The next day in AP Math class, our Vice Principal opened the door halfway and silently beckoned to me. Did they know I was wearing panties underneath my corduroy slacks? I kept my head down as I left the room, his hand surprisingly light on my shoulder.

“You father is here. You need to go with him.” I looked at him and felt myself shiver, my mouth agape. Was I in deep do-do? “He’s in the office waiting for you. He’ll tell you what’s happened.” We were in the administrative office now and I could see my father, in his floor manager smock with his name and title stitched above his heart-side pocket, wearing a serious expression on his face.

As we walked quickly to our car, Dad told me Mom had discovered Grandma slumped over in her chair in the garden, unresponsive, her breathing ragged and shallow. Mom was home since she worked Thursday through Monday at the hospital as a pediatric nurse. They think she had a stroke. I started crying and Dad patted me on the knee. “She’ll be alright. She’s a tough cookie. Don’t fall apart on me, okay?”

Even though my mother worked in a hospital, I hated being inside one. I managed to hold the tears and dread in as we met up with Mom and she took us to the Emergency Room. Almost hidden beneath a web of tubes, an IV bag hanging over her right shoulder, and hooked up to a vital signs monitor, was my sobo. She appeared to be asleep, masking the severity of her condition. But the doctor on duty was optimistic. He surmised it was a minor stroke. Of course, once they got her stabilized, they’d have her undergo a phalanx of tests to get a real prognosis. He smiled comfortingly as he spoke to us. Mom nodded and assured us Doctor Ramsey was just the best.

Several hours later, exhausted from worry and uninterested in food (although Mom assured me the cafeteria fare was quite acceptable), I was ecstatic to see Grandma respond to us, even though her voice was raspy and weak. Mom asked Dad to take me home. She said I needed my eight hours of sleep since I had school tomorrow. I argued the point, but Dad just gently pushed me toward the exit. Grandma had fallen asleep again, but I told her I would see her right after school the next day anyway.

After Dad dropped me off at home and drove back to the hospital, I ran up to my room, performed my nightly ablutions, and put on the extra-large Joe Namath uniform jersey I used as a nightgown facsimile. It came down almost to my knees. Dad had seen me in it numerous times. He did ask me once why I didn’t exchange it for something in my proper size. I told him they were out of medium. He just shook his head and turned back to Johnny Carson on the TV.

Unable to fall asleep, I went to my closet and pulled out Harold, my life-sized stuffed Bengal tiger. I’d had him since I was 5 years old despite Dad having waged a never-ending campaign to have him dumped in the garbage. He said it was disappointing to have a son who was so attached to a little girl’s doll. I know he felt that way from the very first moment he and I set eyes on Harold.

It was the summer of 1954. I was 5 years old and my sister was 8. Dad had driven two hours to have us spend a day in Atlantic City. Back then, it was the fabled site of the Miss America pageant, with a boardwalk, the famous Steel Pier, saltwater taffy, grand hotels with Vegas-like floor shows and concerts (Al Martino was the headliner that weekend!), and amusement park rides for the kiddies.

After a long day in the hot July sun, we were ready to embark upon the two-hour drive back to Bergenfield. Mom and Connie had gone off to find the ladies’ room. Dad and I waited for them next to our car parked outside of Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant where we had just had the catch of the day. I was glad I had refrained from puking my dinner although Connie kept goading me with burping noises. I think I’m allergic to fish. Everyone else in the family loves seafood.

A middle-aged couple, dressed in the summer fashions of the leisure class, approached the restaurant and passed in front of Dad and me. The woman was cradling a life-sized stuffed tiger in her arms, laughing and walking arm-in-arm with her gentleman. She stopped when she saw me.

“Oh, what a lovely little girl!” My father almost jumped. He didn’t manage to say anything but just stood behind me. At first, I didn’t realize she was talking about me. But I was dressed in short shorts, an orange striped t-shirt, and I was still wearing one of Connie’s pink plastic headbands that Mom had deployed to keep my short but unruly hair out of my eyes at dinner. And, heck, I was one cute little tyke.

“Bill, would you be awfully put out if I gave the little prize you won for me to this cute little girl?” she asked the man with her. He shrugged and smiled. “Well, our reservation is for two not three so I guess the least we can do is find a new home for him.”

“Would you like tiger, sweetie?” She placed the over-sized doll in my hands and all I could do was stand it next to me, it was so large.

“Lady, it’s real nice of you but I can’t accept it. Thank you all the same. Shuggie, give the nice lady back the tiger.”

