Synopsis:

A story of luck and pluck, good and evil, honesty and hypocrisy, and of a boy who gets by with a little help from her friends. The last of three parts.

 © 01.2008 by Daphne Laprov

Story:

XLI

Every now and then Tracy Tyler asked a question for clarification or probed for underlying issues, but mostly she took notes. When Jason finished, she’d filled several pages of a yellow legal pad.

“Thank you, Jason. You tell your story well,” she said. The boy blushed.

Bud and Earl were waiting for Tracy to talk, so she continued. “I’ll need to work over these notes later on and maybe do some cross-checking, but there’s one thing I’m convinced of already. We need to counter-punch, starting today. Up to yesterday, you tried to deal with Jason’s trouble discreetly. That was understandable because his school was being cooperative. Now Jason’s been outed. Silence now will look like an admission of, uh, something bad.”

“Bud, I think you should make a statement at lunchtime today. That will get on the evening news. Then I’d like to arrange for the Clarion to interview you or your wife. The Enquirer’s probably a lost cause, but we can promise them an exclusive tomorrow with Jason if they behave.”

“Uh, I’m not sure I want to put Jason through something like that.”

“I hope he’ll do it. He’s a heck of a lot more appealing than you or me, and just as articulate.”

Earl nodded. “I think she’s right, Bud. Don’t reject the idea just yet.”

“I’ll talk with the school authorities,” Tracy added. “They need to speak up, too. Maybe I should seek an injunction against hate-mongers. And we need to draft Bud’s statement. How about we order in some lunch and get to work?”

XLII

At 1:05, in the threadbare mezzinine of the Lawyers’ Building, Jason’s father stepped in front of a rack of cameras and blinding lights. “I’m Bud Baldwin, Jason Baldwin’s father. I am going to make a statement. I hope you all realize this is a first time for me to talk to journalists and it’s only happening because my son, Jason, has been the victim of a highly public and vicious personal attack.

“Jason is 12, and beginning the 8th grade at Franklin Junior High School. He’ll be 13 in November. During the whole of last year — 7th grade — Jason was the object of regular harrassment by a small group of classmates. The harrassment was both verbal and physical, and it was relentless. The nature and extent of that harrassment only became fully known to me and my wife in recent months. It is not an exaggeration to call the treatment Jason received at the hands of this small group of his classmates ‘terrorism.’

“As any other loving father and mother surely would, when we learned of the harassment, we discussed its impact with Franklin Junior High staff. Jason is a bright child who’d always done well in school. Then his schoolwork and of course his grades nose-dived. If that’s not a signal that something’s wrong, I don’t know what is.

“Also, after Jason confided in us, we had him evaluated by a psychiatrist who is a widely- respected expert in adolescent self-esteem disorders, Dr Ruth Martinez. Dr Martinez and the school system’s psychologist, Dr Jonathan Schenk, have made a joint report. They confirmed Jason’s own belief that his brain chemistry and his personality are basically feminine. In short, while he’s externally a boy, my son is wired up to be a girl. The kids who tormented Jason were of course picking up on that incongruity.. Tragically, a large number of other kids at Franklin Jr. High and their teachers chose not to get involved.

“In view of these circumstances, my wife Betty Lou and I, and Jason first of all, considered it important also to tell the staff at Franklin Junior High that he has begun taking certain hormones under medical supervision. These hormones are blocking his development from a boy into a man. They are not feminizing him. They are simply delaying his puberty while he sorts things out.

“Jason thinks it is very possible that he may begin taking feminizing hormones in the future, and attend school as a girl student. For now, let me emphasize again, he is working with a psychiatrist, Dr Martinez, to sort things out. Jason is soaking up information. He has been relieved to learn that he is not unique — though perhaps he is precocious.

If, after careful consideration, Jason chooses to travel the path toward gender reassignment, Betty Lou and I will give him our full support. We love our child. We pray that he will no longer be victimized or terrorized. We rely on the staff of Franklin Jr. High and their superiors to be sure that Jason Baldwin is not victimized or terrorized.

“As for District Attorney Art Atkinson’s grandstanding yesterday — well, Betty Lou and I have nothing but contempt for his attempt to exploit a child’s misery for his political advantage. Thank you.”

Shouts went up from the pack of reporters. “Bud!” “Mr. Baldwin!” “Questions, please!”

“Sorry,” said Jason’s dad. “Not today.”

“What about Atkinson’s statement that he is arranging for an injunction barring Jason from returning to Franklin?”

Bud began to answer. “That’s the first I’ve . . . .” when Tracy stepped up to the mike. “You heard him, people. No questions today. Give the Baldwins a break.”

XLIII

“There’s something I should have told you about reporters, Bud,” Tracy was explaining. They’ll never take ‘no’ for an answer and they’ll try to surprise you into saying something you haven’t thought out first. Never comment on something you’ve only heard about from a member of the media. Oh -- otherwise you did real good today.

“By the way, it’s true. Atkinson’s trying to boot Jason out of school. Worse, the school system’s counsel is playing along. Guess who’s a senior partner in Dick Spittle’s law firm? Barbara Atkinson, for Christ’s sake!”

“We learned about this while you were rehearsing. Fortunately, the principal at Franklin is good and mad herself. She’s a brick; lady named Sylvia Stanton. She’s agreed to call an emergency assembly of the entire 8th grade today for the last half-hour before school lets out.

“Earl’s taken Jason over to the school. Betty Lou’s on her way there too. Let’s go; we can just make it on time.”

XLIV

The security officers at the Franklin school gate had instructions to let in Tracy’s car. The tail of press vans was left to stew outside. Tracy pointed out that Fox News and CNN had joined the pack.

