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First and Ten; Part 4 Nancy Cole Chapter Fourteen The image of soldiers crouching low in the assault boat from the movie "Saving Private Ryan" came to mind as I prepared to leave my dorm room on Monday morning. Granted, I didn't look anything like them. Nor would I be facing the sort of trial by fire they did. Still I felt the same sort of anxiety the real solders who stormed the Normandy beaches must have experienced as they prepared to sally forth into hostile territory. All dramatics aside, the task of skipping merrily across the gender line was turning out to be far more daunting than even I'd anticipated. Despite having agonized all weekend over how I was going to accomplish that feat, I still wasn't sure if what I was about to do was the right way to approach the problem. Of course, while I seriously doubted that there was a right way or wrong way, I image there was probably an easier, less dramatic solution to my dilemma than the one I'd settled on. It was the hair that drove me to be bolder than I was comfortable with. Rather than simply evening up the ends, M's stylist had layered it, starting with layers that barely reached my jaw line before becoming progressively longer toward the back. The end result was that my hair now framed my face, hugging my neck as it swept around, softly cascading down between my shoulder blades in the back. Katie, the young girl who'd worked on my hair, kept telling me that this style, together with the coppery tones in my hair would give me a sassy 'do that would stand out in a crowd, just the sort of thing I was hoping to avoid. The short, front layers and side-swept bangs Katie had insisted upon frustrated all my efforts to pull my hair back into a ponytail. And any thought of slicking the whole mop down and sweeping it back away from my face was discarded out of hand. Besides not having the necessary hair products needed to keep it in place, I knew without even having to try that it would look ridiculous. So I planned my attire around the inescapable fact that no matter what I did, my appearance that day would cause a major ripple in the Force wherever I went. Doubting that I'd be able to blend in as a guy, not that I always succeeded there, I decided the best I could hope for was to do so as a female. Granted, for now I'd be a rather flat chested female, but, given the image in the mirror that was staring back at me, a female non-the- less. The pale blue, long sleeved top with a V neck almost matched the color of my eyes, something M had noticed when I'd tried it on at Macy's the previous Saturday. "Girl," she squealed, "you have got to buy that. With a nice pair of hip hugging jeans, you'll be a knock out." Recalling her words, I suddenly panicked, again. Was I over doing it? Of course I was, I told myself. The tight, designer jeans I had on together with a frumpy New York Giants sweatshirt, my first choice that morning, would have been sufficient. Why I'd discarded that option in favor of what I currently had on was something of a mystery, one that would have to wait to be solved later as I glanced at the clock on my desk and noticed that I had but a few minutes to make it to my first class of the day. "Well," I muttered to the tall redhead staring back at me from the mirror, "here we go." > Even with a rather non-descript jacket on, my appearance caused a few blurry eyed dorm mates who knew me to give me a second, and in a few cases a third look as I made my way out of the building. Granted, my floor was coed and the sight of female students coming and going was no big whoop. I wasn't, however, a typical anything that morning. With this being Monday morning in New York, everyone was running late, allowing me to blend in with my fellow students once out on the street as we all raced off in an effort to keep from being the last one in their seat. On this day, the Fates and my indecision over what to wear, conspired to keep me from achieving that. With all the grace of a water buffalo plodding its way through a paddy, I stumbled into class, breathless and red cheeked, a little unwanted bonus that caused some of my female classmates, I was later told, to think I was wearing blush. Not that it mattered much. Even the professor stopped what he was doing as everyone watched me make my way to my place, slip off my jacket and settle in. Unable to help himself, Eric Hoffmann leaned across the isle. "Dude," he whispered a bit too loudly, "what's with the hair and the outfit?" Aware that all eyes were still on me, I bowed my head and croaked, "later." Unable to help himself, Eric didn't let up. "Have you gone gay?" Casting him a withering glance, I was about to respond to his accusation with a very politically incorrect retort when the professor cleared his throat, causing me to turn my attention toward him. "I'm sure you've a wonderful story that you're just dying to share with the rest of the class, Jordan. Unfortunately, it's going to have to wait. We've an English king that's waiting to be restored to his throne and an elector that needs to reestablish his authority in Brandenburg." The redness in my cheeks became inflamed as the entire class joined in on the professor's joke before settling down for a rousing lecture on 17th Century European history, leaving me to wonder how many more times I'd have to endure this experience before the novelty of my appearance became old news and my fellow students found something new to chatter about. As the day wore on, my nerves wore thin. As I slowly made my way to the Kimmel Center where the offices of LGBT student services were located, treading along with all the enthusiasm of a galley slave, I found myself compiling a rather extensive list of reasons why I should skip the Genderville Choo-choo's next stop. I didn't pay any heed to it, of course. I was far too stubborn and still much, too much male for that. So I pressed on manfully, or at least as manfully as a person wearing tight fitting female jeans, a powder blue top and a very becoming hairdo could. The initial interview with one of the LGBT counselors took my apprehensions over this deal to whole new levels. My goal in dressing in the manner that I had was to impress upon the people at the LGBT center that I was serious. Unfortunately, I think I overshot the mark by a wide margin, for the young woman whom I met with, a girl by the name of Cynthia Pulaski that couldn't have been any older than I was went out of her way to admonish me for waiting so long before seeking professional help. "Transitioning from one gender to another is a very serious matter," she informed me, a comment that forced me to bite my tongue. Instead, I managed to affect