An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 5

Chapter 14. Malling

There was a lot to think about that night, but one thing I remembered dreaming about the next morning: I had been walking around the pond pushing a stroller with my child and feeling such bliss. Wow. And I knew, from my talk with Mom last night if not before, how much non-stop worry and agony was involved in raising a child.

And yet, somewhere deep inside me, I wanted a child …

We did the lazy Sunday-papers thing; I told her how odd it was at first to try sleeping with studs in my ears, and of course I’d added cleaning them to my nightly regimen. Now that they were pierced, I wasn’t worried about school for some reason–I just wanted to be able to put in some of the pretty hoops we’d bought!

And, of course, reality check–Mom just chuckled and told to me to wait until the first night I slept in rollers!

Since I wasn’t planning on any heavy-duty shopping for myself, I could wear anything, but stuck with the standard uniform of flats, denim skirt, and layered camisole, in melon and lime. Mom and I joked about the ‘food’ colors for women’s clothing, and I told her that I had to learn the names of everything. She recommended I read the signs in the stores, just in passing, and study the Penney’s catalog description of items; I could get a lot of terms those ways. And, of course, close study of my teen girl magazines. They really were my key, my Rosetta Stone, to the new land of teen girls, as Mom and I had talked about the night I’d admitted that I was a girl.

We drove to the Burlington Mall and Mom said she would stay in the area, puttering around, and pick me up at five. If by chance I saw her at the mall–she had some things to return to chain stores–it was up to me to ignore her or to introduce her to Carrie.

“But overall,” she smiled. “No pressure. This is your test flight, sweetheart. First time, one-on-one, with a girl who only knows you as Angela. If things get weird in any way, call me or text me. Let’s call that part of Sears the extraction point,” she teased as she nodded to a side entrance.

I tried to make light of it. “You make it sound like I’m going behind enemy lines!”

“No; that’s what you do when you dress as Andrew,” she answered seriously.

I had no response to that. I hugged her and told her I loved her and went in, found the directory, and was standing in front of Claire’s, grinning to myself that I was now a Claire’s veteran, with my pierced ears! Five minutes later, Carrie showed up.

With a twelve-year-old girl.

Carrie was dressed almost exactly like me; flip-flops, denim skirt, teal cami. The girl was obviously her little sister, and wore white shorts and a leotard top.

We greeted and I was introduced to Alana, her sister. I kind of stuttered and Carrie laughed.

“I know, right? I said we have to find a swimsuit and she’s got the leotard on!” She rolled her eyes.

I had actually thought that she was going to be alone, shopping for a suit for a little sister–like six or seven, not twelve–so I covered by chuckling. “I was just thinking how to make a hard thing to buy even harder!”

“What?” Alana said, concerned that we were making fun of her.

I said, “It’s just that it’ll be more work for you trying things on, to take off the leotard, try the suit, pull on the leotard …”

I had been guessing, putting it together quickly, and I’d guessed right, judging by Carrie’s knowing nod.

Alana nodded, unconcerned now. “It’s okay. Yeah, I know what you mean, but it’s okay.”

Alana was actually not much trouble; she’d skip ahead to a store window and call out, “Hey, you guys–come see this cute skirt!”

Carrie murmured, “Like walking a puppy!” but it was said lovingly with a smile and eventually got Alana her suit, although she tried on about a thousand and took forever in the fitting room each time.

Meanwhile, Carrie and I just walked along and chatted. It was pretty cool that we went to different schools because we could talk about the kids in class and not worry about word getting back to them. We weren’t dissing them or anything, just funny stories. And even though the names were different, the situations were pretty universal and it was just pretty cool.

We seemed to get along easily; there was no competition between us. She told me of her family–an older brother and Alana–and in contrast, I was an only child of a single mother. We talked about the pros and cons for awhile, but with Alana’s final choice paid for and bagged, we just had to buy her a smoothie–we all had one–and sat in the Food Court and kept talking. Alana got a little restless, almost violently swinging her feet, but then she saw two girls she knew with their moms–waving so furiously I thought she’d fall from her chair!–and we let her go sit with them, keeping an eye on things.

Carrie blew out some air. “Great! She’s gone! Now we can drink, smoke, and talk dirty about boys!”

I stared at her for a moment and then laughed; she did, too.

“Gotcha! God, your face!”

I finished laughing and decided on nearly the truth.

“Carrie, I don’t …I don’t really have many friends. I’m kind of a bookworm, always studying.”

She slapped the table. “God, I knew it! You’re the girl that blows the grading curve!”

“Guilty!” I laughed and then quieted. “Things were …kind of rough when my father left. See, he, um …you know how they say, ‘He walked out on us?’”

“You mean in movies? Yeah.”

