This is a sequel to the short story "Midnight Mass," published at BCTS on December 27, 2010 at 6:33am CST.

James had attended Midnight Mass at the Cathedral on Christmas Eve en femme a year ago. After that, he presented himself to his parents as Jamie for the first time. So what has happened to him—or her—since then? Tonight James attires himself as Jamie for Midnight Mass once more.

Sitting at Mom’s vanity I finished touching up my lipgloss. I loved the way Mom had braided my hair. The hairstyle was so simple and elegant and I felt like a princess, even if I wasn’t wearing a formal gown, but just a red and green plaid skirt and a white cowl-necked sweater. I wore a big brooch on the sweater, showing an angelic herald blowing a trumpet. Also, I had a pair of studs in an angelic motif for my ears.

“Are you ready, Jamie?” Mom asked.

“Almost,” I answered. “Like I just have to get these on.” I pulled my pair of soft, black leather boots on and zipped them up. They had four-inch heels, just like the pair that I had worn a year ago. Gretchen’s mother had loaned me that pair when I decided to come out to my parents. My girlfriend, Gretchen, and her mom had stood by me at that moment when I met my parents after Midnight Mass at Christmas, dressed en femme. I had been so frightened, but Mom and Dad were accepting and even supportive since then, although Dad wasn’t exactly happy about my crossdressing. But the worst he had done all year was to give me some good-natured teasing about it, but even that had come to seem somehow more affectionate than judgmental. In fact, anymore I actually liked it. If he stopped teasing me now, then I’d start to worry.

“There!” I announced as the zippers on my boots were secure. “Now I’m in style!”

“That you are, sweetheart!” Mom concurred as I got up from the vanity seat. She came over and gave me a good, tight hug. “I’m so glad that you’ve had the courage to be who you are. I have so treasured our time together as mother and daughter this year.”

“Me too, Mom. I’m so thankful, like you and Dad have let me be myself. And Dad has been so gracious about me dressing up even though I know he doesn’t really like it.”

“I think that he’s maybe more accepting than you think. He has a high capacity for change. That’s why he’s so good working as a systems consultant. Much of his job is teaching others to accept changes in their workplace, especially when they don’t like them. But again, he’s a quiet and soft-spoken man who may not tell you all that he’s thinking or feeling.”

Mom had told me that many times before, but I never seemed to remember it. So maybe Dad was accepting now and merely hadn’t told me? It was hard to say.

* * * * * * * * *

A year ago, after Mass, Fr. Larry had “read” me when I went up for a blessing, but insisted on my receiving Holy Communion, anyway. Then he came by and greeted us right after I had come out to my folks.

“Merry Christmas!” Fr. Larry greeted us. He was one of the staff priests at the Cathedral. We all returned the greeting, but in something less than full unison.

“James,” he addressed me, “you can pass well enough for a girl, but your anxiety gave you away. Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer to talk in private, if that’s okay?” I answered him. He looked at my parents who both nodded to him.

“Certainly. Call the main office Monday and ask Connie to find you some time on my schedule to meet with me. We’ll talk. And do feel free to come as you are,” he laughed. “Just don’t tell the bishop!”

So, I called the Cathedral and Connie answered. (She was their office exective assistant.) She made an appointment for me with Fr. Larry right after lunch on New Year’s Eve. He told me to “feel free to come as you are.”

That instruction from Fr. Larry was very important, because my parents “punished” me for crossdressing by making me dress en femme for the remainder of the Christmas break. I wasn’t sure if they had really meant it as a punishment or not, but their calling it that let me feel naughty, so it was a lot of fun. Then Mom and I went to the after-Christmas sales together with Gretchen and her mother for my first mother-daughter shopping spree.

When I had to get ready for my meeting with Fr. Larry, both Mom and Gretchen were amused by how worried I was about how I looked. I was so nervous about meeting him, that Mom had to remind me that it was not a “date.” But I had to let her and my girlfriend pick out my clothes for the appointment, since I could not focus on what would be appropriate.

Eventually they picked out for me a knee-length pleated gray skirt, a white blouse, a cardigan in a silly white, red, and green Christmas motif, nude pantyhose, and black boots. It was okay, because Gretchen wore a gray pencil skirt, a white blouse, a white pullover with red and green trim in an even sillier Christmas motif, white pantyhose, and black boots.