a very convincing show of being confused by my feelings, giving the overeager young thing lame excuses about not knowing what to do about my gender issues, being fearful of repercussions, worried about being ostracized by family and friends, blah, blah, blah. In the end, she accepted my explanation at face value, turning all her zeal and enthusiasm for her job to setting up a dizzying series of appointments with a psychologist who specialized in transgender behavior, a doctor for a physical exam, a meeting with the leader of a transgender support group and a follow-on visit with her. When I asked why I needed the physical, the energetic young counselor went out of her way to mollify my concerns. "We need to make sure that there's nothing wrong before you start a regime of hormones. While I'm sure your dying to forge ahead with your transition as quickly as you can, we've got to be sure there won't be any long term, adverse effects." If it had been her intent to put my mind at ease, she'd missed her mark by a mile. The mention of hormones and the roadmap that she was laying out before me left me wondering if I'd just purchased a one way ticket on the Neuterland Express. > Depressed, befuddled and more than a little worried, I spend the next few hours wandering the streets, doing my best to loose myself in the hustle and bustle of the city. When I tired of walking, I took to the subway, riding it uptown, then downtown. Eventually, I found myself at Battery Park. Without giving the matter a whit of thought, I hopped on the Staten Island Ferry. As was my habit, I stood at the ferry's bow, taking the full force of the breeze and spray head on in an effort to clear my troubled mind. By the time I'd finished the return trip to Manhattan, I'd managed to calm down. While it was true that none of the problems that had prompted me to take up my aimless rambling about had been resolved, I'd managed to get my head screwed on straight once more and was as ready to meet the next round of challenges. Or so I thought. I was just emerging from the subway when my cell phone began to chirp. Expecting to see my sister's number displayed on the caller ID, I was a bit disappointed, and somewhat concerned, when I saw the name 'Imaginative Web Designs' come up. That was the name of Aaron Stone's fictitious company. Stopping in the middle of the crowd that I was in, I ignored the bumps and mutter expletives of my fellow New Yorkers as I stood there, staring at the cell phone, wondering if I could get away with ignoring his call. I really wasn't in the mood to deal with Aaron, Conner of anyone connected with the Federal Government. Still, imagining that if I didn't respond a black helicopter would swoop down and whisk me away to an undisclosed location, I cleared my throat and hit the talk button. "Hi!" I stated crisply, deciding to mess with secret agent man's mind by pretending that he'd gotten an answering machine. "Jordan is busy bashing her head against the wall at the moment. But if you leave a message and your number, I'm sure she'll get back to you as soon as she returns from joining the Foreign Legion." From the other end I could hear Aaron chuckle. I hadn't meant for my little retort to be amusing, but that was how Aaron took it. "Cute, very cute," he replied. "Well, I'm glad you found it entertaining. Unfortunately, it's the truth." "Rough day, huh?" "You could say that," I replied as I began to move along with the crowd and make my way slowly toward my building. "I mean, I imagine I'd had worse, but at the moment, I can't recall any of them." That, of course, was a lie. "Well then, I've just the thing that'll cheer you up," he announced with far more enthusiasm than I cared for. "And what, pray tell, would that be?" "It's a surprise." I snorted. "I think I've had enough surprises compliments of the Federal government to last me for the rest of this millennium and well into the next, thank you very much." "Trust me, Jordan, you'll love it." "Somehow the words trust me coming from your lips doesn't quite have the effect I think you're trying to achieve." "You know, Jordan, trust is a two way street." His sudden change in tone and the implication he was throwing back in my face had its effect. "Touch?," I replied glumly, knowing full well that I'd just been knocked off my high horse. "When do you want to meet?" I asked making no effort to hide my resignation. "That's up to you. When and where do you want me to pick you up?" he countered. After taking but a second to glance down at my watch and doing some quick calculations in my head, I replied. "An hour, at my sisters place. I trust you remember where that is." "Oh, I most certainly do. One hour it is." With that, he clicked off his cell phone, leaving me wondering why his final response had been so enthusiastic. A shutter coursed through my body as I set aside a disturbing thought before pivoting about and making my way back down into the subway. > As glad as M was to see me and as much as I wanted to take the time and share some of my concerns about the day with her, I couldn't. For some reason I felt the need to change out of my 'neither fish nor fowl,' getup and put on something that was, well, unmistakably female. What, exactly, that was given who I'd be meeting was a good question. "What is it you hope to achieve?" my sister asked me as I sat on the edge of the bed in her spare bedroom gazing at the open closet where my female attire was hung. "What do you mean?" "What sort of statement do you wish to make?" M explained patiently, as if I understood what she was asking. "I don't know," I whined. "That I'm a girl, I guess." Emma rolled her eyes before marching over to the closet, reaching in and pulling out a simple white cotton blouse, black skirt and my new black suede boots with two inch heels, the highest that I could deal with at the moment. "Here. You can't possibly go wrong with these." Cocking an eyebrow, I let out a mirthless chuckle. "Oh? I wouldn't advise you to put any money on that." "Stop being such a twit, Jordan. We've still got your hair and makeup to sort out. Now, get move on. Aaron will be here in thirty minutes." "Whatever happened to being fashionably late?" "That, dear sister of mine, is way over rated and tends to annoy men more than they let on." As attractive as the idea of annoying Aaron was, I took M's advice to heart and got down to the serious business of suiting up and getting my game face on, a metaphor that quite didn't fit my current circumstances but, given that I was pressed for time and not in a particularly creative mood at the moment, would have to do. I was just finishing up in the guest bathroom when I heard the buzzer to the intercom sound, causing my heart rate to tick up a few beats as I braced myself for the next round of Jordan vs. the Feds. Stepping back from the mirror, I gave myself a final head to toe check. I had to admit, I looked good, too good as a matter of fact, leaving me to wonder how Aaron viewed me now that he knew everything there was about me, and then some. The sound of M greeting him at the door ended my troubling speculation. Gathering myself up, I took a deep breath. