            I guess they were right.

            But tonight, I only failed on one front.

            I’m not pretty. I’m not sexy.

            It doesn’t matter to me that I don’t make an attractive woman.

            Seems to matter to everyone else, though.

Chapter Fifteen

            I sleep in the next day. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Just laying here under these thick hotel sheets, in this warm bed, no school, no Chris, no auditions…

            Someone is in the room with me. I don’t hear them. I don’t feel them. But as I open my eyes, I have a horrible sense that someone is standing next to my bed.

            Warily, I turn. A dark, grinning face stares down at me.

            “God, you scream like a girl,” says Mila a minute later, when I’ve finally calmed down enough to speak.

            “What the hell are you doing in here?” I snap, between gasps for air. “You ever hear of knocking?”

            “Meh.”

            She’s sitting on the edge of my bed. I’m still under the covers, but I’m suddenly very aware that I have nothing on but a pair of panties. I pull the sheet up to my chin.

            “I thought you were leaving town.”

            “My plans fell through. Now get up.”

            “Huh?”

            She claps her hands. “C’mon. Go make yourself pretty.”

            “Huh?”

            “Wow, Shannon, you’re even less articulate than usual. Get dressed. We’re going out.”

*

            “Jesus, Shannon, don’t do that.”

            It’s a beautiful, sunny day. Mila and I are sitting at a sidewalk café, watching the people go by and enjoying cups of gelato. A far cry from the Des Moines Dairy Queen.

            “Do what?”

            “Sit with your legs wide open. If you’re going to wear a skirt, you have to keep the gates shut. Cross your legs.”

            Dutifully, I follow Mila’s direction. She nods approvingly.

            “You know, you have very nice legs, Shannon.”

            “Gee, thanks.”

            She’s staring, unashamedly. “I’m serious. Very shapely. We ought to get you some Daisy Dukes. You’ll drive the guys nuts.”

            “Yeah.”

            It’s been like this all day. Mila drove me all over the city. We took in a Hollywood museum, did some shopping, went out to lunch, and now here we sit, just relaxing.

            On the other hand, she has never stopped with her digs, her backhanded compliments, and her implications that I’d make a better woman than a man.

            Hanging out with Mila is like having a pet bear cub. Fun, until they unexpectedly turn on you.

            “You ever think about dressing like this after the show’s over? I bet you’d turn the boys’ heads back in Cowpie, Iowa.

            I attempt to change the subject. “So what was up with you this weekend? Where were you supposed to go?”

            She waves a hand. “Eh, same old BS. Didn’t want to hang out at home, so I called up the only guy I know who wouldn’t try to feel me up. The boys aren’t exactly looking in my direction when you’re around.”

            I remember what happened at the club last night and I laugh.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “Oh, what you said about guys. You see, I was out with some friends last night. We were at this dance club and—”

            Mila looks confused. “What are you talking about? What friends?”

            “Just a girl I met the other day. And she’s cute, but fat lot of good that does me, right? So these guys come up to our table, and it’s like I don’t exist. I mean, I obviously am not there to get hit on, but it was like I wasn’t even talking. The whole night. So stop feeding me this crap about boys—”

            “You went out?” asks Mila again, as if she’s having trouble grasping the concept.

            “Well, I didn’t want to sit in the hotel all weekend.”

            She’s looking so dumbfounded, I figure I’ve done something wrong. “Look, I was careful. Rochelle took me shopping for new clothes the other day, just like you suggested. And I even waxed my lip. Hurt like a bitch. I think I was still sobbing when you called me.”

            Why in God’s name does Mila look so riled up? “That’s why you were crying? Because you waxed your stupid face?”

            “Well…yeah. I don’t know if you’ve ever done anything like that, but it hurts.”

            Mila whips out her phone and begins furiously staring at the screen.

            “What the hell’s your problem?”

            She sneers at me. “Nothing. I was just going to see my mother for the first time in like two months, but now I’m here with you instead.”

            I’m getting really tired of her acting like every problem in her life is my fault. Next she’s going to blame me for climate change. “Well, I’m sorry you’re so bored. If your plans fell through…”

            I pause. Wait a minute.

            “Your plans didn’t get canceled, did they, Mila?”

            She scowls at me.

            “You called them off!”

            “Shut up, Shannon.” She looks back down at her phone.

            “You thought I was really crying on the phone! You were worried about me!”

            “Shut. Your. Trap.”

            A smile spreads over my face. “You were afraid I was sad and alone and came here to keep me company!”

            She slams her palm onto the table. “I was afraid you were about to panic and run back home to Assdump. Didn’t realize you were out making time with the boys.”

            I should feel guilty, but I don’t. “You thought I was lonely. You wanted to make sure I was okay. Mila, that’s about the sweetest thing I ever heard.” I make my voice extra saccharine because I can tell it annoys her.

            She stares at me. Good thing looks can’t actually kill. “I won’t see my mother until the fall now.”

            I rein it in. “I’m sorry. Where does she live?”

            “Fresno. She works all the time. We both do. It’s been hard for us to get together since I left college.”

            This is kind of a rare glimpse into Mila’s personal life. “What’s she like?”

            Mila shrugs. “I don’t want to get into it.” She pauses. “How about your family?”

            Now it’s my turn to be sullen. “My father’s a cabbie. My mom works in a plastics factory.  We don’t have a lot in common.” I feel a little guilty about how ungrateful I sound.