Gretchen and I went to lunch together first and then walked over to the Cathedral for my appointment with Fr. Larry. Anyway, I was surprised by how non-judgmental he was. I had expected him to read me the riot act or preach about fire and brimstone, but he didn’t.

“Good afternoon, Connie. I have an appointment to see Father Larry at, like, one o’clock.”

We took off our coats and Connie giggled when she saw our complementary Christmas wear. “Now don’t the two of you look cute!”

Gretchen giggled and answered, “Well, like it’s still the seventh day of Christmas.”

Then she pulled up a screen on her computer. “So then, you’re Jamie Pendergast?”

“That’s me.”

“And who’s this with you?” Connie asked me, looking at my girlfriend.

“I’m Gretchen Mueller,” she answered.

“Are you supposed to see Fr. Larry, too?” Connie followed up.

“No, I just came along with Jamie.”

“Then you’ll have to wait out here.”

“That’s okay. I knew it would be a private meeting, so like I brought my computer with me.”

Connie picked up her interoffice telephone and pressed three buttons. “Father Larry… A Miss Jamie Pendergast is here to see you… All right, then…” She hung up the ’phone.

“Miss Mueller, you may set up at the table next to the window, if you wish. Miss Pendergast, Father Larry will see you now. Follow me, please.”

This was a very important moment for me, because it was the first time that I had ever been addressed as “Miss Pendergast,” although I had been referred to simply as “Miss” while out shopping. I smiled at Gretchen and we momentarily hooked the little fingers of our right hands together.

Connie opened a gate in the wooden rail beside her desk and I followed her back to a small corridor lined with half a dozen oak doors, stopping at one with a printed sign next to it, bearing the name:

The Rev Fr Lawrence T Quinn PhD SJ

Connie knocked on the door and it opened.

“Father, this is Miss Jamie Pendergast,” she said, meaning to introduce us. “Miss Pendergast, this is the Reverend Father Larry Quinn.”

“Thank you, Connie,” said Fr. Larry. “We’ve met.” He handed a manila folder to her. “This is the executive summary of my report that His Eminence requested. I promised it by today.”

“I’ll see that he gets it right away, Father.”

“Thanks again, Connie. And thanks for all the work you’ve done helping us put it together,” he offered, smiling with a relaxed sigh. “Your graphics really helped bigtime!”

Connie nodded and, returning the smile, went back towards her desk as Fr. Larry gestured me into his office.

“You can sit in the armchair or lie down on the couch,” Fr. Larry offered, and then chuckling, “or even sit on the couch. However you feel most comfortable.” So, I sat in the armchair.

“First, do you still want me to call you Jimmy, or something else, when you’re dressed up like that?”

“I usually go by Jamie, like when I’m dressed like this.”

“Okay, then I’ll try to keep to that whenever you dress like a girl.”

“Thanks, Father. I’d appreciate that.”

“So, why did you come to Mass in drag Christmas Eve?”

“Well, I had wanted to tell Mom and Dad, but I was afraid to do it at home, like by myself. And Gretchen has a lot of fun, like when she helps me dress up. It was like her idea for me to go to Mass dressed up like this. I felt safe dressing up at her house and going to church with her and her mom. She’s a social worker and she could help out, like if I had any trouble with my parents. So, we decided, like I’d go to Mass with them and meet Mom and Dad afterwards. But I was like really surprised they took it so well. I was so afraid they’d be like mad at me.”

“So your parents are okay with you dressing like a girl?”

“Well, Mom is. In fact, I think she kinda likes it. She’s had fun teaching me how to do girl stuff all week and then taking me shopping, but I’m not so sure about Dad. I don’t think he likes it, but he hasn’t, like, said much about it. He just teases me some. For punishment, I have to stay dressed like a girl until school starts back. But since I, like, wanted to do that, anyway, is that like really a punishment?”

Fr. Larry chuckled at that. “Well, it’s a traditional punishment some of the nuns like to use in our schools.”

“I know. That’s like how I first got started.”

“Oh? Tell me about that, Jamie.”