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," I muttered to myself. "Or close up the wall with our English dead." Perhaps that wasn't the best way to view things, I mused, but given the way things had been going that day, it seemed quite apropos. > "A Beamer," I stated in admiration as Aaron opened the passenger door for me. "It must be nice to work for the Federal Government." "I've an image to maintain," he stated before closing his door and making his way to his side. Once seated and buckled in, he picked up where he'd left off. "Like you, I'm more or less working undercover. As Conner explained, there are a lot of people who get nervous as hell whenever they hear that the CIA is dabbling in domestic affairs." Without thinking, I raised my hand. "Here's one." Once more, he took my behavior as an effort on my part to be cute, chuckling as he pulled out into traffic. "Be that as it may, I've got to do everything possible to keep off of everyone's radar while I'm working with the FBI's New York office. Hence the front company I run, Imaginative Web Designs." "Is it a real company, or just a logo on a business card that you use to impress women?" Not sure how to take my comment, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "Oh, it's real. And I'm a skilled web designer, to boot." "Wow! A secret agent and a techno geek, all rolled up in one. Impressive." Aaron actually blushed. "If the truth be known, I'm more geek then spy. My masters is in computer security and cryptology." "Ah, I see. Hence the CIA." "I actually stated out in the Air Force, assigned to help activate the 450th Electronic Warfare Wing at Lackland Air Base in Texas." "Sounds ominous." When he didn't respond, I realized that I was probably straying into no-go territory. So I changed the subject by looking about the car. "You know, Consumer Report doesn't rate any of the BMWs very high when it comes to maintenance." Relieved that I spared him the trouble of having to finesse his way out of a conversation that he didn't want to venture into, Aaron laughed. "One does not buy a BMW for its reliability." "I see, image is important to you." Turning his head, Aaron looked at me. I could tell by his expression that he wanted to say something, but thought better of it at the last minute. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the traffic around us. Of course, I didn't need to be clairvoyant to know what he was, in all probability, going to say. I, of all people should have been the last person on earth to fault another for creating a false image. > Our destination turned out to be an apartment building on the East side, a nice place not far from campus. Without saying a word, he led me past the doorman, who greeted him by name, and over to the elevators. On the way up I could feel my anxiety rising with each passing floor. Having already endured more than my normal daily allotment of trauma and drama, I was about to ask Aaron if we could skip whatever it was he had in mind. Unfortunately, the elevator stopped on the tenth floor. Stepping off, he led me to apartment 1010, where he turned and handed me a key he fished out of his pocket. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?" I asked, making no effort to hide my concern. "Your new digs," he announced with a flourish. "Wow, you guys certainly do work fast." "It's really no big deal," he explained as I opened the door and let myself in. "The ATF was using the place until recently as part of a sting operation. The FBI just took over the lease." "In whose name?" I asked as I made my way into the comfortable, fully furnished one bedroom apartment. "Yours, of course. The monthly rent will be paid directly from a trust that's in your name to the building management." As I made my way about, I murmured my approval. "Very nice. When can I move in?" "Anytime you wish." I was tempted to say right now, but, glancing down at my watch, I decided to put it off till tomorrow. Instead, I headed into the small kitchenette, opening up all the cabinets to inspect their content and checking the fridge to see if the former occupant had left any surprises for me that were in the process of evolving into a higher life form. "There are a few things we need to go over," Aaron stated as I made my way to the bathroom. "Such as?" "How we're going to work together," he replied in a tone that betrayed a hint of uncertainty. "Very effectively, I hope," I quipped as I continued my inspection. "That goes without saying. It's the mechanics that we need to cover." "Right now?" Pausing, Aaron checked his watch. "How about over dinner?" That brought me to a full dead stop as I turned and regarded him for a moment. I guess he saw the alarm on my face, for he raised a hand. "A business dinner, so to say." Not having allowed myself enough time for breakfast that morning and having found myself unable to deal with lunch, I was too famished to turn down his offer. So I shrugged. "Sure, what the heck." Once more taking the lead, he proceeded to take me to a cozy little neighborhood restaurant just around the corner of my new apartment. "You seem to know the area fairly well," I observed as we were seated. "I guess I should," he announced. "My place is just a block up from yours, on the opposite side of the street." I cocked an eyebrow. "That's rather convenient." "Lucky, actually. It means Conner or I can be at your place in no time flat if something come up." "Such as?