            “You mentioned your sister. In your video, you said she fought with you all the time.”

            That seems so long ago. “Chris. She’s a year older than me. Really athletic. Likes to pummel the crap out of me. Always calling me a sissy and a girly man.” I glance down at my fake boobs, smooth legs, and painted nails. “All in my head, right?”

            Mila looks at me intently. “Have you talked to them? Told them what’s going on?”

            Ever since I got this new phone, I’d been tempted to resurrect my social media pages, my email, anything, just to see the messages I’m sure they’ve sent me. Maybe they’re angry. Maybe they’re scared. I don’t know.

            And I won’t know. Because if I start communicating with home, everything’s going to come out. I’ve gone this far. I have to finish what I started.

            “My family and I…we don’t talk a lot anymore.”

            She nods. “Shannon…look. I was kind of desperate when I asked you to play a girl.”

            “Asked? Don’t you mean ‘forced’?”

            She ignores that. “And you’ve done well. I mean, you really stepped up. I admit it, I’m impressed. And barring disaster, I think we’re going to pull this off.”

            Her confidence buoys me. “Hey, thanks.”

            “But when the episode airs, well, what are you going to do? I mean, we never say last names on the show, and with all your makeup and everything, I don’t think anyone is going to recognize you. So are you going to tell anyone? Let your friends know that was really you?” She asks this casually, but I can tell she desperately wants to know.

            I’ve been playing that question over in my head for the past week. A couple of days ago, I would have liked to make Mila squirm. Threaten her, even blackmail her. But I think we’ll both be better off if we’re on the same side.

            “I’m going to tell people I was working on a film that got canceled. That I just ran off to Hollywood on a whim, but it didn’t work out. Lots of people do it.”

            Mila waves her hand in a circle, encouraging me to continue. She has no idea that I’m only seventeen and this explanation won’t be enough for them.

            “And if I do get found out, I’ll be sure to tell everyone that no one on Becoming had any idea, Including the great Mila Nevins, who had absolutely nothing to do with this and always thought I was a woman.”

            She gives me a rare smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it. If you need someone to vouch for where you were, I can print up some paperwork, make it look like you really did have a small part in some canceled production. It happens every day.”

            It’s time to be serious. “Mila, I want to put all this behind me as much as you do. But…don’t forget about me when all this is over. Something tells me you are going to be a force to be reckoned with someday. Just remember what we both went through this summer, okay?”

            She hits me with a full on, genuine smile. “If we pull this off, this won’t be the last time we work together. I promise.”

*

            Mila drives me back to the hotel and walks me to the door. Before we go in, she touches my arm.

            “Shannon, I’ve dealt with a lot of guests on Becoming. And all of them were self-absorbed, white privileged, whiney, prima-donnas.” She squeezes my shoulder. “To be honest, when I first met you, that’s what I thought.”

            I stand there, listening, waiting for her to go on. She stays silent. Finally, I have to prompt.

            “And…?”

            “Oh, there’s nothing else.” She turns and walks back toward her car. “Filming starts again on Monday,” she calls over her shoulder. “Be there by nine.”

            I watch her leave. Arrogant, bossy, manipulative, and rude.

            But I bet she wouldn’t have ditched me at a club for some guy.

Chapter Sixteen

            I have to admit, it’s kind of a great feeling to just stride onto the set of a major motion picture production with nobody stopping me. Sure, I’m nothing more than a contestant on a stupid reality show, but so what? As crew members and minor actors nod hello to me, I can almost pretend that this is my movie. That I’m going to be the star.

            Yeah, Shannon Ferguson, lead actress. Oh well.

            They’re filming an outdoor scene today. I find Mila sitting with the people from Becoming. I take the seat next to her and hand her a coffee.

            “Didn’t know how you take it, so it’s black. You know, to match your—”

            “Shannon!”

            “Your heart.”

            She rolls her eyes at me, but takes the coffee. Drinks out of it, too. Brave woman.

            James, the leading man, strolls by. He stops to talk to us.

            “Hi, Mila. Hey, Shannon, I talked to the writers and they liked your idea for the end scene. I don’t know if they’re actually going to change anything, but good on ya. You got any other suggestions?”

            Boy, do I. The more I study the script, the more I realize how the director is wasting the potential of these two talented actors. But I also remember that Mila warned me about overstepping myself around Natalia.

            “No, I’ll just leave it to the pros.”

            James winks at me, nods to Mila, and heads to the set.

            Yet another A-list actor who will probably remember my face next week. Well, remember girl Shannon’s face.

            Just before the director calls ‘action’, Mila speaks to me without turning her head.

            “Don’t worry, Shannon. Your day will come.”

*

            The filming goes well this time. It’s a trite scene of romantic misunderstanding, but both Natalia and James film every scene with comedic precision, and most of the spectators laugh through the numerous retakes.

            I have a suggestion or two, but keep them to myself.

            The successful shoot puts Natalia in a good mood. She doesn’t even complain when Mr. Lawrence reminds her of her obligations to Becoming. We film a few minutes talking to the sound guys, with Natalia and I singing a brief duet into a microphone. I don’t bother to tone down my skills, I’m sure my voice will be removed in the final edit.

            Mila has already left for the day, but Mr. Lawrence is mumbling over his laptop. I approach him to find about our schedule.