“I went to Holy Family Elementary School. When I was in the fourth grade, Sister Magdalena made me wear a girl’s uniform to school, like, for a week. But the girls in my class, like, really started to like me then, and dressing up was fun. So, I made more trouble just so I could stay like dressed up for another week. But like after two weeks Mom called Sister Magdalena and told her that I had done it like deliberately ’cause I liked it. And I even asked Mom to buy me a girl’s uniform, like, to wear at home.”

With a wry grin, Fr. Larry just shook his head and sighed. “Y’know, sometimes I think that the Church’s opinion of it is the height of hypocrisy. You’re not the first boy who started crossdressing in a parochial school when a nun made him dress like a girl as a punishment for whatever. It happens far too often.”

“But I don’t blame Sister Magdalena for anything because it’s really been like a lot of fun for me.”

Fr. Larry just smiled at me. “So it wasn’t a punishment for you at all, was it?”

“Like, maybe just the first fifteen minutes or so that I was at school. But after that it was like fun. The girls in class teased me some, but it turned out it was mostly ’cause they liked me. And they thought I was like cool ’cause I looked really cute.”

“How did Sister Magdalena take that?”

“I think she got like mad and not just at me, either. They were like supposed to tease me more than they did—and meaner, too. But I guess they liked me too much,” I explained with a giggle. “After that all the girls treated me like one of their own until we all graduated from Holy Family.”

Fr. Larry grinned and nodded. Then he looked at me more seriously, although not frowning. “Have you ever felt like you should have been born a girl, or wanted to be a girl?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Or at least I don’t think so. I’ve not really thought, like, too much about it.”

“Have you thought about it at all?”

“Like, sometimes Gretchen and me talk about what it might be like if I was like really a girl. But she thinks, like, it’s more fun because I’m a boy dressing up like a girl.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I think she’s right,” I giggled.

Fr. Larry chuckled again. “Fair enough!” he conceded. “What I’m trying to get at, Jamie is the only fun the dressing up? Are there other things that you like about it?”

“Gretchen introduced me to her three closest girlfriends. What I enjoy most besides dressing up is how we all go out together. They treat me like I’m just another girl. It’s like, they know I’m a boy, but they don’t really care. They think it’s so cool that I like to pretend being a girl. And I don’t think they’ve ever even seen me as a boy. It’s like, we all go to the same school and I’m like sure they’ve seen me, but I don’t think they, like, know I’m the same me they know as Jamie.”

“Whoa, Jamie! Slow down a little,” he laughed. “You’re talking like a girl, and a mile a minute at that, although your speech is just a little affected.”

“Huh? Affected?”

“By affected, I mean that it doesn’t seem natural. For example, I don’t think most girls throw like around quite so much as you do,” chuckled Fr. Larry, “although I do hear girls speak at your accelerated tempo. And speaking of like, I take it that you and Gretchen like each other?”

“Yeah, we do,” I replied, feeling myself blush. “She’s always like helping me out with things, too.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“We only just started, but we’ve been friends for a long time, like since kindergarten.”

“So the two of you are quite close, then.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Then I’d like to see the two of you coming to church together more often,” he said, grinning.

“Is it okay if I come dressed like this?”

“Jesus is a come-as-you-are kind of guy. Besides, if you just be yourself, I doubt anyone would recognize you.”

“You recognized me.”

“That’s because you telegraphed yourself. When you came up for a blessing but not Communion, you looked anxious, so I looked more closely at you. And then, since you and Gretchen always seem to be together, and her mother was with you, it wasn’t too hard to guess. If I didn’t already know you, though, I don’t think I would have figured it out. Someone else who already knows you might be able to, but you look more like you’d be your own sister or girl cousin.”

“I guess that’s good to know,” I admitted.

“Anyway, I just want you to start coming back to Sunday school. And if you wanna wear girl’s stuff, guess what? I’m okay with it! Besides, I believe that the Church had a hand in your crossdressing. If Sister Magdalena hadn’t tried to punish you by petticoating, you might never have started.”

“So you’re okay with it, Father Larry?”

“Personally, yes. But just be discreet about it. When you do come here, dress as modestly and as girlishly as you can. What you wore Christmas Eve and how you’re dressed now are perfectly appropriate, even with the whimsical sweater. But most important,” the priest chuckled again, “just don’t let on that there’s a boy underneath your fashion statement. And especially not to the archbishop!”