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could while I looked over the menu. For the first time that day, Aaron's voice took on a tone that left no doubt that he was serious, dead serious. "The people you'll be dealing with don't mess around, Jordan. They don't take kindly to people who snoop about in their business or try to shut them down. They're playing for keeps." Intellectually, I already knew that. But to have someone in Aaron's position lay it out for me sent a chill down my spin. Now that he had my undivided attention, once we'd placed our orders, he proceeded to provide me with some background on Dr. Khalje, Professor Lange and several other people, most of whom were NYU students, that the FBI suspected of being part of Khalje's cell. He then went on to give me a list of books to read that would help me understand Afghani culture as well as terrorists and their tactics. "Just be careful," he added as he was concluding, "that you don't come off as being too knowledgeable on such matters. Remember, they're looking for vulnerable strays, students who are disenchanted, disenfranchised and na?ve, young people who are empty vessels that they can fill with their brand of propaganda." "As opposed to our brand of propaganda," I stated in an even tone that Aaron didn't quite know how to take. "I suppose," he responded with a shrug. With the business part of dinner over just as our food was arriving, I found myself able to relax for the first time that day and engage in a pleasant conversation with Aaron. For his part, he told me about growing up in a mixed household. "My father's Jewish and my mother's Asian." I couldn't help but stop what I was doing when he said that and carefully study Aaron's features for the first time, noting that his almond shaped eyes did betray his oriental heritage as well as a skin tone that I'd taken as Mediterranean in origin. Noticing my stare, he stopped eating as well. "What?" he asked with a smile. "Nothing. I was just trying to imagine what a Chinese synagogue would look like." "My mother's actually Korean." "Oh, sorry." "No need to be," Aaron countered. "Though most Koreans would never admit to it, ethnically and culturally they're basically Chinese with a heavy does of Mongol blood and a touch of Japanese thrown in thanks to Korea being part of the Japanese Empire from 1905 to 1945." "Do you speak any Korean?" "Oh, I'd say my proficiency is about on par with your typical New Englander," he stated trying to appear as if he was being serious. "I'll take that as a no." "You do that. Do you speak any foreign languages?" "Other than New Jerseyian? Not really, though I did pick up a few Arabic words and terms while I was in the service, little of which," I quickly added, "are the sort that you'd use in polite company." By the time we finished eating and chatting, it was close to eight PM. As we were preparing to leave, Aaron asked me if I'd like to go with him to a place on 3rd Avenue called the Barfly. "It's a sports bar I like to frequent on Monday nights and enjoy the game and a few beers." Though tempted to say no, I didn't. Instead, I gave him a knowing smile. "That's right, your Cowboys are at Buffalo tonight, aren't they?" "Yep! Care to put a wager on the game?" "Can I use my government credit card to cover the bet?" Aaron shrugged. "What do I care? The FBI's picking up the tab for that." I gave Aaron a roguish smile. "And here I thought you were a nice guy and team player." Going along with the lighthearted mood, he grinned. "Hey, what can I say? I'm CIA. Now, we need to get a move on if we're going to get a good spot." With that, he ushered me out of the restaurant, using the opportunity to place his hand in the small of my back as he did so, an act that I didn't object to. I guess that accounted for the self satisfied smile he wore as we drove to the Barfly. Chapter Fifteen The sound of my sister's grating voice and her banging about was too much for me to handle. "Emma!" I finally shouted. "Stop screaming." Of course, she wasn't screaming. My aching head only made it sound that way. "What time is it?" I croaked. "Time for me to go to work," M announced as she took a seat on the edge of the bed in her spare bedroom. "Oye! That means I'm going to be late for class," I concluded as my mind slowly, and oh so painfully, began to slip into gear. It was Tuesday morning, I finally concluded as I pried an eye open and looked up at my sister who was gazing down at me with an amused smirk on her face. "How'd I get here? Carrier pigeon? FedEx?" "Not quite. Aaron carried you up." Alarmed, I tried to push myself up off the mattress but failed miserably. "Carried me up?" "Yep! Like a sack of Idaho potatoes." Burying my face in the pillow, I let out a long, pitiful moan. "Did I, ah . . ." "Pass out?" M stated, finishing what she thought I was going to say. "Yes, you most certainly did." "I was going to ask if I threw up." "That too," she added snickering. "Oh God," I moaned pitifully as I flopped over onto my back and watched as the ceiling began to spin about, again. "I feel like I want to die." "You haven't done that yet, though I dare say you seemed to be rather close to doing so a few times last night, or should I say earlier this morning. Tell me, dear sweet little sister of mine, what was the last thing you remember?" Closing my eyes, I tried to sort through the jumbled menagerie of images that whirled about my aching head. "Let's see. Buffalo striped the ball from a Cowboy as they were going for a two point conversion with only twenty seconds left in the game." Emma grunted. "That's not what I mean, you twit. I was talking about you and Aaron." My eyes flew open and I sat upright in bed. "What do you mean, what happened between us? Did something happen between us?" Coming to her feet, M laughed as she glanced at her watch. "I seriously doubt if anything did. Now, I suggest you forget about going to class this morning and stay right where you are. You're not fit for anything more adventurous than a trip to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a bagel." The mention of food caused my stomach to churn. "As always," I muttered weakly, "you're right." With that, I flopped back down on my pillow and went back to sleep. > From somewhere in the other room, I heard my phone cheeping. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, I noticed that it was just after twelve noon. At least I was pretty sure it was twelve PM and not the other way around. The thought of ignoring it had a great deal of merit. Then, realizing it was probably M calling to check on me, I abandoned that selfish notion and dragged myself out of bed, stumbling about her apartment in search of the annoying little cell phone that refused to stop ringing. Without bothering to look at the caller ID, I flipped it open. "Hi M," I mumbled. "Sorry, it's not Emma," Aaron announced in a voice that was far too cheerful. "I was calling to see if you were up yet and alright." "Up? Barely. All right? To be determined." "Listen, I've got nothing special going this afternoon," Aaron explained without waiting for me to elaborate any on my miserable condition. "I was wondering if you'd like a hand moving your things from your dorm over to your new place, perhaps even get some lunch." "Yuck! Don't you even dare mention food to me," I growled. "Okay, well, what about the first part." "What first part?" "Moving?" "Oh, yeah, sure, why not. I mean, I need to do something productive." "Great. When can you be ready, Jordan?" "How about the fifth