“Well, that’s literally what he did. Walked right out the door and closed it behind him and we never saw him again. And by the end of the week Mom found out he’d …taken everything. Their money, I mean; cleaned out the bank accounts and split.”

Her eyes were widened. “I thought that was only in the movies!”

I shook my head. “It’s where the movies got it from. And then things got really, really tight, and Mom had to take another job, and I became one of those latchkey kids.”

“Flying solo?”

“Completely. Get up alone with an alarm clock, make my breakfast and go to school. Come home and do homework, fix dinner for Mom when she gets home. Still pretty much do that, although things aren’t as bad as they were.”

“Oh, Angela, I …”

“Carrie, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or ‘oh, poor little me’ or anything. It’s just why I’m …the way I am. It was Mom and me against the world. I love her to pieces and I’m lucky; I’m not like a lot of girls that always fight with their mother. I like being with her. We do things together, like when I met you, Mom and I were at the movies.”

She nodded. “I can understand that relationship. God, I feel like a Norman Rockwell painting now, with my Perfect Little Family!”

“I don’t want you to worry about that; I envy you, but I wouldn’t trade my closeness with Mom.”

Carrie looked at me for a long moment and then nodded. “You’re a good person, Angela. I’m glad Gina and I ran into you that night.”

“Hey, how’s she doing?”

Another eye roll. “You gave her darned good advice, and she was seeing the jerk with new eyes, but she’s kind of backsliding. Summer coming on, she’s afraid she won’t …” She frowned. “He was kind of her ticket to a lot of parties, things at the beach, whatever. Got some bucks.”

“The kind that seems like a catch until you caught him?”

She slapped the table again. “God! You’re right on the money! I love that about you; you see through stuff right to the heart of the matter, the truth of it.”

I suddenly flashed on my tea-making pun, wondering if Andrew had ever made a single joke. But I knew that Andrew had never seen right to the heart of the matter of anything …and it just reinforced how right it was to be Angela!

“Just a lucky guess,” I grinned happily.

“Naw; you’re …I guess it’s because of the life you lead–I don’t want to insult you or anything and I don’t mean it in a bad way–but you’re kind of an observer of life, from what you told me.”

“Now you’re right on the money,” I nodded. “And I …I’m finding I want to get more involved with it. That’s why I …” I blushed. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been talking to you and Gina. I’d just have nodded and kept my head down and not said anything. And I sure wouldn’t be here with you! I’d be safe at home, reading a book.”

“Time to fly, huh?”

“A bit of wing-spreading, yeah,” I chuckled.

Carrie nodded. “And that’s why a cool girl like you doesn’t really have friends. I bet most of the kids in your class, you’ve been in school together from like kindergarten or something?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, like seventy percent of ‘em. Maybe eighty.”

She nodded. “They’ve got you pegged as the loner girl from years ago, when your father left. Oh, did your mom’s lawyers ever track him down? Get anything back? Sorry if I’m nosy.”

“No, no; you’re entitled. I did start the story. No lawyers; couldn’t afford one. But track him down …yeah, sort of.” I sighed. “We found that he’d been killed in a drunk driving accident.”

Her eyes were wide. “Omigod! And did …”

I shook my head. “Couldn’t get a dime of it, if there was anything left.”

“Omigod!” she said again. “Angela!”

She leaned over for a spontaneous hug and I thought this closeness, this comforting, was just part of the reason why I was so proud and happy to be a girl.

Since it was Sunday the mall was closing at five; I’d told Carrie about my mom picking me up and they were getting picked up earlier, so at 4:30 I met her mom, a nice but frazzled lady in a minivan. Carrie and I had already exchanged cell phone numbers and now we hugged and promised to get back in touch after Finals–she had them the same week I did. I returned Alana’s furious wave and then walked back to Claire’s and browsed. I found some bracelets that I liked and another pair of earrings. Just the simple act of checking them in the mirror and buying them, so familiar to all girls my age, was strangely comforting to me now. Mom had been right and wrong–it wasn’t the shrinks that the earrings helped convince; it was me.

I went to ‘the extraction point’ and Mom pulled up and I told her all about my day with Carrie. We stopped at a soup place for two custom-made salads, then to home. I was ready for tomorrow’s Government and English Finals but cracked the books anyway. I came to Mom to say good-night, all shiny with moisturizer and pretty in my nightie, and she said she was proud that I hadn’t bought any more than the few things at Claire’s, and was happy that I had made a new friend–further proof that Angela was the real person, not Andrew. Then we talked a bit about the next day’s doctor’s appointment, which was probably ‘the big one’, the decisive yea-or-nay for my future.