Bill shook his head. “Hey, your little girl here really likes it, don’t you?” I nodded enthusiastically. The lady beamed at me. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as my Italian grandfather always said. Have a nice evening.” With that, they walked into the restaurant.

Only seconds later, Mom and Connie finally showed up. Of course, Connie immediately ran to hug the tiger. “Connie, he’s mine. A nice lady gave him to me. Daddy, tell Connie!” My father rubbed his face in exasperation and told Connie to hold off. He turned to Mom. “Some rich dame thought Shuggie was a girl. Gave him the tiger. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.” With arms akimbo, Dad bellowed, “Everyone! In the car. We’re going home.”

On the two-hour trip home, Dad kept trying to pawn the tiger off to Connie or, as a last resort, just toss the thing out the window. But I kept my little arms around Harold, as I had already named him, and swore I’d never give him up. Surprisingly, Connie told Dad she didn’t mind me keeping Harold. She was too old to play with stuffed dolls anyway, she said. Dad finally acquiesced but I could tell he was thinking up a plan as he was driving.

I lay in bed, wide awake, the memory of that day still causing my heart to ache. Even 12 years later. Here I am seeking comfort from a stuffed animal my eight-year-old sister didn’t even think twice about spurning. As I brushed the plush fabric with my hand, I couldn’t help but think I might never get the chance to finish telling sobo about my summer adventure. For my own sake, I started to tell Harold what happened after I returned to Connie’s doorstep that evening with Bobby in tow, carrying my luggage. Maybe the words will reach sobo somehow.

Connie wasn’t too happy about me living with her and Lauren in their tiny apartment but, since I could pay my share of the rent now that I had a job, she decided to tolerate my presence. She even smoothed over our parents’ apprehension about my staying in New York for at least the rest of the month (until Bobby goes on tour with Hank & Honey). Of course, she didn’t mention I was presenting as a girl. I could tell her business classes and internship were shaping her into a crack saleswoman. She could sell ice to Eskimos! Bring coal to Newcastle! Send cheese to the moon!

Connie was happy about one thing: not having to lend me anymore of her clothing now that I had secured my luggage. However, she did tell me I could keep the panty girdle I had borrowed. So, it seems my Maidenform dreams would continue.

With these matters settled, my days were a delightful routine of assisting Carole and Gerry from about 10 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, then rushing over to 1650 Broadway to watch Bobby rehearse until around 7 or 8 in the evening. Bobby and I would catch some dinner in midtown, and he’d drive me back down to the Village afterwards. One night we went to see John Coltrane, Bobby’s favorite sax player, at The Village Vanguard on 7th Avenue and Waverly Place. Although I was sort of bored by what Bobby told me was modal jazz, it suited me fine because I got to spend time with him, and it was a 2-minute drive from Connie’s apartment in Sheridan Square. Bobby only got Sundays off and I suggested we go see a movie but nothing interesting was showing in Manhattan. The only realistic choices were an Elvis movie, The Russians Are Coming, and Khartoum. That was an easy pass. We took a romantic stroll in Central Park instead. Well, I thought of it as romantic. I don’t know what Bobby was thinking. Were we just best buddies? He did hold my hand when the crowd thinned out in certain parts of the park.

That question occupied my mind so much that on Monday morning I hesitantly asked Carole what she would do in my situation. After all, she was a mature and worldly woman who knew enough about the intricacies of love to have written dozens of hit songs chronicling every aspect of the subject. I took the opportunity to broach the topic when Gerry was on the phone waking up someone “on the coast” and Carole was playing back a demo they’d recorded on a Wollensak reel to reel machine.

“I don’t know what’s going on with Bobby and me. Should I just ask him point blank what his feelings are about us? I mean, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten.”

“There’s no doubt about your feelings toward him. Hmm, maybe he just sees you as a little sister. I had crushes on guys in high school and it wasn’t pretty when they acted surprised that I felt that way about them. Gerry and I met in college. Things get more serious when you mature a little.”

“So you think it’s kind of puppy love? But, Carole, he’s my whole world. I think about him day and night. Everyone thinks I ran off with Bobby. Except maybe Bobby.”

“Do you think he’s involved with another girl?”

“He dated this girl Rachel and she’s very pretty. But I didn’t think it was serious. Some of his buddies might have dared him to. Rachel’s very popular.”