There were more security personnel in the school lobby. “At least so far,” muttered Tracy, “Franklin JHS remains under friendly control.”

Jason had been speaking for nearly ten minutes when Bud and Tracy took seats at the back of the darkened auditorium. Standing on a stool behind a podium, Jason was speaking in a piping child’s voice, but confidently. Jase knows he hasn’t anything to lose, thought Bud. He knows we’re behind him.

“So that’s where I am right now,” Jason was saying. “I’m pretty sure I’ll never go back to trying to think of myself as a boy. Someday I will start taking hormones to make me develop as a girl. Exactly when is pretty much up to my doctors and my mom and dad.

“I can’t tell you when I might start coming to school dressed as a girl, either. That depends on a lot of factors.

“I don’t expect any one of you to be my friend. I know I’m different and that’s a problem for a lot of people. I’ll be happy if some of you, at least, are brave enough to be my friends. And if nothing else, I hope at least that you’ll accept that I’m a person with feelings that can be hurt, and just let me be . . . me.”

Then Jason stood at the podium looking out into the auditorium as the lights came up. He’d given it his best shot.

There were a few seconds of silence. Then from the 300 eighth graders began a rolling, spontaneous burst of applause. A shout from the back -- “You rock, Jase!” -- started another wave of clapping. Jason smiled. He stepped down while Ms Stanton banged on the podium and waited for the crowd of boys and girls to quiet down.

“Thank you, thank you people. I’m proud of you. School’s out for today.”

Jason stood by a side door with his mother and Miss Croynberg while the auditorium cleared. Detaching themselves from groups, a few kids detoured to give Jason a friendly pat or high-five.

Eric headed Jason’s way with a couple of girls. “Hi, good buddy,” said the 9th grader. “I think maybe you need some friend-girls. These are Jade and Tasha.”

XLV

The two girls dressed with attitude. Of course, Jason thought. Eric RedRaven wouldn’t have plain vanilla friends.

“Hi. I’m Jason, or maybe I’m Jayne — whatever you like. Eric’s exactly right. There’s nothing I’d rather have than some friends. Things are a little stupid right now. Can I phone you later?” Jason copied down their cell phone numbers.

XLVI

e-mail string

to: whatsa.mattr from: jayne249. u saw the news, i know. all i can say is i’m sorry. sorry i let u think i was somebody i only wished to be. sorry i can’t be your date at the kickoff dance. u must hate me, but i still think u are a wonderful boy. jason/jayne.

to jayne249 from whatsa.mattr. yes, i was surprised of course. mostly i felt bad for you. no i could never hate you, you made me feel special. youre smart and cute. don’t worry about the kickoff dance, take care of you. please tell me your phone number. hugs, matt.

to whatsa.matter from thename’s.jayne. i had to change my e-mail address because somebody leaked jayne249 and it’s full of hate mail. matt, please don’t bug me for my phone number. i can’t handle that now. when this is all over, we can talk about me and you and then you decide what to do. hugs back, jayne

to thename’s.jayne from whatsa.mattr. i want it to be over soon. i miss you. don’t care if you still have a willie, i know youre a girl. the kickoff dance was pretty lame without you. check out www.antijen.com if you haven’t been there yet. waiting, matt.

XLVII

Art Atkinson was not going to waste another good opportunity. He meant to win. His polling data told him what he had to do, so late on a Saturday night, the police rolled up the employees and patrons of Harvey’s Roadhouse on Route 22. “A cesspool of degeneracy,” Atkinson told reporters, assuring them that the DA’s Office had plenty of evidence of male prostitution and drug-dealing on the premises. Atkinson himself would lead the prosecution. Harvey’s was going to be put out of business, he promised.

The roadhouse raid was top news for a couple of days. It pushed the standoff at Franklin Jr. High to the inside pages of the newspapers. For a few days, updates on the “Jason to Jayne” story almost disappeared from the nightly news. Then the Franklin Jr. High story got new legs: information sourced to people near the Atkinson camp connected the scandal at Franklin Jr. High, to the roadhouse raid through the person of ‘Darla Dahrlin,’ a drag queen who performed regularly at Harvey’s. Miss Dahrlin, in real life Earl Lindahl, had been booked for indecent conduct after the raid. He was believed to be one of the masterminds of the Jason/Jayne Baldwin incident, according to the sources. Dahrlin had not been allowed to post bail. An investigation was said to be ongoing.

An even more direct connection, though not immediately noticed by the press nor identified by the Atkinson campaign, was the brief incarceration and lasting radicalization of Preacher Frank Prentiss.

Prentiss spent all day Sunday and most of Monday waiting for his congregation to raise bail. His appeal to the elders of the congregation failed entirely; they returned his phone call only to say that they had met and voted unanimously to dismiss Prentiss from the pulpit. Would he kindly arrange, they added, to move himself out of the apartment the church provided him by the end of the month?

Prentiss paid for his bail bond by hocking a life insurance policy. As he boxed up crockery and books, he brooded on the unfairness of his erstwhile congregation.. While in jail, he had worked out a Sunday sermon on repentance and forgiveness. That one had been a non-starter. Prentiss’ thoughts turned instead to revenge.

XLVIII

Shelly was searching on her dad’s laptop for stuff on tectonic plates. A boring subject, but there was no ducking it — a paper was due. Her geography teacher could care less how embarrassing it is to borrow someone else’s machine. She had no choice; a virus had munched through the hard drive, gobbled up RAM and slowed her computer to a crawl.