Mom smiled warmly at me as she gently stroked my cheek. “You have my absolute promise, Angela, that if, for any reason, things don’t start moving tomorrow–either they’re full-up with patients or don’t want to treat you or you just don’t like them–we will continue. We will find other doctors, other avenues, whatever it takes, for your life as Angela. And if things do start moving tomorrow, well then–look out, world!”

Chapter 14. Finals and Firsts

The Government final had one trick question in it that I realized I’d answered wrong; I was usually able to finish tests and double-check and l suddenly realized I’d written the mini-essay about the wrong guy! Frantically I began writing and quite literally dotted the last period as the teacher’s voice rang out calling ‘Time!’

That set me up wonderfully for English, because I was more cautious in reading each set of instructions. Plus, I had already been writing in Government, so it was easier to keep the ‘essay muscles’ going. I don’t know what it would have been like if the first final had been like a math class, using a different part of the brain. But I felt full of words and language and I think I aced it.

Finals are always weird because everybody’s different. The teachers are more formal, more aware of their status as monitors or proctors or whatever they call themselves that day. They’re also much more on guard against any form of cheating, so they either sit at their desk and sweep the room with radar eyes, or they actually patrol the aisles. Government was a patroller and I knew Geometry would be, too; English had been a sweeper.

The kids are different, too, because first of all the Seniors are gone; they went through this the previous week and were busy graduating this weekend. As I’d told Mom, that was a quarter of the population gone, and then we only had one or two periods a day–no finals for PE–and the choir, band and orchestra kids had extra rehearsals for a concert. The greatly-reduced student body didn’t lead to power-shifts or pranks, because everybody was worried about finals. That worked well for me, because the guys that usually hung out and terrorized people like me were worried, too, for the most part, and their ranks were thinned. Bullies become very quiet when there aren’t as many of them to back each other up, and when their own grades were on the line.

I had made Mom promise to not tell the school about the bullies until Finals were concluded and I was completely out of school. I felt cowardly doing it, but Mom’s complaint would draw the biggest of bulls-eyes on me, at a time when bullies were quiet and a time when I needed my wits about me. She looked at me long and hard and began talking about the whole nature of bullying. I realized she was speaking to me as an adult, not as a parent, when she talked about abuse cycles and the price of keeping quiet. My point, selfish or not, was to let me survive the last few days and put it behind me. In exchange for her temporary silence, I would provide her with the names of students who were abusive–and teachers who condoned their activities. The concept of ‘naming names’ didn’t sit right with me until Mom said that the point was to actually help the bullies–if they were being abused at home. I’d never thought of that before and felt better about my confession.

Mom told me there were groups that dealt with this sort of thing, and she was already in contact with them, after I’d told her of my experiences. She planned to meet with the school district with a representative from one of the groups immediately after my departure from Westmont; I just had to survive until then. Despite Mom’s temporary silence, I knew there were a couple of really bad bullies who might still cause a problem. They were the ones whose day wasn’t complete unless they hurt somebody, and after talking with Mom, I still feared them–but I also found that I pitied them.

Still wanted to avoid them, though! I was fully dressed as Andrew, trying to keep my mind in Andrew-mode for school–although not the Andrew who had daydreamed about pantyhose–and the only difference was that my ears were pierced but I was wearing the flesh-toned studs and my boys’ low ponytail was tied a bit looser to sort of cover my ears. Nobody seemed to be worried about how they were dressed; I was surprised to see Jenny Bowen in shorts that probably weren’t up to Dress Code but like I’d told Mom, it was in and out. Show up, take test, go home. Or in Jenny’s case, to the beach, maybe?

The big point in my favor was that I was Angela. I was able to shelve my worries about the doctor’s appointment and focus on my finals, and knowing that I was Angela, I wasn’t going into the old Andrew daydream about ‘what if’ when I looked at girls like Jenny. Instead, I wished her well and thought it was a cute top and wondered if she’d gotten it at Wet Seal.

And there was a sense of farewell for me, too, that I didn’t realize until I was walking out of English. My first thought was I aced it! But my second thought was, in each of these classes, to each of these people around me, I consciously thought, ‘This is the last time you will see Andrew Preston’. Sure, some of them were in my other classes, but basically I realized it was goodbye to Andrew with the end of each final. I knew that with Mom’s declaration of support last night, no matter what happened this afternoon, I was going to be in school next year–somewhere else–as a girl named Angela Preston. So the word ‘final’ itself took on a new meaning.

Now it was time to get focused on the doctors. I stopped by my locker to get the next day’s books and was thinking so hard about the appointment that I almost missed the yellow paper that had been shoved through the vents. I unfolded it and it was a note from Santiago asking me to call him when I could, with two numbers, home and I guess the restaurant. I stuck it in my Biology book and walked home.