I giggled back at him. “I wanna ask you something, Father, if I could?”

“What?”

“Could I try on your black hat with the pompom?” I giggled. Fr. Larry laughed really hard. He kept his hat, a biretta, on the right backpost of a tall and elegant wooden chair in a corner behind his desk.

“Hmm?” he mused for moment, looking me right in the eye. “I don’t think I’m really supposed to do that.” He wore the same tight-lipped, neutral, engimatic smile/non-smile on his face as Dad often would. Then he rolled his ergonomic chair to the side, grabbed the hat and tossed it across his office to me, all in a single motion, it landing right in my lap.

“How d’ya do that?” I asked as I lifted the hat up.

“I was starting varsity quarterback my senior year of high school,” he said, grinning. “An accurate eye and hand are just as important as a strong arm.”

I set Father’s hat on my head. “How do I look?”

“Cute!” he said grinning and rolling his chair to the opposite side. He opened a small closet, revealing a full-length mirror on the back of the door. I stood up and positioned myself in the mirror and looked at myself. I twisted my grin wryly as I tried cocking it to first one side, then the other, trying to get the right look to it. Cute? Maybe, but the hat didn’t really work with my cardigan.

“Not quite the look I hoped for,” I lamented, as I handed it back to Fr. Larry. “Doesn’t go with the sweater. Wrong color.”

“Well, what did you expect? Priestly chic?” he joked.

Once more I giggled in response. “But like it has a pompom, so I just had to try it.”

“By the way, it’s called a biretta,” he said holding up the hat again.

“I thought that was a gun?”

“No, that would be a Beretta,” he clarified, carefully emphasizing the first vowel. “Beretta is a well-known Italian arms company that makes nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistols as well as other weapons.”

“Sorry!”

“That’s okay, Miss Pendergast!” Fr. Larry said, dismissing my mistake with a grin. “Anyway, a priest wears a black biretta. A cardinal gets to wear a red one, but I would not recommend you ask the archbishop to let you try his on. His Eminence doesn’t share our sense of humor.”

Again, I giggled. I had been so worried that he would get on my case for crossdressing. He probably should have, but he didn’t.

“Father Larry, I was really afraid you were gonna come down on me hard for crossdressing. Why didn’t you?”

“Well, first of all, like I said before, it would be hypocrisy, since it was an agent of the Church who made you start. That really annoys me. His Eminence could stop Sister Magdalena and anyone else from petticoating boys in our archdiocease just by issuing an order for the schools to quit doing it.

“Next, I’d say that many people, maybe most, are ignorant of the facts, and they just assume that all crossdressers are gay. But in fact, most are straight. And most gays don’t crossdress. So the connection between crossdressing and homosexuality is a false one. But from what I can tell, the Church really doesn’t understand that they’re not the same. It’s really homosexuality that the Church can’t accept or deal with. Unfortunately, kids like you get guilt trips you shouldn’t have because of it.”

“Like, I did feel guilty a lot doing it, but not so much since Mom and Dad know.”

“And showing up to them like that after Mass took some courage. Other parents have often been very judgmental and condemning when their sons do that.”

“Is it really in the Bible?”

“Well, many who condemn crossdressers do so on the basis of the Old Testament, the fifth verse of the twenty-second chapter of Deuteronomy. But the translations are misleading. When I read it in Hebrew, its original language, though, and then studied what it referred to back when it was written, I think it’s really talking about a ritual practice done in ancient pagan temples by their priests and priestesses. I don’t believe it applies to what you’re doing now.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “But it’s a lot to think about, too. To me, it’s all kinda confusing.”

“I know. So, the best advice I can give you, Jamie, is just to learn who you really are, then be that person,” Fr. Larry told me. “Would you like to talk with someone who’s an expert on what you might be going through?”

“You mean there’s like someone who knows about why I might like to wear girls’ clothes?”

“Uh-huh,” he answered quietly. “I have a friend, her name’s Nancy Griffith, who’s an expert in gender identity issues. I can give her a call if you wanna discuss this further with someone. You should check with your parents to see if their health insurance covers it.”