Oog. More than 400,000 hits on tectonic + plates. Try “tectonic plates”? Umm, still over 30,000. How was that other word spelled? Shelly clicked on History to sort out the consonants in chthonic and copied it down. She couldn’t help looking at the rest of the list of URLs. The first four were sites she’d checked, including www.chthonicocclusion.umn.edu. #5 was a surprise: www.boybabes.com. Intrigued, Shelly clicked on the boybabes site. A page opened that demanded she leave at once unless she was over 18. Click again (a white lie; Shelly knew she could pass for 18 and she had a fake ID to prove it).

Click. Click. Omigod, what is this! Naked boys! Click. Little boys! Click. Oh aagh! Men and boys. How did this get on here? Is my dad . . . a, a peedo- . . . pedophile?

Gagging, Shelly barely made it to the toilet in time before waves of nausea forced out her breakfast and last night’s dinner. She found some mouthwash, gargled, went back to the machine. I have to know!

Bookmarking boybabes.com, Shelly checked out the Cookies and Temporary Internet Files directories. Boybabes showed up; so did its clones. Repressing another wave of nausea, Shelly blacked the screen for a moment while she went to find a Seven-up to settle her stomach. Her mom’s car was gone; her dad was still out somewhere campaigning. Good, she’d hear the garage door go up if either of them came home.

Now Shelly searched for .jpg files in the My Recent Documents directory. There were a bunch of photos of Dad campaigning and then — files with names like caleb.jpg and steven.jpg. Dozens of them. Shelly knew what they had to be, wished she didn’t know, and clicked her way into a trove of paedophilic pornography. Does my dad do it, she wondered, or does he just look? She couldn’t tell. She wasn’t sure it made any difference.

Grimly, Shelly took out a blank CD disc and began copying the files — the folders of photos first, and then the lists of internet files and the cookies. She didn’t know the password to her father’s e-mail account but she copied the folder of .wab files. This is so fricking sick. Why do I have to deal with this. I’m just a kid, Shelly thought as the machine copied data to the CD.

Shelly started to put the CD into her purse, thought again, and made another copy. She put one disc into her purse and the other between pages 299 and 300 of her physical science text. Then Shelly went back to her report, working mechanically until she’d filled up the required four typewritten pages. The report sucked, Shelly knew, but a B minus effort was all she felt up to right then.

XLIX

Shelly waited in the kitchen for her mom. Some ground beef was thawed on the counter; starting dinner would do for a distraction. Spaghetti sauce was simmering on the stove when Shelly at last heard the garage door go up. She helped her mom bring up the groceries. “You’re kind of late,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh, my, spaghetti bolognese! Thank you, darling. Uh, you were waiting for me? Weren’t you supposed to . . . I thought you had a dance lesson this afternoon?”

“I called and begged off. Said I was sick. I am sick. Mommy! Hold me! Hold me tight!”

“Baby, baby, darling, precious — what’s wrong? Is it a boy?”

“Mommy, I wish it just were. But it’s not about me. It’s dozens of b . . b . . boys, little b . . boys. In Daddy’s computer!”

Barbara Atkinson stepped back from hugging Shelly and sat down heavily. So Art was messing around again. And now Shelly knew! The fucking bastard. “I guess you’d better tell me everything,” she said.

L

Later, Barbara picked up the phone in her bedroom. She dialled Art’s private number. “Art, you’d better come home now. There’s something we need to discuss. . . No! Fuck the campaign. Be here in thirty minutes or I’ll go nuts.” She hung up, cutting him off in mid-excuse.

The bastard. The fucking reckless bastard. Barbara mixed herself a gin tonic and waited. Twenty-six minutes later she heard the throaty whine of Art’s overtuned Chrysler coupe coming down the hill and up the driveway. She heard the door open and close, and then she heard Art looking for her. Barbara sat quietly in the twilight, hardening her heart and her nerves.

“There you are, sweetheart. What on earth has happened? Are you OK?”

Barbara glared at him. She flicked on the lights. Art knew he was caught.

“I warned you,” she said. “You swore it would never happen again. You utter jerk! I don’t care what happens to you, but you are screwing around with Shelly’s life and mine.

The row that followed was just plain ugly, and it went on for hours. After twenty minutes of listening to screaming, shouting, pleading and crying from behind the locked doors of her parents’ suite, Shelly filled a backpack with a change of clothes and some toiletries, made a phone call, left a note, and slipped out to spend the night at a friend’s house.

LI

Morning arrived at last. Art snored until Barbara kicked him awake. “You’re fortunate. You can still be Mayor if you can fool enough people. Here’s what is going to happen.

“You are going to plead exhaustion and take a break from the campaign. We are going to New York where Martin Aronson is going to write us up an agreement. You remember Marty, don’t you? He’s the lawyer I should have married instead of you. He’s very good at writing divorce settlements.”

Art’s jaw dropped open. Words tried to come out but ended up as mere sucking noises.

“No, not a divorce. A settlement. You are going to sign over to me and Shelly the house, the cars, the money you inherited from your parents and aunt, your rights to manage Shelly’s trust fund, and every other goddamn asset we own except your IRA. If and only if you do that will I stay in the same house with you and keep my mouth shut about your sick turn-on.”

What could Art do but agree?

LII

“Jase, it’s me, Shelly. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. . . . Yeah, I’ll bet. Jase, look, I need to see you. For two reasons. First, so I can apologize for being a really bad friend. Second, there’s something very important we need to talk about. . . . No, really serious. Could you come over to spend the night? My mom and father are away, so it’s OK. . . . Yeah, sure, talk to your mom. Call me right back.”

It was half an hour before Jason phoned back. Experience had bred caution. Shelly? I can come overnight but not alone. Can I bring a couple of friends? . . . Yeah, kids, some kids I trust.