I had time to fix a lunch and then shower, shaved my legs and underarms, and carefully did my makeup and hair. I switched out the studs and was happy to see the gold balls again! Mom and I had talked about how to dress and we had decided on a very light blue bra and panty set, a light yellow camisole with a lovely short-sleeved open-front white lacy top we found, and a black denim skirt. My legs were shiny from moisturizer and I wore the Mary Janes we’d found the very first shopping trip–we’d been incredibly lucky on my shoe sizes and everything had fit–and my purse, of course. Once I was ready, I decided to get my mind off the doctors by cracking my Biology book for tomorrow’s final–and Biology seemed appropriate for my Doctor Day!

Mom came home, had a piece of melon and some yogurt while we double-checked everything, and then off to the hospital. It was a short wait–is that good or bad, I wondered?–and we were ushered in to see Dr. Watkins at his desk, Dr. Chang at the window, smiling at us, and a man in a suit reading a file, sitting to the side. He was introduced as Brad Alexander, an attorney for the hospital. We sat and there was this awkward pause, which reminded me of just before somebody pushes you into a swimming pool. You haven’t hit the water but you’re out of control, in the air …

Dr. Watkins cleared his throat and started to go through my test results, all of them, in a very dry and clinical way. At some point there was a snort from Dr. Chang, who had taken to looking through the window as Dr. Watkins read.

“Within normal parameters?” she chuckled. “Doctor, the Prestons don’t need to hear that; it doesn’t really mean anything to them.”

“I think we need to be clear on the test results,” Dr. Watkins said, glancing at the lawyer.

I suddenly understood that Watkins droning on was not for us but to satisfy whatever legal demands the hospital had. I tentatively raised my hand.

Dr. Watkins smiled, “You don’t have to raise your hand, Angela. Just speak up.”

There was a small sound from the attorney.

“Thank you, sir. Um …it’s nice to hear you use my name, too. Dr. Chang, I think I know what you mean, and in a funny way, Mom and I are obviously not ‘within normal parameters’ or we wouldn’t be here.”

There was a general polite chuckle.

I went on, “But it’s okay for Dr. Watkins to state all these facts and figures because, well, I need to know, and they might bring up questions. So if you all have the time, I’d like to hear him out.”

Dr. Chang smiled at me. “Good girl,” she nodded once. “Go on, doctor.”

The attorney did a ‘harrumph’ thing, clearing his throat. “I think we may be a bit premature here. Dr. Watkins has referred to the patient as ‘Angela’ and Dr. Chang has referred to the patient as a ‘girl’.”

Both doctors did the polite-doctor version of rolling their eyes. I could feel Mom getting angry.

Again, I suddenly understood something and quickly said, “If I may?”

Dr. Watkins had opened his mouth to respond to the attorney but closed it and nodded.

I turned and said, “Mr. Alexander, I think I understand your point about referring to me as a girl named Angela. I agree with you; it is premature in a legal sense. I’m waiting to hear …we’re all waiting to hear, I think …if it’s premature in a medical sense. But please understand, to my mother and me, there is no doubt whatsoever that I am a girl named Angela. I think the doctors were being polite, to ease our worries on a very important day.”

A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. He said, “You have a valid point, and I might suggest a career in diplomacy. Or perhaps law …Miss Preston.”

Wow! That eased the tension!

Dr. Watkins seized the moment to start droning again about percentages and parameters; Dr. Chang grinned at me, and Mom squeezed my hand.

Then Dr. Watkins closed the file and sat back. He glanced at the window. “Dr. Chang? You want to take it or shall I?”

She smiled. “You’ve got your voice warmed up. Go ahead. I’ll play backup.”

Dr. Watkins looked at the lawyer, an ‘eye-to-eye’ thing happened with them, and then turned back to us, leaning forward and lacing his fingers over my file.

“Mrs. Preston …Angela …” He tucked his chin down for a moment and then looked back up at us. “Mrs. Preston, the file reports that your child is genetically male, but chemically and by measurable medical standards, a significantly underdeveloped male. There is enough neurochemical evidence to indicate that the brain chemistry, the brain functions, are female.”

“Indisputably,” Dr. Chang tossed in.

Mom frowned. “Indisputably?”

Dr. Chang said, “The brain chemistry is one factor; psychological testing is the other. Your child–and you do understand why we’re using that phrase?”

We both nodded–the lawyer nodded–and she went on

“Your child’s brain tests ‘within normal parameters’ for a female. It would be exceedingly odd–to the point of making medical history books–if your child was psychologically male. However, the psych testing we did, as I said, the results were indisputably female as well, as would be expected with–”

“Ah!” the lawyer started to say.