            “Hang on, Shannon. This goddamn thing won’t load.”

            I glance over his shoulder. I immediately see what’s wrong.

            “I think I see your problem.”

            He doesn’t respond, but keeps clicking on the error message, causing it to repeat itself.

            “Sir? My own laptop does this all the time. You just need to—”

            “I don’t have time for this shit. Michael? Where the hell is Michael!”

            I plow onward. “It’s an outdated plug-in. You have to manually—”

            “Michael! Get your ass over here!”

            The young intern is front and center. “Sir?”

            “Take this piece of crap to the tech department. And I want it back today.”

            I try one last time. “Mr. Lawrence? If you’d just let me—”

            Michael leans over and clicks on the same override icon I’d been trying to draw his attention to. The video clip immediately loads.

            “Abracadabra!” says Michael with a grin.

            Mr. Lawrence shakes his head and smiles. “You kids. Good work, Michael.”

            Michael is still beaming after Mr. Lawrence leaves.

            “He was using an outdated plug-in,” he informs me.

            “You don’t say.”

            “When that happens, you have to click that little override icon, up by the URL.”

            “Really.”

            He nods. “I’m not half bad with computers. If you ever have a problem, give me a ring.”

            “Yes, Michael. I’ll be sure to do that.”

            He nods, with the beatific grin of tech support. “Hey, you headed home? I’m catching a ride with K’shawn and I think you’re on our way.”

            “In one of those auto-mobiles?”

            The sarcasm is lost on him. “Huh?”

            “Nothing. Yeah, sure.”

*

            K’shawn is an intern in another department and just as noodley as Michael. As we head down the freeway, the two argue about science fiction novels and fantasy movies. What nerds.

            Too bad I’m so annoyed with Michael. These are my kind of guys.

            About a mile from my exit there’s a thump and the car starts shaking. K’shawn pulls over.

            It’s a blowout. Driver’s front tire. Right on the nearly shoulderless highway, facing traffic. In the front seat, Michael and K’shawn groan and slide out the passenger door.

            Here’s where all the lessons from my father will come back to haunt me. He wouldn’t let me drive until I could prove I could change a tire.

            This is going to be miserable. It’s hot, it’s dirty, and I’m so not dressed for this. I put my hand on the door.

            Wait.

            I hear the two guys banging around in the trunk, cursing and struggling with tools.

            I slide out of the car. I smooth my skirt. I perch on the guardrail.

            It takes them forty minutes to change the tire. By the time they’re finished, their knuckles are bloody, their clothes are filthy, and they’re drenched in sweat.

            Not once did they suggest I help them. Not once did they shoot me a dirty look for just sitting there. They both repeatedly apologized to me, assuring me that everything was under control and we’d be on our way in a couple of minutes.

            I didn’t bother to tell Michael that if he’d lower the jack a couple of cranks, it’d be a lot easier to remove the lug nuts.

            As we drive off, I lean into the back seat, enjoying the air conditioning.

            There are drawbacks to being treated like a woman.

            This is not one of them.

Chapter Seventeen

            “God, Shannon,” Natalia gushes. “You have such dainty little feet. I’m totally jelly!”

            We’re at a Natalia’s favorite manicurist, getting mani-pedis. This is the third time today someone has complimented my feet or legs. I’m beginning to wonder if Mila was being serious when she joked about how good I looked in a skirt.

            Of course the cameras are rolling and this is captured. In a few months, America will hear about Shannon’s sexy legs. I pray Mila’s right and no one makes a connection between TV Shannon and Iowa Shannon. If I should later join the NFL or become a Navy Seal, I’d still forever be known as Miss Long Legs.

            I smile weakly at Natalia, wondering if maybe I’m going down a path I’ll never be able to veer from.

            “Oh, Shannon, you need to try this mango-chutney facial scrub from Lady Olivia. It’s the brand used in most salons, but it’s available in the beauty aisle of your local Wal-Mart or Target!”

            That’s another thing. When I sent my video in to Natalia, it wasn’t so I could sit in a beauty parlor having my nails done and shilling for the show’s sponsors. I thought Natalia and I would be fixing meals at the soup kitchen or washing puppies at the humane society.

            I try to ignore the tiny voice that reminds me that Des Moines has soup kitchens and animal shelters as well, and I’ve never set foot inside any of them. Always meant to. Always talked about it.

            Sighing, I rub on some of the facial scrub. Natalia is right, it really does open the pores.

            Jesus, I might as well sign up for breast implants after this.

            I try to make myself feel manly by watching the younger manicurists. They’re all Vietnamese, I think, and react to Natalia the same way everyone else does: with breathless awe and quiet obedience.

            Across the room, I notice Michael trying to flirt with one of the desk staff. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the girl isn’t reacting. Either there’s a language barrier, or he’s explaining to her what nail polish is.

            I replace the cucumbers over my eyes. When all this is over, I’m going to have to do some serious reflecting on what I’m going to do with my life. And not just acting-wise.

            I could go back home and really get into volunteer work. Maybe use my experiences here to raise awareness about the struggles of gender fluid people. Be an advocate for the cause.

            “Ms. Ferguson?” comes an obsequious voice at my elbow. “Your chai tea is ready.”

            Or maybe I could just become a man of leisure. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy at least some of this.