When they’d hung up, Shelly felt sick — not nauseous, but sad sick, like her tummy was cramped and twisted tight. Yeah, I guess I earned that, she thought.

LIII

The bell rang. Shelly opened the door. Jason made the introductions. “Hey, Shelly. This is Jade. This is her boyfriend, Eric.”

Saying “hi” and “c’mon in, I hope you like reheated lasagna,” Shelly checked out her guests. Eric was cute, if you didn’t mind a bad haircut and a touch of metal. Jade was a hottie. Her hair was thick, black, twisted high and fixed by a silver pin; she was wearing tights, laced boots, a distressed sort of shrink top in mouldy green and a short black skirt. Semi-Goth? thought Shelly, or just a poser? And Jason — well, clearly more Jayne tonight, cute in a totally pre-pubescent way. The blonde curls were past the collar now, and showed signs of brushing. A skinny top, with no attempt to disguise the lack of boobs, a nicely tailored pair of jeans, skater shoes -- and dangly earrings! Shelly couldn’t restrain a whoop. “Jase, you got your ears pierced!”

“Yeah, last weekend. Didn’t hurt.”

Eric and Jade deployed in a protective mode, maybe in case Shelly’d lured Jase here with evil intent. What to do? A compliment, perhaps? “Jade, I’d kill for hair like yours. How do you make it so beautiful?”

“Try getting some East Asian genes. Otherwise, I’d say you were out of luck.” Jade smiled. “Blonde isn’t so bad, though. I think it’s got a bad rap. I know lots of blondes with IQs over 80.”

Bitch, thought Shelly. “Jase, . . . Jayne, why do you want to be a girl, anyway? All we do is sublimate the aggression.”

“Yeah, that was unprovoked.” It was Eric, speaking for the first time. “How about we cool it, Jade?”

LIV

Hours passed, and things lightened up little by little. Secure in the knowledge that her parents were a hundred twenty miles away until Monday night, Shelly selected a bottle of wine to go with the pasta. It was a bottle that Art had paid fifty dollars for; Shelly didn’t know and didn’t care. They finished it and she opened another.

The wine made everyone giggly and foul-mouthed. “I don’t give a fuck if my father isn’t Mayor,” said Shelly. “Do you think I give a fuck, Jayne?”

Eric could see that Shelly had real problems with the way her dad was hounding Jayne. He wondered what she’d say if she knew his dad was still in jail, without bail, because of Art Atkinson. Eric decided he’d listen some more. He caught Jade’s eye and gave her the shh sign.

“Thish, this is what I want to say, Jayne. You are my friend and my father is a dick-hole. I’m sorry I didn’t notice that before.”

Jase/Jayne stood up, and pointed to the living room. Eric and Jade obediently headed that way. Shelly started to cry. Jase circled behind her, leaned close and kissed Shelly’s cheek. “Whatever it is, you are strong, Shel. You can get past it. If it will help to talk, my friends and I are here to listen. You decide.”

“I’ll talk. You especially need to know this.”

Shelly let Jayne lead her out to the living room. “Shelly needs to talk,” Jayne told the others. And Shelly let loose. The details of her father’s other life as recorded by the hard drive on his computer. The deal driven by her mother. “I . . I know why my mother did that” Shelly choked out. But I don’t want to live that way. I don’t want to be in the same house with him.”

“What would you do?” Shelly asked her guests point-blank. “What would you do if you knew where to find a monster that has hurt a lot of people, and you knew if he wasn‘t stopped, he would hurt a lot more people?

Eric, Jade and Jase knew that was a rhetorical question, so they waited attentively for Shelly to answer it.

She got there at last. “My father has a huge collection of pictures of naked little boys doing sex. I found out three days ago by accident. Since then I haven’t been able to sleep. I lie there and I imagine him doing stuff to little kids for money.

“Then I think of my father running for mayor, and trying to win votes off Jason, going on TV as this big-time defender of American Christian morals, and busting that queer place on Route 22. I’m ashamed to be his daughter.

“I thought my mom would just dump him. I could handle that. But instead, she’s cut a deal with him. He gives her control of all our money, and he gets to be mayor and he can keep on messing with little boys. Shit, this freaks me out!”

LV

Considerably later, Eric and Jade gave Shelly and Jase a group hug and headed home. Jase was in no danger and Shelly needed his forgiveness, not theirs. So Shelly took Jase/Jayne upstairs. She rummaged into a drawer, found a pair of silk pajamas, added a towel and washcloth and her own nightgown, and led Jase into the bathroom.

Watching her friend intently, Shelly kicked off her shoes, undid her belt and let her shorts slide to the floor. Jase looked back at Shelly, grinned, pulled off his hi-tops and dropped his jeans. He was wearing lace trimmed panties. They removed their tees in unison. “G’me a hand, OK” asked Shelly, pointing in the direction of her bra strap. Jase noted that Shelly was indeed stacked. He wondered if Jayne would ever be so stacked. Meanwhile, Shelly pulled off her own panties, stepped into the shower stall, adjusted the spray, and looked expectantly at Jase.

For an instant, Jase was transported almost ten years into his past. Shelly had always had a hold on him. He slipped fingers under the elastic and the panties dropped to the floor, revealing his little boy’s wee-wee backed by two tiny balls. Shelly pulled him to her under the shower. She wanted something — that was clear. Jase felt like a child next to Shelly, and physically he was — she was six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than he. He put his arms around Shelly and nestled his head on her chest, watching the rivulet twist between her breasts. Shelly took Jase’s head between her two hands and guided his mouth to a teat. “Don’t you want to suck, silly? Go on, it’s OK.”