Dr. Chang quickly raised a hand. “I think you’re objecting to my phrase ‘as would be expected’. You were going to suggest that there was a bias toward a diagnosis of female based on the neurochemical results. And that could be a valid objection, if both parties were aware of the other’s findings, but not only were they independently performed …the neurochem screening was done after the psych evaluation.”

The importance of this was shown by how the lawyer immediately nodded and backed down.

Dr. Watkins nodded to the lawyer. “Every precaution was taken to isolate the testing procedures, in full compliance.” With what, he didn’t say, but the lawyer nodded yet again, satisfied, and made a note.

Then Dr. Watkins turned back to us. “Mrs. Preston, other than the genetic test, if your child had tested–in any of the procedures–as male, the normal prognosis would be massive doses of testosterone and androgens as well as years of psychological counseling to cope with being a small, rather delicate adult male. Some of the results strongly indicate nonfunctioning sexual ability.”

I have no idea why, but I turned to the lawyer, looked him in the eye and calmly said, “I have never had an erection in my life.”

I think it was his objections that made me do it; I understood, logically, that he had to be the Devil’s Advocate and protect the hospital, just doing his job and all that, but while I wasn’t a male, I knew how they think–and I wanted him to fully, personally, understand a little of what my life was truly like.

It had the desired effect–his eyes widened and he involuntarily gasped. He cleared his throat and tucked his chin to his chest–I thought it was his way of regrouping–and nodded.

Dr. Chang was almost snickering. She exchanged a glance with Dr. Watkins, who was fighting a smile. He got himself together and said, “Yes, as …the patient has reported, erections have been nonexistent, and even with massive testosterone therapy would most likely remain non-existent for the duration of the patient’s life.” He frowned. “I know we have to state all the ins and outs and whys and wherefores, but I think everybody in this room knows that, as the patient stated earlier, in the medical sense, the patient should be living as a girl named Angela. Treatment to conform the patient in line with birth sex would be pointless, as it is highly doubtful there would be any measureable results of any positive nature. There is ample evidence that there would be significant health risks, and would be seriously detrimental to the well-being of the patient. As well as highly questionable, medically.”

“And psychologically devastating,” Dr. Chang said, gloomily. There was a pause and she continued but with a smile. “So, treatment to conform the patient to birth sex is destructive. However, treatment to conform the patient to actual gender is relatively benign and anticipates a very healthy prognosis. In other words, it makes every bit of medical and psychological sense to enter male patient Andrew Preston into our Gender Identity Program and begin medical and legal transition to female patient Angela Preston.” She paused. “Immediately.” She paused. “Assuming it is the desire of Mrs. Preston and Andrew.”

I was already nodding as Mom spoke up for the first time. “There is no Andrew in this room, except on paper. I am absolutely certain that my child has never been Andrew, except on paper. I gave birth to a daughter with a birth defect–that’s the easiest way of thinking about it–that forced her to try to be a boy. Quite frankly, she’s never been good at it because she isn’t a boy. She’s a happy and, if I may say, quite a pretty girl who is already making friends as Angela, while Andrew had never had any friends. Ever.”

Mom faced the lawyer directly and spoke forcefully. “I believe …I guess I have to say this for legal reasons. I truly believe that my child’s mental and emotional well-being–her life–is at stake here. Yes, it is my desire that she be entered in the program and begin treatments so she can live as the girl she is. My daughter.”

“I love you, Mom,” I said, my eyes stinging with tears.

The lawyer said, “You, uh …do understand the full implications, ramifications, of this program?”

I cleared my throat and took my eyes from my lovely, wonderful mother. “Yes, Mr. Alexander, we both do. The program will–I hope!–begin with hormone therapy. I know there’s a testing period and I’m willing to undergo all the ups and downs of that until they get it right. I’m willing to legally change all my documentation to Angela, female. I’m willing to undergo the difficult social pressures of small-minded people, if I can be who I am. And, finally, at eighteen or sooner if at all possible, I am more than willing to undergo any and all operations, painful and lengthy, to remove my penis and give me the vagina that I should have been born with. Mr. Alexander, I know this is hard for a man to understand. I don’t hate my penis but it doesn’t belong there, any more than you would expect a pair of large breasts to belong under your business suit.”

Boy, did that shock him and the room! Dr. Chang did snicker at that one, and I earned a reproving ‘Angela!’ from Mom. But I plowed on.

“Mr. Alexander, I’m not saying that to be disgusting or make light of the situation. What I meant was that a visible indicator of the opposite sex, on your own body? It just doesn’t belong there.”

I held his eyes, and he nodded. “Point taken. And you might want to seriously consider a career in law. You would make a formidable litigator.” But he was smiling!