Carole switched off the tape machine and sat down at the piano. “Well, my advice is to clear this up with Bobby as soon as possible. It’ll save everyone a lot of grief, especially if he doesn’t feel that way about you. It might hurt real bad for a while but you’ve got your whole life in front of you. Someday you’ll find someone who returns your feelings. I’m sure a beautiful girl like you won’t be lacking for suitors.”

“I’m afraid of what he might say…” I was cut short when Carole started to play. It was a song they’d written for The Shirelles but first released by Maxine Brown, “Oh No Not My Baby.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Shuggie. There’s a whole world of boys out there. If Bobby isn’t the one, he’s a loser, not you.”

“I know…but I really really love him so so much.” At that moment, Gerry slammed the phone down.

“Kirshner wants us in LA in two weeks. The Monkees need some more songs for their album. Apparently, Boyce and Hart are a little slow on coming up with those Beatles sound-alike tunes they promised.”

Tuesday morning started out really well. Connie and Lauren had left for work over an hour before. I had even scrambled some eggs and fried some sausages for breakfast. I’m getting good at this domestic stuff. And Connie gladly lent me the pinafore apron Mom had gifted her (which she never wore). Visions of sitting at the breakfast table with Bobby, smiling as I poured his coffee, filled my head even as I was humming “Oh No Not My Baby.”

Dressed in the floral print summer frock I had made in Home Ec. class, I stepped out of the building and squinted at the bright morning sun. I was about to go back up and retrieve my sunglasses when I saw Mom getting out of her parked car across the street! When she spotted me, she froze in the middle of the street and a car whizzed by, just missing her by inches. Fortunately, I was wearing my ballet flats that day and ran over to her, grabbed her arm, and dragged her onto the sidewalk.

“Shuggie? You’re…you’re—”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry we lied to you. It’s…I’m—”

“Beautiful! Just so beautiful. I can’t believe it.”

“Aren’t you mad, Mom?”

“No, Shuggie. How can I be angry at my beautiful little girl?” She hugged me and kissed my forehead. Tears were starting to well up in her eyes. I was crying too. We made quite a scene in the middle of Sheridan Square.

“But how? Does everyone think you’re a girl? Is Bobby in on this? Did he make you do this?”

“We need to sit down and talk, Mom. But, right now, I’ll be late for work if we do that here.”

“I’ll drive you. Just help me with directions. You know I hate driving in the city. It’s so confusing.” We crossed the street again. This time we looked both ways first.

“And I’ll have to speak to this Mrs. King that you’re working for. Does she know? You didn’t tell her?”

“She doesn’t have to know. Mom! She totally thinks I’m a girl. Can’t we just leave well enough alone?”

“No, Shuggie. It’s not right to fool your employer. If she finds out eventually, she won’t be happy you tricked her. You’re legally a boy. And you’re 17.”

What should have been a 15-minute ride turned out to take over half an hour. Uptown traffic even after rush hour is horrible. I would have been better off taking the subway. And immensely better off if my mother weren’t driving me. The whole way up 6th Avenue I tried to dissuade Mom from speaking to Carole. That would end with me getting fired and being forced to return home, my tail between my legs, to endure humiliating recriminations by my father. Dad once threatened to enlist me in the army to make a real man out of me. Can he do that?

“Hi, Carole, Gerry.” My voice was tremulous, betraying the force of emotions behind it. “This is my mother.” She stepped out from behind me and gave them a tiny wave of her hand.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. King.” Carole smiled ruefully and Gerry just nodded.

“Please just call me Carole, Mrs. Brennan. I can see where your daughter gets her looks.”

”Thank you, Carole. I’m Eriko. “ She lowered her voice. “Can I speak to you? In private?” She glanced at Gerry, smiling sweetly. Gerry stood up and approached me.

“Come on, Shuggie. Let’s go downstairs and get an egg cream. Your mother and Carole can get acquainted.”

With a desperate, beseeching look on my face, I touched Mom’s arm. “Mom?” She patted my hand. “Go with Mr. King. It’s alright.” Gerry hooked his arm around my shoulder and gently led me out into the hallway. I shot Mom one last imploring look as Carole closed the door to their office.

We walked south, Gerry whistling a tune that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t identify, and me, barely picking up my feet like a condemned woman being led to the electric chair. I would never have envisioned my own mother pulling the switch. My dad, yes, my mom, never.

Four city blocks later, we stopped in front of Howard Johnson’s Restaurant (HoJo to those in the know). “Ever had an egg cream?” Gerry asked me.

“What’s that?”