Jase wanted to murmur that he felt more attracted to boys, but it was hard to explain while sucking on Shelly’s teats. Maybe I should explain at a more appropriate time, thought Jase as Shelly pressed down on his shoulders, pushing Jase’s head down to where the rivulets joined and sprayed out from her bush. “There! Jase, there!, she commanded, spreading the lips apart. “Please kiss me.”

Jase understood that Shelly meant he was to kiss her girl parts, not her lips. OK, if it meant that much to her. He gave a lick and a tentative suck. It was a nice taste. Why was Shelly so juicy? She smushed his head into her pelvis, she groaned. Jase did his best to oblige, darting his tongue into the pinkness of Shelly’s labia, caressing her vulvan lips with his own until Shelly rewarded his effort with a long spasm and an ooze of goo.

Immediately afterward, Jase registered two things. First, his weinie had not reacted to what his brain had found more than usually exciting. Second, Shelly was crying. Tenderly, Jason soaped his friend, rinsed her, and turned off the shower. He found a towel to dry Shelly off and another for his own use. Then Jason took Shelly to her bed. Arms and legs entanged, they fell into exhausted sleep.

LVI

When Jason awoke, Shelly was already up, half-dressed, rummaging in her closet. “Hey, Jaynie! Good morning! Today’s the day we dress you up a little. Uh, who’s been buying your clothes?”

“Jayne really doesn’t have much. My mom bought me a few things, but she doesn’t know much more than me about what girls wear. Someone gave me double-A silicone falsies. There’s the stuff you gave me to take to the shore, but that’s all for summer.”

“Here, try these on.” Shelly pulled out an assortment of panties and training bras. “My mom won’t throw my clothes away when I outgrow them,” she explained. “She says she’ll give them to the Salvation Army but never gets around to it. Good luck for you.”

While Jason tried on panties and bras, Shelly triaged another box and kept up a running commentary. “Not that pair, Jayne — too big. Find the ones that fit smoothly over your little butt. Ooh, these overalls are so out of style! Cute, though. Here’s something that might work. Try it on, Jayne.” Shelly offered Jase a pullover dress that was a long tee that ended in a short skirt. “Blue’s good for you; matches your eyes. And since you don’t have any hips, the dropped skirt gives an illusion of them. It’ll be good for school. These too,” Shelly added, piling skirts and tops on the unmade bed. “That gray pleated one’s awfully nice. I was sad when I outgrew it. And here’s a jumper you can wear with anything — a blouse, a turtleneck — or nothing.”

The pile kept growing. Tights, low cut jeans, sweaters, jackets, socks, shoes. “Oh, hey!” erupted Shelly. “My first pair of Docs! Try them on, Jayne, I’ll bet they’ll be a perfect fit.” Jason complied. “See! OK, let’s get dressed. Let’s dress you from the bottom up. What will work with the Docs? Tights, of course. Oh, hey, I know! Shelly reached into the pile and found a short dress with a high waist, a square neckline, puffy sleeves, and a softly flared skirt. The dress was forest green, dotted with red flowers. Jase had to admit it was beautiful. Shelly prescribed green tights to match.

Shelly pulled on a pair of jeans and helped Jase dress. She found a ribbon for Jayne’s hair exactly the color of the flowers. “No, you can’t look in the mirror yet. First, let me make you up — just a little. A bit of blusher and some lipstick. Ugh, your eyebrows need work, but we’ll save that for later, along with a manicure.” Shelly brushed Jason’s curls forward, then tied them up from his neck with the elastic ribbon. “I did that so it’s not so obvious that you need a haircut,” she explained. “Now look!”

He did look good. Jase didn’t need Shelly to tell him that Jayne was already a cute little chiklet, but she did anyway. “When Jayne gets her own tits and a butt, she’s going to fight off the boys. ‘Ya think, Jayne?”

“Shel, are you going to get dressed, too? ‘Cause if you’re just wearing jeans, isn’t this . . . .”

“a bit much?” she finished. “Well, yes, Jaynie, but I already know what it’s like to feel like a girl. You still need practice. Heck, I’ll put on a skirt to keep you company.”

A bagel and juice served for breakfast. A large selection from Shelly’s closet was bagged and boxed until Jase’s Mom or Dad could run him over in the car to pick it up. “OK, girlfriend, let’s hit the mall! Look!” Shelly fanned out a stack of twenties. “First installment of guilt money from my dad,” she explained. “Your do’s on him.”

LVII

First stop was SmartCutZ, to make an appointment. Then to a salon where twin sisters from Vietnam did their fingers and toes. Back to SmartCutZ. Shelly commanded “just a trim” for herself and “a cut and shape for Jayne so she looks more like a girl. Would you believe she’s been letting her mom cut her hair?’ Angela the stylist agreed that Jayne’s mass of curls needed attention. Did Jayne have a particular look in mind, she asked. Jase said, “um, no, just do what you like. Not too radical, OK? I’m kind of a tomboy.” He was beginning to think about Monday morning. He didn’t want to evolve into Jayne faster than the kids at school could handle.

Angela gave Jase what she called a two-way cut. If his curls were brushed back and down, he could pass as a boy, barely. Brushed up and fluffed, he was all girl. “See, Jayne, I told you,” laughed Shelly. “Angela, would you shape Jayne’s eyebrows a little bit, too?”

Chores done, the girls rewarded themselves with lunch. Not in the food court but upstairs at the Pasta Palace. It was time to talk.

“I don’t think I can stand living with my dad anymore,” Shelly offered as she picked at her salad. “I can’t believe what a creep he is. It’s not just the little boys. It’s the hypocrisy that really makes my skin crawl.”