That little exchange had a remarkable effect; it completely cleared the air and we moved into the next phase, which was a flurry of document signing. Mr. Alexander was no longer the Devil’s Advocate; he was Mr. Efficiency, a machine handing pages to us and saying ‘sign here, please, and initial here’ every few seconds. That was done finally and he stood after collecting the pages.

He shook Mom’s hand and mine, smiling at me, and said, “I wish you all the best in your life, Miss Preston.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alexander,” I smiled back. “And you may call me Angela.”

“Angela,” he nodded. Then he chuckled. “Legal and medical assessments aside, it only takes five seconds with you to know that you are obviously a girl.” He turned to go and turned back with a bigger smile. “And a formidable litigator!”

After he left, there was a whoosh of breath from everybody. Dr. Chang said, “Water all around?” and went to another room, coming back with small bottles.

Mom said, “What was all that about being a litigator?”

Dr. Chang handed her a bottle and said, “Angela did a classic trial lawyer move twice. She came to each individual point, answered them succinctly and then finished with a punch that caught him off-balance.”

“Oh, you mean like the …um …breasts thing?”

Dr. Watkins said, “It wasn’t just the idea of having breasts; it was adding the words ‘under your business suit’. That hammered it home to him, made it really personal. Smart girl.”

I was blushing.

Dr. Chang said, “And at the end, forcing him to say her name. Pretty sharp.”

Mom frowned. “Forcing?”

Dr. Chang said, “By social mores, when she gave him permission to call her Angela, he almost had to respond in kind or be rude. But it forced him to publically declare that she was Angela. She beat him.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was like that,” Mom said. “Not like a battle or anything.”

“It was,” Dr. Watkins said. “He’s protecting the best interest of the hospital, and it’s his job to root out any subterfuge or fraud or anything that could reflect badly on the hospital. He’s darned good at it and darned sharp. He’s rejected or blocked several patients in the past.”

“Oh, those poor people!” I said sadly. I was thinking of girls like me, rejected by Alexander.

“A few, yes, my heart bled for,” Dr. Watkins said. “But not all were gender patients. One was seeking a kidney operation and it turned out they had been paid to donate the kidney so they faked the illness.”

“My God! People would actually do that?” Mom gasped.

Both doctors nodded. “And a lot more,” Dr. Chang said. “But Brad caught it. You see, we can only look at the medical end of things, testing results and so on. In a legal sense, I mean. We were pretty sure the kidney patient was faking but he’d done his homework; his bio workups all showed renal failure. Legally, we can’t go before a judge and say, ‘Your Honor, I kinda had a hunch he was lying’. We can only testify and certify that the patient tested properly for renal failure. Brad sniffed him out and satisfied the legal requirements for rejection.”

Dr. Watkins said, “But in your case, it was kind of pro forma for him today. He’d read our results; I think the moment you walked through the door he was convinced but he had hoops to jump through.”

“As did we, but our hoop-jumping is over for the day!” Dr. Chang grinned. “So, Angela …ready to get shot?”

I felt a buzz of excitement at her words, and in quick order I was in the room next door, removing my skirt and then lowering my panties. Two–two–massive shots that brought tears to my eyes, and I had androgen blockers and estrogen in me! The doctors said they often blocked for months, evaluated, and then cautiously introduced estrogen, but my medical results and the circumstances of being a sixteen-year-old soon-to-be Senior girl allowed them to proceed. They warned me to be on the lookout for mood swings and to document everything, and with some prescriptions handed to Mom, we were done!

It wasn’t the shots, I swear, but as soon as we were in the car, buckled in our seatbelts, I suddenly burst into sobs. I cried and cried; Mom released our belts and leaned over to hug me and stroke my head and hand me tissues. I was shaking because I was crying so hard, or I was crying so hard because I was shaking, with relief, with released tension, with happiness.

Chapter 15. The Offer

Driving, Mom said, “You know this calls for a celebration! Where would you like to eat?”

“I’d like to eat at La Rioja. Every night of the week! But it’s closed.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t worry; I know we can’t afford it anyway, but the food was so good. Anyway, I saw that Monday is the only night they close–hey! Santiago left me a note!”

I told her about it but would have to wait until we got home. We decided on a new vegetarian restaurant and had ice tea and salads, but it could have been champagne and caviar; we were so happy and so relieved. Then Mom went in a whole other direction.

“So now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Stay? Move? What?”

“Move? What?”

At this point she laughed so hard she held her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, I just heard what we’d said! What? What? What?” She laughed again and then sighed. “Okay. We know now–we know–that Angela is forever, and that will soon be a legal reality. And I don’t care about documentation, assurances from the school district–anything!–I am determined that my daughter Angela will not do her Senior year at Westmont.”