            My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash and a yelp. I remove the vegetables from my lids and reveal a scene of utter chaos. In the ten seconds I had my eyes covered, Michael somehow managed to collide with the drinks girl, knocking a tray of beverages all over the place. Tea, mineral water, and smoothies splatter the floor of the salon…as well as Mr. Lawrence’s pants.

            Michael is frozen like a deer in the headlights, as everyone stares at him. Mr. Lawrence just stands there. For a brief second, I think he’s just going to laugh this off.

            He hits Michael.

            Not with his fist, but with the flat of his palm. Just a smack upside the head. Almost cartoonish.

            I guess I’m the only one who notices Michael grit his teeth in pain.

            “You stupid shit.” He hits him again.

            “Sir, I—”

            Mr. Lawrence jabs him in the chest with a finger. Michael backs up, nearly losing his balance on the spilled drinks.

            “I’m done with you, Michael. Every damn week another screw up. Do you have any idea how many people would take your job over like that?” He snaps his fingers in Michael’s face. “Do you?”

            “Sir…” Michael’s eyes are wide.

            “I’m through. I don’t know why we keep you here.”

            I glance around wondering if anyone is going to leap to Michael’s aid. The salon workers pointedly don’t look in his direction. The TV crewmembers, who Michael had been joking around with an hour earlier, just watch. Natalia is looking at her phone, not playing attention.

            “You listening to me, Michael? Give me one good reason not to kick your ass out of here.”

            I’m suddenly reminded of my many encounters with my sister. Give me one good reason not to kick your ass, Shannon.

            Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m standing between Mr. Lawrence and Michael. They both take an involuntary step back in surprise.

            “Mr. Lawrence?” I begin, with a timidity that isn’t the result of my acting skills. “It was an accident.”

            Mr. Lawrence doesn’t smile. I swallow and continue. “We all know Michael’s a great guy. I mean we’ve all had our clumsy moments, right?” No one shouts out in agreement. Especially not Mr. Lawrence.

            “Could you just cut him a break? He’s very sorry.” I glance over at Michael, but he doesn’t take my cue to apologize. He just stares at me.

            Mr. Lawrence glares, and for a moment I worry that we’re both going to be kicked off the show. I have to call in the big guns.

            “Miss Jenkins? You know what it’s like to be all thumbs, right?” Natalia is always going on about how klutzy she is, at least during interviews.

            Natalia looks up, as if aware of what’s going on for the first time. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Cut the dude a break, Harvey.”

            Mr. Lawrence glowers at me for another couple of seconds, and I fear I’ve made an enemy. But he turns to Michael. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

            Michael doesn’t have to be asked twice. He hauls ass out of the salon.

            At the door, he pauses and looks back at me.

            He doesn’t smile. In fact, he looks almost as angry at me as Mr. Lawrence did.

*

            It’s not until I run into Mila outside that I realize my blunder. She’s standing by Natalia’s limo, sheaves of papers spread all over the hood.

            “Shannon.” She nods without looking up from her work. “Who shoved the bug up Michael’s ass?”

            Hell if I know. “What do you mean?”

            “He stormed off all pissy. Didn’t even hit on me, so I know something’s up.”

            I check to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “Mr. Lawrence got in his face. I think he might have fired Michael if Natalia and I hadn’t stepped in. Well, mostly Natalia, I guess.”

            Mila suddenly looks up. “Oh, Shannon.” Her expression is not one of admiration. Once again, I feel like I’ve screwed up in some way that everyone noticed but me.

            “What?”

            “Shannon, honey, you don’t look like much of a man, but you still think like one. You didn’t do Michael any favors back there.”

            This angers me. “What the hell, Mila? Mr. Lawrence was hitting him! Actually smacking him around! I was supposed to just let that go?”

            “Um…yeah. Michael’s a big boy with big boy responsibilities. Is it fair that Mr. Lawrence does shit like that? No. But Michael puts up with it because it’s part of the job.”

            “Well he wasn’t about to have a job anymore!”

            Mila shakes her head. “That ‘give me one good reason not to kick your ass out the door’ spiel? He does that every week. And tomorrow he’ll forget all about it. We all just let it ride. Michael didn’t need help from anyone, especially not…” she trails off.

            “Not what? No, seriously, what are you saying?”

            Mila looks like she wishes she hadn’t spoken, but she nods and continues. “A woman. There’s not a man alive who wants a woman to rescue him.”

            I sputter over my words, trying to think of a counterargument to her ridiculous statement. She just talks over me.

            “Shannon, Mr. Lawrence was just showing that he was the caveman with the biggest, um, club. And Michael was proving that he was tough enough not to run away or beg. This has been going on for thousands of years. But the last thing any man wants is for a girl to protect him. Ever.”

            “But…I wasn’t….but…”

            Mila talks over me. “Think about when you used to be a boy, or whatever. I’m sure you had your share of ass whoopings. And did you ever wish some girl would step in to help?”

            I remember the time my mother complained to Owen Finley’s mother about how mean he was to me on the way to school. Or that time Chris caught Mark McGoering knocking me around, and she kicked his ass (and then kicked mine for the hell of it). Having my sister stand up for me certainly didn’t improve my social standing.

            “But…”

            Mila begins gathering up her papers. “Don’t sweat it, Shannon. You’re still getting used to things. It’s okay. Just apologize to Michael when you see him tomorrow.”

            That does it. “Apologize? I didn’t do anything wrong and you expect me to apologize? What the hell is that?”