“Couldn’t I just to talk to you about it?”

“You can always talk to me about religious and spiritual affairs, because that’s what I know. It’s why I’m here. But I want to recommend Doctor Griffith to you because she knows much more about gender than I do. This is what she does, and she’s very, very good at it. And I think she can help you talk about dressing up and how you feel about it better than I can. I’m not an expert on it like she is.”

“Where d’you know her from?”

“I know her from graduate school and then, after we got our licenses in clinical psychology, we worked together in a local mental health clinic until I was ordained.”

* * * * * * * * *

Fr. Larry and I talked for about thirty minutes before his next appointment arrived, so I had to leave, but I felt really good about everything.

Gretchen was working on her notebook computer when I got back to the Cathedral’s main office.

“Are you done here?” Gretchen asked.

“For now,” I said.

“I’ve been looking at some webpages for shops downtown,” she informed me. They still have their holiday sales going.”

“Let’s get going, then. I need a hat,” I said. “Something with a pompom.”

* * * * * * * * *

It had been almost a year ago when I had that conversation with Fr. Larry. Since then, Gretchen and I had continued dating. Most of our classmates believed her to be a Lesbian, although so far no one seemed to know that I was the “girl” that she was always seen with. We often met after school at her home or mine. Then she helped me get dressed for whatever we might do, whether it was going out for fun or just staying in to study. Anymore, I was in boy mode only when at school, unless I had to be somewhere that only James could go. Weekends, I would be almost always in girl mode.

My Mom’s health insurance covered my counseling sessions with Nancy Griffith. We had talked about why I felt better when presenting as a girl and why I preferred an increasingly feminine lifestyle. But the real problem was why I had been more succesful building social relationships presenting as a girl than as a boy. But Dr. Griffith had not given me a diagnosis of gender identity disorder. She was not certain whether that were my problem and said that my case was a real puzzle because of its subtleties, whatever that meant.

* * * * * * * * *

We arrived at the cathedral for the Vigil just before ten o’clock Christmas Eve and found ourselves a pew near the center of the nave on the right side of the main aisle. Dad sat at the end of the pew, Mom next to him, then myself, Gretchen to my right, and then Ms. Mueller beside her.

The Vigil began with a female soloist singing “Once in Royal David’s City” and various readings and Psalms followed. The Psalms were all chanted by a cantor with the plainsong antiphons sung by choir and congregation, a style of music that I would always enjoy.

The cantor also chanted various readings from the Old Testament prophets…

Not by appearance shall he judge,
nor by hearsay shall he decide,
But he shall judge the poor with justice,
and decide aright for the land’s afflicted.…

Somehow those verses let me feel better about myself and my own lifestyle, a boy dressing like his girlfriend…

Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb,
and the leopard shall lie down with the kid;
The calf and the young lion shall browse together,
with a little child to guide them.
The cow and the bear shall be neighbors,
together their young shall rest;
the lion shall eat hay like the ox.
The baby shall play by the cobra’s den
and the child shall lay his hand on the adder’s lair.

Those lines I loved and thought about. They meant a lot to me; if natural enemies would change like that, then why couldn’t a boy live as a girl? After all, that should be an easier change to make, especially since I wanted—and prayed for it…

There shall be no harm or ruin on all my holy mountain;
for the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the Lord
as water covers the sea.… [Isaiah 11: 3-4, 6-8, 9]

If there shall be no harm or ruin, then we would be safe, with none of the close calls that Gretchen and I had faced during the past year.

The Second Reading was from a Christmas sermon by St. Leo the Great, Pope:

…No one is shut out from this joy; all share the same reason for rejoicing. Our Lord, victor over sin and death, finding no man free from sin, came to save us all.…

Christian, remember your dignity, and now that you share in God’s own nature, do not return by sin to your former base condition.

In truth, that’s what I feared most. Each day I had to return to my former base condition and lie to myself, donning a boy’s clothing and image. But I was always such a fool, an idiot and a jerk, when I was a boy. Even my grades had been better since I began living as a girl. I was better as she than he all around. And that was my dignity. A boy in a dress? A sissy? Maybe, but I was happy and in love with the people and the life around me.