“You know, I guess, Shel, that a lot of people think dressing like the other sex does, or wanting to change your body to fit your gender is about as bad. The guy who used to be pastor at our church called me an “abomination.”

“Jase, it’s night and day different! You don’t hurt anyone. You aren’t fucking with other people’s lives, especially little kids’ lives. Except your own,” Shelly added with a wink.

“What do you think you’ll do,” Jason asked.

“I’ve pretty much made up my mind to make sure he doesn’t become mayor. I just haven’t figured out how, and the election’s only two weeks away. Then I’m going to get my mom to let me go away to boarding school.”

“Maybe he’ll lose anyway?”

“No, it doesn’t seem like it. My dad is pretty confident about rolling out the church vote.” Shelly leaned closer. “Jase, we need to talk to your mom and dad and your lawyer. Maybe there’s a way to manage this. Is your dad home now?”

“I think so. Let me check.” Jase pulled out his cell phone and punched “HOME.” “Hi, mom. It’s me. . . . Yes, it was great. Uh, mom, can I bring home a friend from the sleepover? I’d like you and daddy to meet her. . . . Oh, he’s back. Good. Yes, we just had lunch. . . . Thanks. Bye, mom.

“So you got a cell phone at last.” Shelly lifted her eyebrows to put a question mark on her statement.

“Uh huh. My parents can’t really afford it, but they are worried I might get into a situation I can’t deal with — like with the Apes or something. The phone’s got a panic button on it.”

“That’s cool.”

LVIII

Jason realized that he was a little self-conscious as he and Shelly parked their bikes by the back porch and banged on the door. The shrink, oops, Dr. Martinez, had warned him to take baby steps — now he was in 100% Jayne mode with a new haircut, lipstick and nail polish.

Mom opened the door. “Jaynie! Don’t you ever look sweet!” Jase pecked a kiss and hurriedly said “Mom, this is Shelly. Maybe you remember her. I think she was seven when you saw her last.”

“Shelly Atkinson?” Jason’s mom more or less stifled a gasp.

On cue, Shelly took Betty Lou’s hand. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been a bad friend, and now I’m trying to make amends to Jayne. I asked her to bring me home so I could tell you and Mr. Baldwin a story that I’m not very proud of.

Jason’s dad arrived at the kitchen as Shelly was saying that. Jase introduced her and Shelly said the same thing over again, after which everyone removed to the den. Bud clicked off the game. “OK, Shelly, needless to say, maybe, you have our full attention.

Shelly told her story. It came out more quickly now, and with more determination. In the way that people who’ve shared 20 years of life do, Bud picked up Betty Lou’s body language. She believed the girl, and so did he. “Betts, how far can you stretch dinner? I was thinking maybe we ought to give Tracy a call.”

LIX

Around the dinner table, the conversation was lively. Tracy’d brought her partner Glenn, a bucket of hush puppies, and news that under other circumstances would have been depressing.
She’d swooped in in big hat, poncho and expensive boots to announce that Jase was on vacation from school effective Monday. “I guess it was inevitable; Art finally found a judge stupid enough to issue a restraining order.

“Jase, you are ‘hearby enjoined not to attend classes at Franklin Junior High School until you (a) certify that you are not taking hormones of any kind; and (b) agree that you will dress only in clothing appropriate to the male sex and/or gender.’”

“I can’t go to school, huh? Can Art make that stick, Tracy?”

The lady lawyer gave Jase a thoughtful look. He’s really quite smart. A lot like I was. “All Art Atkinson cares about is what happens before election day. It’s a farce. I’ll appeal the order tomorrow, but I don’t think the state supreme court will agree to fast track an opinion.

“Um. By the way, nice Docs you’ve got. You got a haircut too, right, Jase?”

“A haircut, nails, a lot of new clothes and a big surprise. Tracy, this is my friend Shelly. Shelly Atkinson. Listen to her.”

Dinner was ready before Shelly had finished telling the story for, oh, the fourth time. Each time she tells it, Jason thought, it gets simpler, and the difference between right and wrong is clearer.

“It comes down to this, Shelly,” Tracy was saying, “are you willing to give us the CD? Are you willing to stand up in front of reporters and say where you got it?”

She was, Shelly said. She hadn’t been entirely sure until Tracy’d said her dad had gotten Jase thrown out of school.

Glenn spoke up. “Trace, if I understand the situation right, this girl can’t go home. Her mom has her dad by the balls, but she isn’t about to jerk the cord. If Shelly outs Art Atkinson, it undoes her mother’s hold on him and the cash flow that goes with it.”

Everyone looked at Shelly. She nodded.

Bud drew the logical conclusion. “Shelly needs a refuge. She can’t go home for a while and it’s no good staying with you or us. Shel, do you have any ideas?”

Shelly did not. Her aunt, maybe? No, Auntie Lydia wouldn’t stand up to mom. Anyone else? No, they’d be scared of a lawsuit or something.

Jason whispered something to his mom.

“Bud, Tracy. Jayne here has an idea. Go ahead, honey.” Betty Lou gave Jase a quick kiss for courage.

“Dad, you know Mrs Holloway, right? The old lady whose lawn I cut? Well, do you remember what she told the newspaper — that she didn’t care what I wore or thought I was, I was the best lawn-cutter she’d ever had? Well, she takes in boarders.”

Shelly said that would work for her. Tracy didn’t think it would get past the Department of Child Welfare. Shelly might end up in a foster home.

“Hello? Don’t you grownups understand? I don’t care! I just don’t want my goddamn father to win the election!”