            Mila just picks up her papers and grins. “Womanhood.”

*

            The next day we have a production meeting. I sit in the break room and stew.

            Apologize. Right. Mila may know everything about TV and Hollywood and being a woman, but she doesn’t know what it’s like to be a guy. Michael usually stops in here in the morning.  We’ll laugh about what happened yesterday—if he even remembers.

            Michael shows up a couple of minutes later, indelicately trying to tuck his shirt into his pants. He freezes when he sees me sitting at a table. For a moment I think he’s going to turn around and leave. Instead, he just frowns and heads for the coffee machine.

            I groan internally. So Mila was right. He’ll still work for Mr. Lawrence who roughed him up, but he’s all bent out of shape because I stood up for him.

            Am I really going to apologize for that? Oh, Michael, I’m so very sorry for intruding on your man business. It’s so confusing for little ol’ me. I didn’t mean to step out of line. Will you ever forgive me?

            Yeah. Hell no.

            Someone left a mess around the coffee pot and Michael is cleaning it up. I only have a minute before he leaves. And why not just let him go? What do I care if his manly pride is bruised?

            Except I do kind of care. I do kind of see Mila’s point about guys wanting to stand up for themselves. Plus Michael, annoying as he is, has gone out of his way to be friendly to me. I can’t really say that about anyone else.

            He’s pouring his drink. If I’m going to say something, it has to be now. But I’m not going to say I’m sorry. So how do I make things normal again?

            I flash back to my parents. They don’t fight, not a lot. But sometimes Dad’ll get into a mood. How does mom deal with him then?

            By ignoring his attitude. Just pretending she doesn’t notice that he’s angry.

            I remember one winter, Mom turned into our driveway too fast, lost control on the ice, and broke a headlight and our mailbox. Dad was seething, he’d warned her about the ice that morning. And what does my mom do? She starts dinner, chatting with the family about her day, asking Dad about work, and blowing off any comments about the damage to the car. By the time we sat down to eat, my father’s arguments had kind of deflated.

            Worth a shot.

            “Hey, Michael, toss me one of those breakfast bars, would you? Are there any apple left?”

            He pauses, looking somewhat surprised, before sliding me the snack.

            I keep talking before he can leave. “These are okay. They used to sell Nature’s Goodness back at my school. Tasted like sawdust. You ever had those?”

            He shakes his head. His frown has thawed a degree or so.

            “Now Strudlemeister, those are great…hey, what’s the hurry? Sit with me a second.”

            He glances at the door and I think he’s going to just leave. Instead, he pulls up a seat across from me. He doesn’t smile or try to explain anything to me, so I can tell he’s still mad.

            How the hell do you soothe the male ego? I try to remember a relevant experience. What guy do I know who gets easily offended and pissy all the time?

            I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished chrome of the fridge.

            Oh. Right. So how did Chris react when she realized she’d pushed me too far?

            Geez, Shannon, I was just kidding. Lighten up.

            How was I supposed to know that was a school project? It’s not like you can’t glue it back together.

            Oh, don’t start bitching at me, Shannon. You’re not the only one who had a bad day.

            I smile at Michael, but not warmly. “So Mila says you’re pissed at me.”

            He shrugs. “No. Well. The thing is, Shannon, you kind of—”

            “Stood up for you when Mr. Lawrence was being a prick?” I say that a little too loudly and we both immediately glance at the door.

            “I didn’t need your help. I didn’t need—”

            I stir my half empty coffee cup. “I’m sure you didn’t. But here’s the thing. You’re the only nice guy around here, and I didn’t appreciate your boss knocking you around.”

            Michael tries to say something, but I plow on. “And unlike you, Mr. Lawrence can’t fire me. So maybe I overstepped myself. I dunno. But I’m not sorry I said something. I always stand up for my friends. And I do consider you a friend, Michael.”

            He gapes at me for a moment. And then he smiles. I can tell he’s fighting it, so I smile back and he can’t help it.

            “I consider you a friend too, Shannon. Just next time—”

            Nope. I stand and pat him on the shoulder. “Good. I’ll see you at the meeting. Oh, and Mila was worried about you. Why don’t you go talk to her, let her know you’re doing okay.”

            I smile once more and walk out of the room, my head held high. I’m really kind of getting the knack of this female business.

            One foot in front of the other.

Chapter Eighteen

            I’ve been smiling intently for so long, I feel like my makeup is going to crack. Under the guise of shooting a Darkness in the Daytime scene, Natalia casually mentions these amazing new whitening strips that she wants me to try. Again and again. My teeth are so bleached that they’ll probably stay this white after I’m dead.

            Thankfully, Mr. Lawrence decides we’ve done enough and I instantly become invisible in Natalia’s eyes. I gather my things and Mila and I head down to the cafeteria.

            We eat together after every shoot. I’m not sure why exactly we started doing this, or whose idea it was. I don’t complain.

            Mila regards me critically from across the small table. “My, Shannon, that’s certainly an interesting outfit you chose today. Very…brave.”

            I take a bite of my pasta salad. “Thanks, Mila. I’d leave it for you when I go home, but I think it may be a little tight on you.”

            Mila grins. “Damn, Shannon, you’re really getting the hang of being a woman. You’ve got catty bitchiness down cold.”

            “Well, I had a great teacher.”