of January, 2008." Aaron chuckled. "I'm being serious." "So am I." "Listen," he announced. "I've got a few things I need to tend to here first. How about I pick you up where I dropped you off last night in an hour?" Ignoring his tongue in cheek remark, I agreed before ending the call and tossing the cell phone onto the nearest chair. "Asshole," I muttered aloud before making my way to the bathroom to begin the long and arduous task of salvaging what I could of the wreckage I was left with and trying to see if I could make it look human once more. > I barely had time for a cup of coffee before Aaron arrived. Not wanting to waste any time, I went down and met him in the foyer of M's building. Where as I felt like death warmed over, Aaron was spry and chipper, far too energetic for the mood I was in. As he held the door open for me, he couldn't help but commented on my appearance. "You seem no worse for the wear," he stated as I breezed by him. Out on the street, where he fell in beside me I reminded him that looks could be very deceiving. "I've discovered makeup can hide a multitude of sins." "You're lucky," he replied. "When I get plastered, all I can do is pull a paper bag over my head." His comment caused me to winch. I waited till we were in the car and headed to my old dorm before speaking. "Listen," I stated looking down at my hands clasped tightly in my lap. "I apologize for making a fool out of myself last night. I mean, I don't usually drink like that. It's just that yesterday was so, well . . ." "Jordan, you've no need to apologize. You had a rough day. I knew that. You needed to blow off some steam." Remembering my trips to the bathroom at Emma's, I responded with a mirthless chuckle. "That's not the only thing I blew off yesterday." "I don't even want to know," he intoned as he made his way through the mid-day traffic. "Did I, ah, do anything that I, ah need to worry about? What I mean is, did I embarrass you or say anything that would . . ." Unable to help himself, Aaron laughed out loud. "Jordan, you were the bell of the ball last night. Everyone loved you, even though you were rooting for the loosing team." "What? How? Buffalo stopped the Cowboys from converting. There were only twenty seconds left!" "That was enough for Folk to kick a 53 yard field goal to win the game as the clock ran out," he explained, unable to hide the pride he felt for his team. He then proceeded to describe in great detail how the game ended. Throughout it all, I didn't have to courage to ask where I was at the time. At the residence hall I was stopped at the reception desk. It seems my student ID photo was no longer hacking it given the way I was dressed and had my hair, leading the receptionist and security guard to believe I'd barrowed someone else's. In no mood to deal with either of them, or anyone else for that matter, I decided to put on something of a show. Placing a hand on my hip, I leaned forward and looked into the security guard's eyes. "Listen," I stated in a strident tone of voice, "I don't know what your problem is with me, or why you think you can get away singling me out for harassment, but this," I stated firmly as I waved my student ID at eye level with my free hand, "is my ID. Now, if you've an issue with someone like me, I suggest you call your supervisor and have him contact Cynthia Pulaski at the University's office of LGBT affairs. Between them I'm pretty sure they'll set you straight." Caught off balance by my unexpected onslaught and my use of magic words such as harassment and LGBT, the security guard withered. "Fine," he stated in a huff. "But your boyfriend is going to have to sign in." To his credit, Aaron took the security Guard's homophobic swipe in stride. "With pleasure," he announced with one of those smiles that did little to conceal his true feelings for the jerk. Once we were finished there and on the way to my room, Aaron made a point of reminding me never to get on my bad side, a remark that went a long way to sooth my anger. It took but one trip to clear my things from my room, thanks mainly to Aaron's help and the empty file boxes he'd brought along with him. At the moment my possessions were limited to books, a laptop and a few some personal items. I had nothing in the way of furniture or decorations for the room that were mine to keep. Augmenting what the University provided had been quite low on my priority list. The one thing I did have that I didn't bother taking along with me was my male clothing. Without even giving the matter the sort of thought such a decision demanded, I gathered up everything I had, save a few prized Tee shirts and a Giant's sweatshirt, and dumped them on a table in the lounge area on my floor. On top of the pile I placed a note. "Free clothes, mostly new. Untouched by human hands." Aaron, who watched me as I did so, said nothing. I guess he was reading more into my actions than I was, but felt that it wasn't his place to comment, an opinion I would have been quick to agree with. Down on the street, as we were madly packing his double parked car before a parking meter Nazis zeroed in on us, I asked Aaron if he'd be kind enough to swing back by my sister's place and pick up the clothing I had there. Without batting an eye he agreed, providing a solution to a problem for me before it became one. By the time we were finished with that and had managed to haul everything up to my new place, it was late afternoon. Plopping down in the one overstuffed chairs that was in the living room, Aaron asked if I was hungry yet. I addition to the running around and hauling things about, I hadn't exactly enjoyed anything resembling a restful sleep the night before. Exhausted, I settled down in the middle of the small, comfy two person sofa that matched the chair Aaron was seated in. Making a face, I placed a hand on my stomach. "I'm not sure if I'm up to that chore yet. Still," I added as I cast a wary eye in the direction of the kitchenette, "I do need to think about food. Like Old Mother Hubbard, my poor cabinets are bare." With an enthusiasm that I had no hope of matching, Aaron sprang to his feet. "Well then, I know just the place. There's a great little market just around the corner. Prices are reasonable, selection is decent and the fruit and veggies are usually fresh and safe." Sensing that I wasn't buying into his suggestion, he tried a different line of reasoning. "Since you're starting out from scratch, I imagine you'll be needed an extra pair of hands to carry all your bags back. And while we're at it, I can give you a quick tour the neighborhood. There's a great little deli along the way as well as a bakery that tends to be pricey but is very good." Looking up at him, I debated