After our discussion about bullies, I knew she was adamant. Plus, after she and the anti-bully group met with the school district, it would be obvious that Andrew Preston was the source of the bullies’ names. Angela wouldn’t have a chance to live–Andrew would very quickly be a dead little boy.

I nodded. “Westmont’s out. Done. History.”

“His-tory!” she chuckled. “An old joke, but never more accurate than in your case!”

“Yer killin’ me, Ma,” I said in a cornpone voice.

“So, definitely a different school,” Mom nodded, back on track. “Because after we meet, it should be easy to get a variance for you to go to another school. So the question is …where?”

“You said, ‘move’. Um …can we afford that? Because some of the guys …know where Andrew lives.” I meant the bullies, of course; I’d sure been chased home enough over the years. Even though they hadn’t done it in high school–much–they still knew my address.

Mom was unaware of the chases; I’d told her about the school bullying but not about my years of running home.

She nodded, though. “A move is warranted, tough as it may be. If they know you live here they might know somebody that goes to your new school, wherever that will be. It only takes one to whisper ‘Hey, that girl Angela? She’s a guy!’ for disaster.”

I shivered at the thought of my hoped-for new life crashing down around me. It was hard to swallow but I did and just nodded.

Mom said, “Honey, we’ll make the move happen. And I’ll start looking into other schools, parts of town, and so on. Okay, we move and Westmont’s history.”

It felt very strange, in the middle of Finals, to think about it. But I nodded. “Westmont’s history.”

Mom frowned and then looked a little sheepish. “Maybe I should have waited to bring this up. I know you’ve still got, what, four more classes to go, and I don’t want to throw you off your Finals mindset.”

“Three more; no final in PE. Um, no, I understand but I don’t think there’s any problem. Biology is Biology; it’s not Westmont Biology. Okay. Yes, this week is …” I trailed off and began laughing.

“Honey? What’s up?”

“It’s just …it’s just that my last final, fifth period Geometry. It will be my final final Final at Westmont!”

She laughed, too, and we were so giddy that we couldn’t even speak when they came to refill our glasses. When we calmed down, Mom said, “The reason I bring it up now is that schools’ offices are still open. That’s why we’re meeting with the school district so soon. Pretty much you will walk out of Westmont and we’ll be walking in the front door. As far as transfers to another school, once summer hits, it’s almost impossible to get anybody on the phone until Labor Day. So any transferring of files, setting things up, all has to be done as soon as possible. But we’ve got two problems.”

I nodded. “Name and school.”

She nodded with me. “I’ll call the hospital tomorrow–that nice Mr. Alexander …”

We both knew she was being somewhat sarcastic and chuckled and she went on.

“Anyway, now that we’re still fresh in his memory, I’ll see how fast he can move for his favorite little litigator.”

“Mom …”

She grinned. “It’s true, honey; you did impress him. I think you should truly believe what the doctors said about that. I know I sure was impressed! Anyway, between now and the answer back from him, we can talk about where Angela’s records will be sent.”

“You’ve got your job–”

She waved a hand. “I’m willing to commute–all of this is only for the final year of high school–and I might not have to. We have to go online and look at the maps of the school districts; I have no idea where we are in Westmont’s district, only that we are, but we can forestall any decisions until we look at the maps and get a timetable from Alexander.” She paused. “Except for McKinley.”

I nodded; McKinley High had the worst reputation for fighting and racial troubles.

As soon as we got home, I fished Santiago’s note from my Biology book and called him.

And got a shock …

After the initially cautious hellos and ‘how’d you do in your finals today?’ questions, he veered off.

“Eres una niña para siempre, ¿verdad?” You are a girl forever, right?

“Si,” I answered, my mouth dry. “Es lo que soy.” Yes. It’s who I am.

“Entiendo,” he said, and I could–maybe?–hear a smile and imagined a nod. “When? Now?”

“Cuando no estoy en la escuela. En todos los demás sitios sí.” When I’m not in school. Everywhere else, yes.

Part of me worried about whether this was a creepy ‘What are you wearing?’ sort of thing, but I didn’t get that vibe.

In the same tone as his other questions, Santiago asked, “Do you have a summer job?”

What? It took me by surprise and I was silent too long, regrouping, so he repeated it.

“Uh, no …” I frowned.

“My father like you very much. You are my friend but he like you anyway!” he teased.

I laughed with him. I said, “Diego, it should be ‘likes’, with an ‘S’. My father likes you, okay? And your father is a very nice man and should be proud of La Rioja.”