The brass and tympani from the Cathedral Chamber Orchestra joined with the choir as we all sang Adeste Fideles to begin the Mass. I loved singing and I don’t think anyone quite caught on that one of the teen girls in our pew was the voice an octave below where it should be. After the cardinal’s sermon and the Eucharistic Prayer, we all went to receive Holy Communion, once again in Fr. Larry’s queue. This year, I was unafraid and held a quiet joy in my heart once again.

* * * * * * * * *

This year, we invited Gretchen and her mom to stay with us for Christmas. My mom and hers had become pretty good friends over the past year and we all had gone shopping together a few times. It’s just that until I started crossdressing Mom and I had never done very much together. And I think that we were both grateful that it had helped us build a better relationship with each other.

Anyway, after we got home after Mass, Gretchen and her mom together with Mom, Dad, and myself all gathered around the Christmas tree at our house. Ms. Mueller had brought their own gifts over earlier and laid them out under our tree; we wanted to celebrate Christmas as one family.

“All right everyone,” announced Dad. “It’s approaching two o’clock, so we’d like Gretchen and Jimmy to open a few very special gifts before we all get to bed.”

“What special gifts?” I asked. Mom, Dad, and Ms. Mueller all smiled at Gretchen and me.

“Gretchen, since you and your mother are guests tonight,” said Mom, “you get to open yours first.”

Ms. Mueller knelt next to the Christmas tree to pick up a large, flat box, printed with a motif of broad red and green diagonal stripes separated by a very narrow, silver trim and topped with a silver bow. She handed it to her daughter who also knelt on the floor beside her. Gretchen broke the strips of tape with her long fingernail and removed the boxlid and quickly rustled through the white tissue paper to find a navy blazer and a pleated tartan skirt. She noticed that the blazer bore a familiar distinctive shield on the left side.

“Omigosh!” Gretchen squealed. “It’s for Saint Joan’s! But I don’t go there!” She gave her mother a puzzled look.

“You will in a few days,” said Ms. Mueller. “I’ve enrolled you for next term.”

“Oh, Mom!” Gretchen exclaimed wrapping her mom in a tight hug. Then backing off, she asked, “But how can we afford it?”

“I wanted to surprise you with Saint Joan’s, so I waited until now to tell you,” giggled Ms. Mueller. “When I went back to work after Thanksgiving, I was promoted to Assistant Director!” She squealed the end of the sentence and her daughter embraced her again.

My heart sank. Gretchen and I wouldn’t be going to the same school anymore. My face must have betrayed to her how I felt, because her smile faded into a more somber expression when she looked at me.

Since I was also sitting on the floor, Gretchen scooted herself next to me and hugged me. “I’m sorry, Jamie,” she tried to console me. “I know this’ll be hard for you after the transfer.”

“No! I’m happy for you!” I whimpered a half-lie. “You’ve always wanted to go to Saint Joan’s. Just let me try on your uniform so I won’t feel so bad!” Her smile returned with a giggle and our lips met with a new passion I hadn’t felt before, knowing that we were really in love with one another and that it had to—that it would transcend this change. We hugged again, cheek to cheek as our tears merged together into a single stream flowing between our faces. I sighed in relief as I could feel her joy, her strength joining my own. We both expressed the full range of human emotions in that mixed river of tears. Gretchen and I now remember that moment, even though we were both only fifteen years old then, as when we knew that we would always be together.

“Jamie!” Mom addressed me. “It’s your turn! Your father has something very special for you.”

Dad stood beside the Christmas tree holding a smaller box with the same motif as the one that contained Gretchen’s uniform, except the trim and bow were gold instead of silver.

“Jimmy—Jamie,” he began, “the past year has really been hard for me. Most of my gifts are still addressed to you as Jimmy, but I think I got this one right.”

He handed me the gift with a somewhat sheepish grin. I noted its tag:

TO: My daughter Jamie
FROM: Dad with Love

Fortunately my fingernails were long enough to break the strips of tape sealing the box. I lifted its lid to see a beautiful zippered binder of burgundy leather with a matching strap. I could smell the scent of the well-cured leather. But more than that, recessed in its lower right corner glimmered an elegant brass nameplate:

Jamie Pendergast

“Dad, it’s beautiful!” I quietly exclaimed, hugging it to my chest.