Betty Lou had slipped out to phone Helen Holloway. “She’ll do it;” she reported. “But only for tonight. Helen doesn’t want the press throwing cigarette butts in her garden.”

“That’s fair enough,” said Tracy. “Tomorrow we can find an organization that will take temporary responsibility for Shelly’s welfare. Maybe the state chapter of the National Association for Battered Women.”

So it was decided. Shelly would leave a phone message for her mother that she was OK and would be in touch. Tracy would set up another midday press conference so Shelly could tell her story. The CD would be available for review but not digital copying on the terminals at a nearby Internet café.

Glenn checked around the table, and after pouring a little more wine in Bud’s glass, said “I’d like to propose a toast. To Shelly, first of all, for doing the right thing no matter how hard it is. To Jayne for being true to herself and calm under fire. To Betty Lou and Bud, who are the kind of parents I wish I’d had. To Tracy, who’s the coolest broad and smartest lawyer I’ve ever known. Let’s drink to a beautiful future.”

LX

Monday dawned bright and clear, a beautiful Indian summer day. In Manhattan on Monday morning, Art signed the papers that Marty Aronson had drafted. Barbara drove back. Art brooded. At three, nearing home, he phoned his campaign office and asked for Billy Flynn, his law partner and campaign manager.

Billy got right to the point. “You’re screwed, Art. Turn on the news. And by the way, I quit and you’re no longer a partner. The vote was 6-0.”

Art Atkinson flicked on the radio. The signal was sketchy but perfectly intelligible.

Barbara touched him — not a caress, exactly, but a contact of some sort to convey that she was still on his side. “Believe me, I didn’t put her up to it, Art.”

“I know. You’re too damn greedy for that.”

A green sign announced that it was 48 miles to the city and a mile to a roadside rest. “Stop there, please, Barbara. I need to stop.”

Barbara Atkinson turned off, found a shady place and parked. Feigning inattention, from the corner of her eye she watched her husband retrieve a brown bag from under his seat. He unlatched the door and murmured “you know, I do love you.” Fat lot of good that does me, thought Barbara as Art walked unsteadily toward the rest rooms, cradling the package in an effort to make it seem inconspicuous. Pathetic, Barbara thought. She waited. Three minutes later she heard the sound of a shot, and she screamed.

LXI

In the city, Shelly also screamed and screamed. Jase hugged her, and so did Eric and Jade and others who’d come over after the press conference to show support. “It wasn’t your fault, Shel.”

“I don’t c-c-care. It isn’t fair. Why do people have to be so fucked up? Why my dad? Didn’t my mom love him enough? . . . I loved him.” I adored my Daddy! And he’s dead!

The six o’clock news was coming on. Jase jumped to turn off the TV but Shelly stopped him. “No, I want to see it.”

“Good evening,” said the announcer. “Welcome to those who are just joining us. All afternoon we’ve been following the unfolding tragedy of Art Atkinson, a brilliant district attorney and a seeming shoe-in for election next week as mayor — until today.

“At noon, KRGL learned, according to Atkinson’s 14 year-old daughter Shelly, that for years Atkinson has been collecting photos of naked boys in sexual situations. We saw the pictures, but we can’t show them to you. Enough to say that an ordinary person would probably call Atkinson a pervert, which is doubly ironic because he’s run for mayor on a ‘morality’ platform.

“A little past three, we received word from the rest stop at Glencove, forty miles up the Interstate, that Atkinson was found dead in the men’s room of a bullet wound to the head. His wife, Barbara, outside, heard the report. Deeply distraught, she confirmed Atkinson’s depression over the shame his conduct had brought on his family.

“Uh, this just in. It looks as though Atkinson’s death may not be suicide after all. Police report that the Reverend Frank Prentiss, who is in custody, may have confessed to shooting Atkinson.”

Betty Lou rushed in from the kitchen. “Frank? What was that about Frank?”

LXII

Prentiss had been sitting alone in his Chevy, chewing on a fast food lunch, trying to decide whether to leave the city or not. The car, and the boxes and bags and rack of clothes in its rear seat and the suitcases in the trunk were all he had salvaged from the wreckage of his career as a spiritual leader. He wondered how far he’d have to go before he’d have another chance at a decent job.

He recognized the Chrysler coupe immediately. Atkinson. Prentiss had trailed Atkinson all over the city but he’d never gotten so close. He watched the DA say something to the woman in the car — his wife, perhaps, though she didn’t seem very friendly — and then head for the toilets.

Prentiss took a pistol from the glove compartment, checked that it was loaded, released the safety and put it in his jacket pocket. It was clear as could be. God sent Atkinson to me. What else could explain this chance to even the score?

Inside the lavatory, Atkinson was swigging from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. Prentiss walked up behind him, said quietly “Mr. Atkinson,” and when Art Atkinson turned around, blew a hole through his head.

LXIII

e-mail string

to thename’s.jayne from whatsa.mattr. when can i see you, please jayne. are they going to let you back in school? how’s shelly doing? miss you, matt

to whatsa.matter from thename’s.jayne. yes!!! i’m going back to school on monday. the school board met last nite. maybe u saw it in the paper already. they voted unanimously to ignore the restraining order. they didn’t even wait for the election. shelly’s ok, considering. she’s not sure she wants to move back in with her mom. she says she’d rather go to boarding school, can you believe that! o, matt! i’m going to school as jayne!  i met the principal today, with my guidance counselor. they’re both cool. i’ll be treated as a girl totally, except for gym. think, like, home ec! love u, jayne.

to thename’s.jayne from whatsa.mattr. u didn’t say when i can see u again.  matt.

to whatsa.matter from thename’s.jayne. sorry, i needed to talk to my mom first. meet me at the front entrance to prospect park at 3 on saturday, ok? wear something nice, because after we go for a long walk, i’m going to take u home. u’re invited to dinner. hugs, jayne. p.s., maybe i’ll give you my phone number. j

to thename’s.jayne from whatsa.mattr. deal! see you then. can’t wait! matt

LXIV

“Jayne, can you come over?” It was Eric on the phone. “We’ve got something to celebrate. Dad’s home!”