“Muchas gracias,” he said and this time I really heard the smile in his voice. “Saturday night was un desastre.” A disaster. “He tried to be everywhere–the kitchen, the front, seating, everywhere. His heart …it is not good.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Diego,” I said with worry. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Si, si; we got him to sit. And he barks the orders and jumps up and down, ay-yi-yi,” he laughed. “Tonight he rests. But we talked and …” He cleared his throat. “Angela, we would like to ask you to be hostess–la dueña de casa–at La Rioja. Good pay, good food.”

“Santiago, I’m flattered. Me siento honrado.” I’m honored. I was so stunned that it took me a moment to regroup. “But I don’t know how to hostess. I’ve never done anything like it.”

“You smile, you say hola, bienvenido, you take one menu for each and take them to a table. Smile and repeat!” He chuckled.

“Come on, I saw how hard your father worked!”

“He tries to do too much, to say too much. He is taking them to the table and telling them about the paint not matching in the restrooms! And it has always been a girl.”

“Um–what?”

“La dueña de casa–it was my sister and the loser who left us,” he said with a little disgust. “My sister will not be back for some time and you speak Spanish and if you need a job, nos gustaria que usted lo considere.” We would like you to consider it.

“Diego, totally truthful–en total honestidad–is my Spanish good enough to do the job?”

“Si. No, truthfully, si, si!  Ángela, ¿cuándo fue la última vez que preguntaste a qué me refería?” When was the last time you asked what I meant?

I knew what he meant, but I teased, “Huh? What did you just say?”

“Angela!” he laughed.

“Okay, not recently. Because you’ve been great at helping me with Spanish!”

“And why would I no help a pretty girl with her Spanish?”

That rocked me. “Um …it’s not help …um, Diego, I wasn’t a pretty girl when we were running around in PE.”

“Two things. First, yes you were. Second, we never ran!” He laughed.

I had to laugh, too, but frowned. “Santiago Mendoza, I am serious! I never–”

“So am I,” he said in a tone that I knew was serious. “After I meet Angela at La Rioja, I believe that even though you were in Boys’ PE and called Andrew, under was Angela.”

“Underneath,” I said automatically. “And …oh, God, thank you, Diego! It’s been …sumamente raro.” Supremely weird. “Yes, I guess you’re right although I thought I …hid things.”

“I thought you were my gay friend Andrew. Until I meet Angela. Now I know it was never a gay boy, it was a girl hiding–una chica escondida” A girl hidden away.

“Thank you for that, muchas gracias, un mil gracias, Santiago.” A thousand thank yous. “My mother and I have not talked about jobs but I will talk to her tonight. How late can I call tonight?”

“Until eleven. Bueno; I hope you can help us this weekend.”

“This weekend? I thought you meant like, sometime in the summer.”

“ ¿No es verano ya?” Isn’t it summer already?

“I hadn’t thought of …” I shook my head. Be a businesswoman, Angela! I told myself–and then got a buzz that I’d called myself that! “Santiago, I need to talk with my mother. What nights, what hours, and what rate of pay? Salario?” Wages.

“We are open Tuesday to Sunday. We would love all six nights but Friday and Saturday especialmente. Hostess six to ten, four hours. No tips, but ten dollars an hour. Two ten-minute breaks. And dinner break. ¡Y mucho caminar!” And a lot of walking!

I laughed with him and thanked him and went to discuss it with Mom.

And was absolutely floored; she thought it was a wonderful idea and what did I think? She pointed out that it was a very good rate of pay–and a La Rioja meal!–and as I had no social life at the moment, it wasn’t cutting into nights with ‘my friends’. She did point out that she had little doubt that I would quickly gather friends, mentioning Santiago and Carrie as a good start, but it was a wonderful job for a soon-to-be-Senior.

Of course, she did bring up the potential negative of transportation, but said we’d work something out. In the meantime, she suggested that I go in Thursday night–there was no more school after Thursday’s finals–to see if it was right for me and for training, and then jump in for the weekend. And to find out what they would like me to wear, if it was a provided uniform or my own clothes. She thought it might be conservative black skirt and white blouse, since it was an expensive restaurant.

“Oh, and sweetheart–this just validates that you are a woman in the world!”

She was so happy and I was absolutely blown away by the whole thing. I went to my room and sat, thinking, with my arms hugging a pillow to my chest. When I was honest with myself, the only negative was my own fear of being out in the world–and yet I so desperately wanted to be a girl out in the world!

I called Santiago at 9:30 and told him yes. He agreed with the Thursday idea and told me the standard would be white blouse and black skirt and to wear flats because of all the walking. He’d heard every complaint from his sister over the years and said that he could arrange a meeting with her; she could tell me the ‘tricks of the trade’. That made me laugh; he’d said it was simply saying hello and welcome and showing them to a table. So there were tricks? We ended the conversation and I was bubbly with excitement–and I still had Biology staring at me.

End of Part 5