whether to wave off his generous invitation. He was starting to remind me of a puppy with way too much energy. I could almost envision him bouncing up and down, barking, "Can we go? Can we go? Please! Can we go?" with his tongue hanging out. Despite my best efforts, that mental image brought a smile to my face, which Aaron took as a yes. As we were making our away down to the building's lobby and while we were walking along the street, I asked Aaron a number of questions, none of which were related to the task that had brought us together. I asked him about his family, how he'd gotten involved with the CIA, where he'd lived in the past, things like that. When he asked why the interrogation, I passed it off as lightheartedly as I could, reminding him that he knew far more about me than I did and I felt the time had come to level the playing field. "You know what they say," I added without thinking. "You show me yours, and I'll show you mine." The look on Aaron's face told me in an instant that I'd erred. "Ah, strike that last comment, your honor," I muttered while averting my eyes. "Um, yeah," he responded not knowing what else to say. We finished the trip to the market in silence, where Aaron volunteered push the cart, leaving me free to roams the isles, familiarizing myself with my new surroundings and plucking items from the shelves as I went along. We were making our way along the last isle when Aaron commented that he was rather surprised by my selection of food. "I'd been expecting normal college fair, you know, microwave entrees and junk food." I looked over my shoulder, giving him one of those 'get real' looks. "Aaron, I'm 26 years old. This body of mine needs more than nachos and pop tarts." Once more, I realized that I'd spoken before I'd given my brain an opportunity to edit my comments, for Aaron immediately took to looking me up and down, from head to toe and back again. I could see by the look on his face that he was tempted to say something, but didn't, demonstrating that his brain had a much better filtering system than mine. Blushing, I looked away, though I suspect Aaron used his advantage of position behind me to continue to study my figure. Tactfully, Aaron made his excuses and left after helping me up with the sacks of groceries. I was in the process of putting them away when my sister called. "Hey Kid," she announced. "I got you're note. So, are you going to give me your new address or is that classified?" M's cheery admonishment reminded me that in my haste to clear my things out of her spare bedroom, I'd forgotten to write down the street address and apartment number. When I gave it to her over the phone, she didn't give me a chance to get another word in. "Great, I'll be right over." Clicking off the phone, I sighed. Though I wasn't exactly up for a visit, I knew trying to stop my sister once she'd achieve target lock was well neigh impossible. Since I doubted she'd taken the time to eat before calling, and knowing I needed to put something healthy and substantial in my stomach despite its threat to revolt if I violated its boundaries, I set aside two boneless chicken breasts and some of the spices I'd picked up before switched on the oven. Not sure what else to put out that would make for a simple and safe diner, I returned to the chore of storing away the remainder of my groceries, knowing full well that Emma would have a good idea what would be best to complement the chicken. When, I thought to myself with a smirk, didn't M have a better idea of what I should do? It was the story of my life, one that, even now, I really had no problem with. Chapter Sixteen Having tried the slow go approach to introducing my fellow students and professors to the new me and failed miserably, on Wednesday morning I decided to throw caution to the wind. This, of course, required me to start my day far earlier than I was accustomed to. Just a week ago my normal routine consisted of rolling out of bed and pulling on whatever items of clothing I stumbled across after emerging from a quick, in and out shower. The only skin care product I bothered with then had been a bar of soap and hair care amounted to nothing more than combing it back and gathering up the ends in a low male ponytail. And while it was true that the attire favored by most NYU females were a far cry from the chic fashions anorexic models flaunted on the runways of the City's Garment District, most women on campus did make something of an effort when it came to their appearance. Sitting on the edge of my bed, wrapped in a towel, I took a moment to ponder that age old decision all women face, one I was still not used to. What am I going to wear today? I wanted there to be no mistake in anyone's mind that I was serious about turning Jordan D. Guy into Jordan la Fem, even if I wasn't quite sure yet if that was right for me. The problem was, how was I going to go about do that without going overboard. I mean, I wanted to blend in as just another female student, yet I needed to make a statement. The temptation to call Emma and ask her for advice was nixed out of hand. Besides knowing full well that running to my sister every time I had a question would soon get old, I realized that the sooner I learned to stand on my own two feet and sort this stuff out for myself, the better I'd be. Heaving a sigh, I sat up. "Okay," I muttered to myself. "Let's get it on." With that, I set about throwing myself head first down the rabbit hole after Alice's magical hare. > When I'd strolled into my classes on Monday, I'd been met me with curious stares. On Wednesday, my fellow students greeted me with blatant and shameless gawking. Their response wasn't due to the nature of the outfit I'd finally settled on. Fact of the matter was, it was about as tame as I could make it. The jeans I was wearing sat slightly below the waist, and while they were slim through the hips and thigh, they weren't particularly tight. Together with a long sleeved, Kelly green boat neck top, it wasn't all that different from what the majority of students on campus had on. It was the bra, well padded of course, the makeup, understated but noticeable, and the way I wore my hair that turned heads and got people chattering. I don't think I could have garnered any more attention from those students who knew me than if I'd hung a sign around my neck announcing, "I'm a girl!" Responses varied greatly, depending mainly on their gender. Girls tended to regard me with a knowing smile, making me wonder if they'd already been harboring suspicions about my gender. The guys, on the other hand, gave me that, 'No way, dude!' look, leading me to believe that they either didn't believe one for their own would ever do something as