“Be there in, maybe, twenty minutes! Bye!” Jayne tore off her sweatshirt and put on a bra and the breast forms. Didn’t seem right to visit Earl without wearing his gifts. She covered them with a turtleneck sweater, fluffed her hair and renewed her lipstick, scribbled a note for her mom and flew out the door. She couldn’t make her bike go fast enough.

“Darla!” Jayne whooped, launching herself into his arms and covering him with kisses.

“Jaynie! Don’t you look just great! And happy, I think.”

“I’m really happy they let you out of jail.”

“Tracy got him out,” Eric said. “She found a guy who taped Dad’s whole show that night. She found the two guys who’d testified that he stripped naked and they retracted everything. Said they’d signed false confessions to persuade the cops to let them walk. Then Tracy threatened to sue the DA’s office for false arrest and fabricating evidence. They popped for $20,000 rather than lose in court.”

Earl waved an envelope. “Guess where Eric and I are going for the Christmas holidays? Bangkok! I’ll have a little operation and then we’ll hang out on the beach for ten days or so.”

Jayne felt herself crying again, she was so happy for Earl.

LXV

Jayne went early to Prospect Park. It was a lovely late fall day. A crisp breeze hurried brown leaves from the maple and sycamore trees. Jayne was glad of her woolen slacks, turtleneck sweater, short suede jacket and tall leather boots. The jacket and boots were a birthday gift from her mom and dad; at last she was thirteen.

The girl — for that is what Jayne was now, insofar as you or I or anyone else could see — positioned herself where she had a good view of the front gate. A circle of kids were playing dodgeball, girls were jumping rope, some skaters were bumping down the stone steps, families and couples were out for a walk. Then Jayne saw Matt turn into the park and felt a surge of joy so intense that it startled even her. I must love him, she thought. He was taller than she remembered, and just as slim. Matt was wearing a burgundy jacket trimmed with gold — his school’s colors — and carrying a small backpack.

Jayne hurried down to meet her friend. “I see you won your letter,” she said, indicating the big G on Matt’s jacket.

“Aw, it was mostly just for showing up. Golly, you look nice. Can I have a hug?”

“And a kiss. And later, I’m going to cover you with kisses!” They embraced. “Matt, it’s been over two months since I saw you last. So long.”

“Two months, five days, 21 hours. Never again, OK, Jaynie?”

“C’mon, let’s walk.” Jayne tugged at Matt’s hand and pointed up the hill toward a grove of oaks, still resplendent in their scarlet glory.

“I want to thank you, sweet Matt. You stood by me. Thank you for talking to Dr. Martinez. She told me that you influenced her recommendations a lot.”

“I just told the truth — that you were the most feminine person I’ve ever known, and the smartest, too. I said I didn’t know Jason at all, and that my friend Jayne was a happy girl, fun to be with.”

“You do like me a lot, don’t you.”

“’Course I do. More than a lot, and you know that already.”

They’d reached the copse. “Yeah, I was just fishing,” said Jayne. Gently, Matt pulled her close. She went up on tiptoes to give him a long, dreamy kiss. “Umm. We can’t stay too long. My mom has a leg of lamb in the oven already.”

“Can I give you your birthday present first?”

“Is that what’s in the bag! How’d you know?”

“There’s some homemade cookies my mom sent, too. This one’s for you,” Matt said, fishing out a flattish box fastened with ribbon. “Shelly told me your birthday was last Tuesday.”

Jayne tore off the paper and ribbon. Inside was a lusciously soft wool scarf. It was baby blue, the color of her eyes. “Oh, Matt, dearest Matt. It’s cashmere!” She wound it around her neck. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? How can I help loving you?” To show it, Jayne kissed Matt again — lips, nose, ears, neck. Matt buried his face in her auburn curls and pulled her very close.

They sat on, or rather in, a pile of leaves, and talked and talked. No detail seemed too small or insignificant to share. Jayne said Shelly had left for prep school and wouldn’t be back until Christmas. Matt said Jayne needed to let the newspaper take some new pictures; she was way prettier than the photo they were always using. “Maybe tomorrow,” Jayne told him. She’d given the Clarion an interview, and they’d taken lots of pictures. The story was supposed to be in Sunday’s paper. Matt asked Jayne if she’d come with him to his school’s harvest dance, and the Christmas ball as well. She told him she could hardly wait. “But,” Jayne asked, would the school have issues? Would Matt’s friends have issues? She was out and couldn’t imagine going back. Matt thought that if anyone had issues, they weren’t friends. It was as simple as that. The two kids hugged and kissed and cuddled. Matt was a gentleman, but Jayne wished she had some more assets to offer his loving hands. Someday she would have them.

“Jayne? I’ll always remember this day. I wish it would last forever.”

“Matt, honey, if we’re lucky, it’s just the beginning. And by the way, my daddy says that smart people make their own luck.”

“Umm. Let’s try. And now take me home. I want to meet your parents.”

The sun was low now. It reddened the park’s benches and boulders and set the oaks on fire. The sky was a riot of red and purple. Hand in hand, Matt and Jayne walked toward the sunset and their future.

Notes:

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