            While I’m proud that I’m finally able to hold my own with Mila, there’s something that’s been bothering me. I’m not sure how to broach the subject.

            “So are you doing anything this weekend, Mila?”

            She lets out a long sigh. “No, thank goodness. This girl is going to go home, change into her jammies and eat ice cream in front of the TV for two days. Haven’t had time to do that in months.”

            “Oh. I thought maybe you’d go out and see your mother. Is she busy?” I still feel guilty about blowing her family reunion earlier.

            Mila’s eyes narrow. “Why do you want to know?”

            Geez, defensive much? “I dunno. Just wondering. Thought it would be nice to get to know each other a little better.”

            “Nah, I’m good.” We eat in silence for a bit, before she lets out another dramatic sigh.

            “Fine, Shannon. Pleeeease tell me about yourself. What did you do for fun back in Skidmark, Iowa?”

            “Forget I said anything.”

            “I usually do. But seriously, what do you have planned for your days off? Gonna hit the clubs again? Drive the boys wild?”

            “I said forget it!” That comes out way louder than I intend.

            To my surprise, Mila doesn’t look offended. “Hey, I was just messing with you.”

            I grip my fork. It’s time to bring up what’s been bothering me. “Mila…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about the show. I mean, even if no one figures out who I really am, I’ll still know. And that’s something I’m going to think about for the rest of my life.  I mean…” How can I express this?

            “You mean,” finishes Mila. “That you passed yourself off as a woman, both on screen and off, and that tears your fragile little male ego apart. You were so good at playing a woman, you worry that you’re less than a man.”

            “No! That’s not it at all!”

            “Well, what then?”

            Pause. “Okay, that is it. Stop smirking! Look, I guess I don’t care what strangers think. But my sister…she always called me a sissy. Always called me a weirdo.”

            “You are weird.”

            “Not like this.” I gesture to my outfit, my falsies, my shaved legs. “And, well, what about…you know…dating? I mean, I had enough trouble meeting women before I started dressing like one.”

            Mila cocks her head. “Shannon, have you ever had a girlfriend?”

            I briefly consider lying. “No.”

            “Look, it sounds like your sister has issues of her own. And as for girls…if they have a problem with this, forget ‘em. You don’t need someone that narrow-minded. Besides, no one is ever going to find out.”

            “Wish I had your confidence. When it comes to girls, I don’t really have…any experience. At all.”

            Mila laughs. “Shannon, you have a lot to offer a woman. I’m sure. I mean, there’s got to be something about you that some girl, somewhere would find…I dunno, acceptable. You have great teeth, play that up. Not to mention your fashion sense. Find a stocky woman and you can double your wardrobe.”

            I laugh in spite of myself. “Would you date a guy who dressed like a woman for a TV show?”

            “No.” Her answer is so emphatic, I know there’s no punch line coming.

            “Too much to take?” I asked, a little dejectedly.

            “Nope. I just don’t date. Men are assholes. All of them. Present company included.”

            “I can never tell if you’re joking, Mila.”

            She spears a cherry tomato on her fork and crushes it between her teeth. “I rarely joke.”

            “But all men? C’mon, we’re not all that way.”

            “Honey, there are very few exceptions. Very few.”

            Someone approaches our table. “Hey Shannon. Hi, Mila!”

            “Hi, Michael.” I lean toward Mila. “Case in point.”

            She shrugs. “Granted.”

            Michael dances from foot to foot, clearly hoping we’ll invite him to sit down and explain something. When we don’t, he pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and looks at Mila.

            “So this radio station had this call-in contest. I identified the theme song to Get Smart and I won two tickets to the Kingston Jazz Fusion show.”

            Mila cocks her head. “What radio station?”

            Just a flash of panic on Michael’s face, but he soldiers on. “I’m not much into jazz myself, but I think you said something about liking it.”

            She shrugs.

            “So…well, I’d hate for these to go to waste. You want to come with me?”

            I pretend to be interested in the stray croutons on my plate.

            “Sorry, Michael, Mr. Lawrence gave me a shit ton of work. I’m going to be at the office all weekend.”

            I remember her planned date with Ben and Jerry, but don’t mention it.

            “Anything I can help with?” asks Michael, determinedly. “Maybe if I give you a hand…”

            “No. Thanks though.” She stands up, collects her tray, and leaves.  Michael watches her leave. After a moment, he collapses into her chair and stares dejectedly at the envelope in his hand.

            “I don’t stand a chance, do I, Shannon?”

            I’m shocked at the blunt question. Before I can prepare a thick enough sugarcoating, he continues.

            “And don’t tell me the truth. Tell me she’s playing hard to get, that she secretly kind of likes me, and that she thinks of me as more than a friend.”

            “She’s not into you, Michael.”

            “Damn it, Shannon! I told you to lie.” He tosses the envelope onto the table.

            “She thinks highly of you and your work.”

            “Yippie. I’ll put her down as a reference.”

            His pity party is wearing just a bit thin. Mila was being as diplomatic with him as possible. Most women would have been a lot more blunt. “Michael, you have to move on.”

            “Yeah. I know.” He points to the envelope. “Just wish I hadn’t blown two hundred bucks on those.”

            “I thought you said you won them.”

            “I say a lot of things. Her favorite band is playing there.” He looks me in the eye. “She doesn’t really have to work, does she?”