dumb as what I was doing or, they found themselves worrying about their own sexual orientation as inbred physical responses to my appearance threatened to override higher, more evolved cognitive processes. Rather than being rattled as I had been on Monday, I found most everyone's reaction amusing. There were exceptions, of course. Without fail, the obligatory jerk that every class seemed to have, used the occasion to express an opinion that was, more often than not, quite colorful and very loud. Fortunately, I found I had some unexpected allies who were ready and willing to spring to my defense. Without fail my detractors were shut down by members of the campus PCG, Political Correctness Gestapo, making it the first time since becoming a part of NYU's student body that I, a fugitive from political correctness, actually found myself thankful that they were there. The downside to this was that their manner in doing so tended to be just as tacky, an intentional tactic on their part that was meant to warn others that narrow minded bigotry would not be tolerated on campus. It didn't take long before people started avoiding me, fearing that no matter what they said, they would draw the ire of the PCG. Even those who might have been supportive shied away at first, bringing to mind the song, 'I Don't Know How to Love You,' from the musical 'Jesus Christ, Superstar.' It wasn't until early afternoon, when I was seated alone at a table in NYU's Kimmel Center Market Place enjoying a late lunch, that two girls I recognized from one of my classes approached me. Though I couldn't recall ever having spoken to either of them before, both seemed anxious to say something to me as they stood there, across the table from me. The taller of the pair was a girl by the name of Megan. She was one of those girls you couldn't help but notice. She wasn't what I would call beautiful, at least not in a classical sense. Yet her appearance and the winsome manner with which she carried herself caused those around her, both male and female, to stop what they were doing and watch her go by. There was no one thing that I was ever able to put my finger on that made her so enchanting. She wore her long brunette hair neatly hooked behind her ears. Her fine, delicate features complemented her thin, elfin frame. But it was her expression, and the way she was able to transfix you with her big, brown eyes, eyes that reminded me of a doe, eyes that captured your attention and took your breath away, that set her apart. Looking up at Megan, I found myself mesmerized by the steady gaze with which she held me. Flustered, it took me several seconds to collect myself before flashing her a shy, but inviting smile, one she returned as she asked if they could join me. While I tended to be something of a loner, I did enjoy company every so often. Unable to say no, especially to Megan, I nodded. In the twinkling of an eye, whatever apprehensions they had about approaching me disappeared as they took a seat on either side of me. The shorter of the pair, a blond who couldn't be more than five foot four, turned out to be quite gregarious, flashing me a warm, friendly smile as she set her tray down. "Hi! I'm Amber," she announced in a Jersey accent that would have put Tony Soprano to shame. When I went to introduce myself, Amber laughed and gave me a wink, "Oh, we know who you are," leaving me to wonder if there wasn't anyone in this city who didn't. "Megan, me and some of the other girls were talking this morning," Amber blurted out before realizing what she'd just said. Wincing, she glanced over at Megan who, in turn, gave me a guilty look as her cheeks began to redden. "Sorry, I know that sounds awful," Amber giggled, "but a few of us have always wondered about you." Megan gave her friend a withering glance. "Amber," she whispered. Again, Amber grimaced. "Oh, sorry, again. Anyway, we all think that what you're doing is, well, it's great. I mean, all anyone has to do is look at you the way you're dressed now to know that what you're doing is the right thing to do." If Amber was all brass and bluster, Megan's manner was gentle and restrained. Reaching over, she lightly placed a hand on my forearm. "You've got to be the bravest person I've ever known," she murmured in a soft, almost lyrical voice. I found it almost impossible to respond as I stared into her big, brown eyes. "Um, well, I, ah, don't think of myself as being brave," I stammered as I struggled to tear my eyes from Megan's penetrating gaze. "I'm, ah, just doing what I need to do. I mean, I'm doing what I have to do, I think." "Oh, don't worry about a thing," Amber chirped. "We understand. At least everyone who counts does. I'm just wondering why it took you so long. I mean, damn girl, you're a natural. Between those cheekbones of yours and a figure to die for, not to mention that hair, I don't see how anyone could have ever mistaken you for guy." Noticing the deep crimson color rising in those afore mentioned cheeks, Megan once more admonished her friend. "You're embarrassing the poor thing." Amber tucked her head between her shoulders before apologizing, again. "Damn! Sorry. I didn't mean to." I shrugged. "That's okay." Then wishing to move the conversations onto other things, I invited them to tell me about themselves, something Amber pitched into with great gusto. As the three of us picked at our lunches, I sat back and enjoyed listening to the two girls talk about their families, where they'd lived, things they enjoyed doing and such. What Amber lacked in stature was more than made up for with an exuberance and personality that was irrepressible. Megan, on the other hand, said little and when she did, she spoke in hushed, almost breathless tones. It wasn't long before I came to appreciate that there was something more behind her serene and gentle manner. Everything about Megan radiated a sense of quiet confidence, leaving me to appreciate that there was great depth and inner strength within her frail body. Even more disconcerting for me, given where my life was headed at the moment, was the way I was responding to her presence and the way she looked at me, adding a whole new level of complications to an already very complicated life. > Having managed to survive my precipitous coming out on campus, I turn my attention to the issue that had led me to go from being Mister Invisible to the talk of the town. When briefing me on what they want, both Special Agent Moore and Conner had been quite specific. How I went about doing that was never discussed. Had I been the charitable sort, I would have credited them with doing what the more astute officers in the Army had done, which was to give us what we called mission type orders, an