I was still thinking about what feeling “more manly” would be like the next morning. It might seem a simple question, but it wasn’t. I’d never felt that way, so it was kind of like being asked if I like chocolate ice cream, when I’d never tasted chocolate. I could look at other people eating it and see if they liked it, but they had to do their best to like it because they had no choice. Also, once I started eating it, I mean being more manly, I’d be kind of stuck – just like they were. If my voice changed, my body changed and my features hardened – well, what if I didn’t like it and wanted to go back?

Another thing that made it hard was that my world changed suddenly when I was twelve. Before my mother died, I went to one school and had one set of friends, but after she died, I went to other schools and was thrown in with boys and girls I didn’t know. If I’d seen how becoming “more manly” affected the boys I’d known, I might have a better idea what it was about – but I didn’t, and so I don’t.

On the other hand, I was learning what it was like to be a girl. People treated me nicer. They wanted to be closer – to be my friends. Alice, Faye, Mary, Ron, and now Mel all liked the feminine Morgan. Would they like the “more manly” Morgan? I didn’t think so. I was pretty sure Ron and Mel wouldn’t. Maybe some girl would. That was hard to imagine – I mean that literally. Girls didn’t flock around me last year, so I had nothing to base my imagination on – no idea how they would react to a “more manly” me.

Suddenly, breakfast was over, the drive to State was over, and I found myself standing in front of a styleless building. I reached into my purse and pulled out my schedule: European Art, Rm. 217, Snondgrass Mem., 9:10 A. Looking up, I saw “Snondgrass Memorial Hall” in foot high gold letters – probably the most expensive feature of the building. Inside, I jogged up the stairs and found 217.

There, staring anxiously at the door, sat Mel. His face lit up when he saw me. No one lit up when they saw me. Now, someone did – someone who knew my secret … knew my secret and still lit up! Why should I want to change, be “more manly”? I looked in my purse, saw that today’s BC pills were punched out, and smiled.

“Hi, Morgan.”

“Hi, Mel.” I said, sitting next to him.

Mel and I were in three classes together: English Comp, European Art and Psych. We were soon fast friends, studying and eating lunch together. He had a joint major in Computer Science and Graphic Arts and was planning to go into computer art or maybe animation. His father and mother had both been civil engineers, but decided to take early retirement and bought a small vineyard just outside of town.

Because his parents had followed major construction projects, he’d never had long-term friends. He’d no sooner be accepted by one set of kids, than the family would move to another project. Our common rootless childhood allowed us to sense each other’s feelings.

Faye drove me to college most mornings. About a week after school started, she told me my test results were back and asked me to come by her office after class.

“Okay, Morgan, the tests show that you’re basically healthy, but have some anomalies. One is hypogonadism as a result of your ascending testicles – that explains why your, ah, parts are small for an 18-year-old male. Your test results show it in two ways: you have low testosterone levels, and your sperm count is low enough that you’d have difficulty fathering a child. Both of those might be corrected by the surgery I discussed – or they might not.

“The second anomaly is that you have very high levels of estrogen and progesterone for a male. Are you taking female hormones?”

“Do birth control pills count?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes, I am.”

“How long?”

“Just two weeks now.”

“Well, you shouldn’t, but I can’t stop you. I can only tell you that since hormone therapy can be dangerous, you need to be monitored – have blood work done every three months. Here, I got you a pamphlet for transwomen from a colleague. Ideally, you should have a psychosocial evaluation. Then you could have supervised treatment.”

“Am I a transwoman?”

“Aren’t you? I really don’t know, but it seems likely. You need a proper evaluation.”

“Oh.”

“Remember, I examined your breasts and said they were what I’d expect on an 11-12 year old girl? That’s much more developed than two weeks of birth control pills would explain. Also, your areolas and nipples are large for a male – but not as large as a woman your age would have.”

“So, what should I do?”

“You need to work that out for yourself – with the help of counseling. One of my old classmates does that sort of counseling. I’ll talk to her and see if she can fit you in. It may take a while to find you a slot. As for surgery, I’d wait until you have a clearer idea of where you’re headed, as there’s no immediate danger.”

“Thank you, Faye.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie.”

The next few weeks not much, or maybe a lot, happened. I found a cute outfit every morning, went to class, made some new friends (girls – my life was too complicated for another boy) and worried about grades. I didn’t have time to worry about what I was.

One exception was that some of the girls I met in class invited me to an open house at a sorority. I had a good time, and a few days later, I was asked to join the sorority. I liked the girls I’d met there, but I knew I couldn’t. Also, I’d grown fond of Alice, and didn’t want to leave – or to leave her alone. So, I said thanks, but I was committed to living where I was. My new friends were disappointed, and grew more distant as the center of their social life shifted to the sorority.

The sorority episode had more impact on me that the gradual loss of some of my female friends. Although I liked Alice and living with her, part of me wanted the acceptance being a sorority sister would bring. I imagined it as a replacement for my lost family. Of course, it was impossible, but being impossible did not stop me from imagining it and missing what might have been.

It was impossible because I was a boy going to college as a girl. And, why was I? Because I didn’t see how I could dress like a boy with my bangs and pierced ears. I could have buzz cut my hair, removed my studs, and let my piercing heal. Why didn’t I think of that? I realized it was because I loved my French braid and pretty pearls. What kind of boy loves such things? Or enjoys wearing a cute outfit to college every day?

Mel and I had lunch together most days and, when time permitted, took walks by the stream at the edge of campus. It was shaded by live oaks and had a pool embellished by ferns, cattails and even a few water lilies. It was a great place to cool off in the summer and relax any time.

When we first started taking our walks, I felt like a boy strolling with another boy. I know that’s strange, given how I was dressed, but that’s how I felt. I don’t think Mel ever felt like that. Over time, he reached out and held my hand, and – well, I let him.

Toward the end of September, as we sat by the pool, Mel looked very uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?”

“God, I wish I knew. I mean, I do know, but the pieces don’t fit, so I don’t really.”

I stared at him blankly. “Well, tell me the pieces.”

“Okay. … Well, remember when you said you wanted to be friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t be your friend.”

It was like my whole world collapsed. One second, I was sitting happily with my best friend, and the next tears were streaming down, and I was on the verge of sobbing.

Mel reached out and hugged me. “No, no, it's not like that. … It’s … I love you.”

I looked up, and got a kiss that was both tender and passionate.

“There! I kissed you. I’ve wanted to for weeks. Now you can tell me to go.”

“You can see that I don’t want you to go.”

“You know what? I must be queer because I really love you. The funny thing is, I’ve never been interested in guys. I mean, I’ve seen all kinds in the showers at school, and I’ve never been interested. … But, I know you’re a guy, and I still love you so much I can hardly sleep.”

I didn’t want to say it, but I did. “I love you too, Mel.”