            “Um…”

            “Figures. Well, I tried.” He starts to stand, then stops. “Hey, do you like jazz?”

            “It’s…wait, what?”

            “Since I’m not going to be able to make my car payment this month, I might as well see the concert. You want to come with? I hear they’re pretty good. C’mon, we can go out and get hammered afterward.”

            I’m on the fence. On the one hand, I sure as hell am not going to go clubbing again. And the concert does sound kind of fun. Kind of cosmopolitan. But I need to say something.

            “Michael, you’re not one of those maudlin drunks, are you? If we go out drinking, you’re not going to go on and on about Mila, right?”

            He laughs. “No. I promise. Actually, though, I do need to warn you. When I’ve been drinking…well, they tell me I tend to talk a lot.”

            “Get out.”

            “No, really.” He stands. “See you Saturday.”

*

            Michael is deep into another story. “And after I shattered my kneecap, that was the end of my lacrosse dreams. It healed up…kind of. If I was wearing shorts, I could win some serious bar bets.”

            The concert ended two hours ago. Despite me never having taken an interest in jazz, I really enjoyed myself. The performance had been in a smoky, claustrophobic club where everyone was dressed to the nines. I was glad I’d picked up a new dress for the occasion. And even happier that no one would ever know I’d picked up a new dress for the occasion.

            Now Michael and I are sitting in a crowded coffee shop that sells alcohol. Everyone seems to know him here. He’d promised me that we were going to both get so shitfaced that we’d be hungover until next week.

            We’ve been here over an hour and we just ordered our second beers. But they’re large beers.

            We’re been exchanging life stories. When Michael’s not explaining things, he can be surprisingly interesting. I never would have suspected he spent a gap year planting crops in Guatemala.

            “So about you, Shannon? You play any sports?”

            I take a sip of my drink. “Hardly. My dad signed me up for soccer when I was in middle school. He was so disappointed when I quit.”

            “Huh,” says Michael. “You don’t usually hear about girls getting forced to play sports. But I suppose if it’s just you and your sister…”

            Damn. I’m going to have to be more careful about revealing my history.

            “I guess you’re pretty close with your family?” continues Michael.

            I’m shocked at this question. “No. Not really. I was always kind of the odd one out.” I pause. “Why do you ask?”

            He shrugs. “You just talk about them a lot. Especially your sister. It’s just the two of you, right? No brothers?”

            I’m suddenly wishing Michael would try to explain something. “Yeah. Just Chris and me.”

            “I’m an only child myself. Always wanted a brother or sister. So you and Chris never hang out?”

            I try to improvise some sort of falling out I could have had with Chris, some reason that the Ferguson sisters were never close. But I just tell the truth.

            “Chris was always the popular one. The athlete. The outgoing one. I guess she was always kind of embarrassed by her younger, um, sister. I was never very cool. She hated that. She’s only a year older, and we went to the same school until last year.”

            Michael absently swirls his beer. “Popular kids are like that, I guess. High school’s rough. She shouldn’t have avoided you like that, but you know how it is…”

            “Oh, she never avoided me,” I interrupt. “She was always trying to drag me to football games and parties and introduce me to people. I was like ‘I’m not going to be this ideal—sibling—you want, so stop trying to change me.’”

            Michael signals for the check. “Maybe she was just trying to include you. Include her little sister.”

            I remember a thousand insults and headlocks. “Or maybe she was trying to change me. Trying to make me conform.”

            He shrugs. “You know her better than I do. So how about your parents?”

            I feel a tinge of unexpected guilt. I’ve been missing for two weeks. I wonder what they’re thinking. I wonder if they’re still trying to find me.

            “Like I said, I was always kind of a disappointment. They all like football and TV and stuff. Didn’t really understand my love of the theater and acting.”

            Michael chortles. “I bet they were impressed when you landed this gig, though. C’mon, they have to be proud.”

            They don’t know. And when they find out what I’ve done, they’re going to be furious. Not because of the cross dressing, but because they were worried for nothing.

            I chug half my drink. “I don’t think proud is the word I’d use. Hell, when I go back to Iowa, my fifteen minutes will be up.”

            “Don’t be too sure. Mr. Lawrence doesn’t let it show, but he’s very impressed by your professionalism. So is Mila. And I think you’re talented. You’re getting to know people. Making connections. You’ve got an inside scoop that a lot of aspiring actresses would kill for.”

            “Yeah.” Except I’m not an aspiring actress. “You ready to go?”

*

            We’re not far from my hotel, and Michael walks me. “Hey, Shannon, thanks for coming with me tonight. It kind of hit me the other day that I was getting a little stalky with Mila. I appreciate you being blunt with me before I did something embarrassing.”

            I give him a half smile, still trying to stop thinking about my family. “Nothing wrong with moving on. You’ll meet someone. Some movie star that’ll put Miss Jenkins to shame.”

            That amuses him and he laughs. We walk silently for the final block.

            “Well, this is my stop,” I tell him.

            “Thanks again, Shannon.”

            “My pleasure. It’s nice not to be alone on the weekend.”

            “Isn’t it?”

            We smile for a moment.

            And then he kisses me.

            He’s not grabby or abrupt. In retrospect he was moving slowly enough so that I could back away and he could pass it off that he was just moving in for a brotherly hug.

            But I was so absolutely not used to guys trying to kiss me that I couldn’t figure out what he was doing until it was too late. I swear, I thought he was going to brush a piece of lint off my shoulder or something.