“That’s not all, Jamie,” said Dad. “Open it!”

“I listened intently to the sound as I unzipped the binder, carfully feeling its luxuriously soft leather as I did. Dad must have spent a good bit of money for it. When I opened it and looked at inside, I screamed, “Omigosh!” and leapt up to hug my Dad as I never had before. The rings of my new binder held a small booklet:

Handbook for Students
of
St. Joan of Arc’s
Academy for Girls

“But how, Daddy?” I asked, letting go of him. “How did—?”

“It took some real work and creative thinking by several people.” he said. “Your mom and I got the ball rolling and came up with the money. And I called in a chain of favors. It helped that I’ve developed and maintained more than a few first-rate computer systems for lawyers and school districts. Those were important folks who owed me favors. Doctor Griffith and Miss Mueller wrote quite a few letters and did a lot of paperwork on your behalf, too. A social worker’s opinion carries some weight in this sort of thing. But Father Larry was the real behind-the-scenes hero, pulling various strings and twisting an arm or two at the archdiocese. But hey! He’s a Jesuit!”

I giggled at the thought of Fr. Larry as a “heavy.” I knew he was in my camp, but I never thought he’d be so motivated. Then I remembered what he had told me a year ago what he though about the Church’s hypocrisy toward crossdressing. Of course, he got involved with this!

I felt Gretchen taking my hand, and turned to hug her. She was smiling. “We’re going together!” Gretchen beamed. “It’s so crazy! I can hardly believe it!”

“Jamie!” Mom sang out to get my attention again. “This is for you, too.” She was holding a large box, just like what Gretchen had opened, except that it had a gold bow and trim, matching the smaller box that had held my agenda binder. Accepting it from her, I broke the seals as quickly as possible and extracted a navy blazer and plaid skirt—the uniform for St. Joan’s Academy.

“Omigosh!” I squealed. “Is this for real?”

Mom I embraced in a warm hug. “I love you, Mom!” I told her, then gestured Dad to come over to us and we pulled him into our huddle. “I love you, too, Daddy!” I said to him, my tears still streaming.

* * * * * * * * *

Christmas morning I awoke slowly, feeling my left shoulder gently shaken and a pleasantly warm, weighty sensation in my lap. As my eyes began to open and focus on Gretchen’s face smiling up from my lap, Mom patted me on the shoulder again, saying, “Merry Christmas, my girl! Wake up!”

“You too, sleepyhead!” Ms. Mueller half-sang to Gretchen, as she patted her daughter’s bare knee. She pulled her knees up into a tighter tuck and squirmed more securely into my lap while I leaned back into the sofa as I stretched my arms up and my feet out.

“Mm…!” I hummed deliciously as I slowly morphed my lips into a subtly sunny smile. Then cradling her head on my lap with my left forearm and holding her left hip by my right hand, I leaned over to press my lips to hers. “Merry Christmas, my love!” I whispered to her.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart!” Gretchen answered back.

We had gone up to our rooms, but instead of going to bed, we both tried on our new school uniforms. Then Gretchen and I came back downstairs to the family room, still wearing our uniforms and we cuddled together on the sofa to gaze awhile at our Christmas tree. I sat on the left end and she stretched out, resting her head on my lap. Next, our mothers were waking us up.

“Merry Christmas, kids!” Dad’s warm, mellow baritone greeted us. We both turned to look at him and we saw the burst of the flash of his digital camera.

“Daddy…! I haven’t even freshened up yet!” I squealed, my girlfriend sitting up and myself rising from the sofa. “Taking a girl’s pictures before she’s fixed her face is highly unethical.” Gretchen and our mothers all giggled at that as I stood arms akimbo, with a dour Christmas pout.

“Geeze!” Dad exclaimed. “I guess you really are my daughter!” He smiled at me.

“Mom, Dad, Miss Mueller, Merry Christmas!” I said, Gretchen taking me by the hand.

“Merry Christmas, Mom!” Gretchen said pulling me toward the staircase. “You too, Mister and Mis’ess Pendergast! Come, Jamie! Let’s go get pretty for our parents.”

And with that Gretchen led me up the stairs and to our rooms.