He laughed. “You really are from Jersey.” Ushering me in, Gerry guided me toward a booth with a window view. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never had one. I’m from Brooklyn, where they invented it. Like ambrosia. Food of the gods. You’ll see.”

After Gerry ordered, we kind of just stared at each other across the table. I would have whistled, but I can’t, so I just sat there. Gerry looked out the window and at one point actually waved to someone walking by outside. The man stopped for a second, looked at me, and gave Gerry a thumbs up. What was that all about?

The waitress placed two tall fountain glasses filled to the rim with a chocolate-colored liquid. Gerry motioned for me to take a sip. I put the straw in my mouth and siphoned the concoction as Gerry grinned.

“This is good but it’s just a chocolate soda.”

“No, no, no. Egg creams are made with milk, seltzer, and chocolate syrup. Way better than chocolate soda.”

He was right. This was much better. So, we sipped and slurped away. Then, mid-slurp, Gerry turned serious.

“What’s the deal with your mom? Have you escaped from some booby hatch? Or worse even some penitentiary? Did you kill your sister for making everyone call you Shuggie?”

“It’s kind of unusual.” Looking around, I lowered my voice and leaned in across the table. “I’m actually a boy.” Gerry guffawed and then realized I wasn’t kidding.

“Jesus H. Christ.” He lowered his voice. “Are you like, and no offense, but…are you a fagela? No offense.”

“No, I’m not a…a fagela. If you mean what I think you mean. I’m a girl. It’s just I have some extra parts that I don’t want.”

“Does Bobby know?”

Of course. We’ve known each other since I was 5 and he was 6.”

“So, he’s a fagela?”

“No!” I said angrily. “He’s only interested in girls. I’m a special girl.”

“That’s why your mother wanted to speak to Carole discreetly. Well, listen, I’m shocked but I’ve got nothing against however people want to live. He, she, it. Makes no difference to me. Of course, other people might have different opinions.”

“Do you think Carole will fire me?”

“I don’t know. She’s a very liberal person. Voted for Johnson last time. But I don’t think she likes being made a fool of.”

“I wasn’t doing it to trick her. I just needed a way to spend the summer with Bobby. I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. When Mom tells Dad about this, I’m toast.”

He looked at his watch, took a final sip of his egg cream, and stood up. “No sense delaying the inevitable, whatever she decides. Let’s head back.”

As we walked back up Broadway to the office, a black Lincoln Continental, headed in the opposite direction, stopped near us and idled six feet from the curb. The rear side window rolled down and a balding man with a graying beard poked his head out.

“Hey, Gerry!”

“Jerry! I thought you were in LA.”

“Headed to the airport right now. Who’s the young lady?”

“Jerry Wexler, Atlantic Records macher. Meet my personal assistant, Shuggie.” I smiled reflexively although my glum mood hadn’t lifted and gave him a tiny finger wave.

“Charmed, I’m sure. Listen, before I get a ticket for double parking, I’m signing Aretha Franklin to Atlantic and working on the right kind of material for her talent. Plan to start recording in October or November down in Muscle Shoals. You know I’m really into like blues, soul, gospel stuff. That’s where Aretha should be. She’s not Sarah Vaughan, you dig?”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Well, I’d like Aretha to sing about being a ‘natural woman.’ Down home, grits and pig feet, Black church, all that imagery. Just a hunch it could be perfect for her. She could sing the shit out of that phrase. Excuse my French, Shuggie.”

“We’ll work on it. Do a demo and send it out to you. Okay?”

Wexler waved and rolled up his window. The limo drove off. We continued our trek toward the office. “Don’t be all doom and gloom, Shuggie. Another year and you’ll be 18. You could get a sex change operation like Christine Jorgensen. Your parents can’t stop you then.”

“Yeah, well it takes money I don’t have. And no way of making that kind of money anytime soon.”

“It’s tough, Shuggie. I feel bad for you. You make a really beautiful girl too. Shame you were born a boy instead.”

The office door was wide open when we made it back. Carole and Mom were talking quietly. Mom was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I was bracing for the bad news.

“We’re back,” Gerry intoned quietly. That left me standing in the doorway, afraid to move, afraid to ask the obvious question. Mom walked over to me after shaking Carole’s hand.

“I have to get to work, Shuggie. I could only take a half-day. Carole and I had a nice chat. She’ll tell you what we decided. And, don’t worry, I won’t tell your father. He doesn’t need to know. Goodbye, sweetie.” She kissed me on the cheek and walked away. I turned toward Carole.

“Sit down, Shuggie. We need to talk.”