            Or lips only touch for less than a second. I then jump about a yard backward, catch my foot on the curb, and go sprawling on my butt.

            Michael is already apologizing before I regain my feet. “Oh my God, Shannon, I’m so sorry…”

            “You just startled me. I wasn't expecting…”

            “I’m a jerk. I misread the moment…”

            “Sorry, I’m just not…you’re a nice guy but…”

            “It’s okay…honestly, I just wanted to have a drink. I don’t know what came over me…”

            I’m slowly edging back to the hotel. “It’s okay. Forget it. Please, forget it.”

            “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

            “It’s okay. Good night.”

            “Shannon, I’m sorry!”

            I’m at the door. “Good night!”

*

            I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror of my hotel room, trying to figure out what happened. It’s not hard to unravel.

            A guy asks someone he thinks is a young lady out for the evening. They talk. They open up. They have a good time. He walks her home.

            He tries to kiss her goodnight.

            How in the holy shit did I not realize this was a date? How stupid am I? How goddamn blind was I?

            I guess it’s not entirely my fault. I’m still not used to being treated like a girl. I still thought of this as a night out with the guys.

            But what the hell was Michael thinking? Not about the kiss, but about asking me out in the first place.

            Okay, he doesn’t know I’m a seventeen-year-old guy. He thinks I’m a girl. And he probably never looked at my application. With the aging effects of my makeup, he probably assumes I’m about twenty. But my God, still! Why on earth would he want to kiss me?

            I focus in on my reflection. Monkey brow, hard jaw, big ears. Even with my padding and apparently nice legs, I’m a 4 at the most. Maybe a 5 in good light.

            But Michael seems like a guy who places a lot of value on personality and intelligence, if his obsession with Mila is any indication. And if he’d finally given up on her, maybe it’s logical that he’d try his luck with someone a little further down the dating food chain.

            Jesus. I was the rebound girl.

            I’m utterly disgusted with myself, with Michael, and with this whole stupid situation. Why didn’t I tell him ‘just friends’ before we went out? Why didn’t I shake his hand the second we got to the hotel? Why didn’t I punch him in his stupid smug face?

            It’s not his fault. He’s not the first guy to misread his date. It’s my fault for getting into this stupid mess.

            And now what? I’m going to have to face him at the studio for about two more weeks. Should I apologize? Should he? Should we laugh about this, or just act like nothing happened?

            I need to talk to someone.

*

            “I appreciate you seeing me tonight, Rochelle.”

            Rochelle is cleaning up her makeup tables. She looks very tired, and I feel guilty for calling her. “You understand this is after hours. I don’t do this for everyone. Now what did you need to talk to me about?”

            I take a deep breath. “I got myself into a strange situation. This guy from work asked me to go see a concert. I swear, I thought it was just a couple of friends going out, but after he walked me home…” It’s hard for me to say this next part out loud. “He tried to kiss me. And I totally freaked out.”

            Rochelle pauses in her tidying and sits down in a makeup chair. Again, I’m struck at how regal she looks.

            “So you present as female at work?”

            “Um…” I keep forgetting that Rochelle thinks I dress like a woman out of identity, not necessity. “Yes.”

            She shakes her head. “Shannon, I don’t know anything about your life outside this salon. But it’s obvious you’re living as a female, more or less full time, am I right?”

            I don’t deny it.

            “And if that’s the case, you’re going to have to deal with the attention of men.”

            I snort. “Hardly. I’m not exactly Natalia Jenkins…for example.”

            Rochelle stares at me for a long time, in a way that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Then, much to my surprise, she removes her wig, places it on a stand, and begins brushing it.

            She’s bald. Not shaven headed, but the full on male pattern baldness. Worse than my father.

            And yet I still cannot think of her as a man. Not really.

            She talks as she brushes, not looking me in the eye. “Shannon, you may not be sexy. But you pass as a woman in a way that would make some of us girls jealous. When people look at you, they see a young woman. And you’re polite, well-spoken, and intelligent. For a lot of guys, that’s all it takes.”

            I shudder internally. Rochelle continues.

            “And the longer you present as a woman, the more confident you’ll be. And that’s attractive as well.”

            Thank God I’m only doing this for another couple of weeks.

            Rochelle looks at the wig, smiles, and places it back on her head. “So I take it your attractions are not with men?”

            “What? Oh, hell no.”

            She smiles enigmatically. “Then you need to be careful. A lot of gentlemen don’t take no for an answer. You learned that tonight.”

            It would be easy to cast Michael as the villain, but that wouldn’t be true. “It wasn’t like that. I think he was more embarrassed than I was. And now I have to see him on Monday.”

            Rochelle stands and touches my shoulder. “He won’t mention it. And neither should you. Is he a friend of yours?”

            I nod.

            “Then just go back to what you had before. You’re not the first girl who’s turned him down.”

            I squeeze Rochelle’s hand. Every time I see her, I get more and more curious as to her life outside the salon, but it’s none of my business. “Thank you, Rochelle. I needed to talk that out.” I turn to leave.

            “Shannon?” I turn and she looks grave. “Remember what I said. Please be careful.”

            “I will.” And I’m so grateful this farce is coming to an end.

            I just pray she’s right about Michael. He got a little obsessive over Mila. I hope that doesn’t happen with me.