approach in which a superior tells his people what needs to be done, not how to do it. Having already discovered just how clueless Moore was when it came to the specifics of what I would have to do in order to become an object of interest to Khalje, I couldn't help but assume that he had nothing by way of advice or guidance that would be of any use to me when it came time do so. Fortunately, it was Professor Lange who provided the perfect opportunity to begin that daunting and odious task. It came in the form of a mid-term paper that was due. As was his habit, Lange gave us a great deal of latitude when it came to selecting our topics. His only guidance was that the paper address an issue that had an impact on the Middle East as a result of the Second World War. Like most of my fellow students, I went for the most obvious subject, the rise of the modern Israeli state. My first draft, which I had originally intended to be my final draft, had focused on the manner in which the final boarders of the new state of Israel had been determined. In an effort to be as historically accurate as I could, I had confined my discussion to the facts and written a conclusion based solely on those facts, doing my best to filter out any personal feelings on the matter, a feat easier said than done. Any serious student of history knows, historical facts are slippery little suckers that a skilled historian can use to frame his discussion of an event or historical figure in such a way as to support a preconceived opinion held by the historian or those he is working for. It is believed that Josephus, a Jew who'd fought the Romans, wrote his account of the of the Jewish - Roman War in an effort to ingratiate himself to the victors. The re-wickering of facts has allowed one generation of American historians to cast George Washington as the father of our country and THE indispensable man and another to characterize him as a hypocritical, womanizing, slaver holder with wooden teeth. Even in our modern, enlightened era, historians play a role in shaping public opinion as evidenced by Russian historians, such as Nikita Zagladin, who have managed to turn Joseph Stalin, a man responsible for the death of millions of Ukrainians in 1933 and the paranoid slaughter of half his officers corps on the verge of Hitler's invasion of Mother Russia, into a caring visionary and patriotic leader. My task turned out to be far easier than I was comfortable with. In order to secure borders that made sense and could be defended, units of the Haganah and the Palmach, which became the Israeli Defense Force in May 1948, carried out the forced expulsion of Arabs in an effort to reduce the size of a potentially hostile population within the boundaries of the new, predominantly Jewish state of Israel. In my first draft I'd defended this decision as not only sound, but necessary. For my revised version, I took an entirely different tack, one that was sure to get Lange's attention. It was early Thursday evening before I finished my first go at revising Lange's paper. In desperate need of a break, I set aside my laptop, pulled on my jacket and headed out. Being new to the area, I had no clear idea where, exactly I would go. The temptation to wander back over toward NYU where my old, familiar haunts were located was eclipsed by a desire to explore my new neighborhood. Already well aware of what lower Broadway had to offer, I headed east, toward the Bowery. I hadn't gone very far when my cell phone began chirp. It was Aaron. "Jordan, what are you up to?" he asked trying to sound as casual as he could. "Oh, I'm out and about, mingling with the indigenous population, exploring strange new worlds that no Wallace has ever gone to before. And yourself?" "Oh, nothing special. Just trying to relax after a long, hard day of making the world safe for Democracy. How would you like to get together somewhere?" Unable to help myself, I became a little suspicious. "Is this business, or pleasure?" "Neither. Both. Why?" "Why? Because I know who you work for, that's why." "Are you going to hold that against me?" he asked snickering. "That depends on what you have in mind," "How about meeting me at McSorley's Old Ale House at 15 East 7th Street, not very far from where you are." For some reason, something in what he said set off an alarm in my head, causing me to ask him how he knew where I was. It was the long pause before he answered, and way he finally did so, that confirmed my suspicion. "Do you have someone following me?" Once more he hesitated before answering. "Ah, no, not exactly." "Aaron, you're beginning to worry me. Come clean or I'm going to hang up on you." Again, there was a hesitation before he answered. "Um, what are you doing at the moment?" he asked. "Is this a trick question?" "Do you want me to answer your question or not?" "I'm talking to you on my cell phone, okay?" I replied, making no effort to stifle my growing frustration with Aaron's failure to give me a straight answer. "And how doe cell phones work?" "You turn it on and talk into the little hole." "Jordon, don't go blond on me. You're not very good at it." "Aaron Stone, you give me a straight answer right this very minute or I swear, the next time I see you I'm going to rip your arms out of their sockets and beat you over the head with them." Instead of being intimidated, Aaron found my mounting anger amusing. "Okay, okay," he chuckled. "I promise to explain it all to you at McSorley's." "Now you just wait a minute, mister. I haven't agreed to meet you, yet." "If you want me to answer your question, you're going to have to. Now, make a right on Bowery, a left onto 7th and cross 3rd Avenue. McSorley's is on the north side of the street. I'll be there shortly." Before I could say another word, he ended the call. The temptation to call him back and describe to him in great detail where, exactly he could go was quickly forgotten. Not only didn't I have a good reason not to meet him, I found myself actually was looking forward to it, an admission I found to be quite troubling. McSorley's Old Ale House at 15 East 7th Street turned out to be something of a historical landmark. Being a historian in training, I read the history of the place after ordering a light ale. McSorley's opened its doors in 1854 and has been in continuous operation as a tavern since then, making it the oldest pub in New York City and something of an institution. The poet, e.e. cummings even wrote a poem entitled 'Sitting in McSorly's in 1925. The philosophy of, "Good Ale, Raw Onions, and No Ladies," upon which McSorley's was found, was strictly enforced until it was overturned by court order in 1970, when the first female patron was served there. As I sat waiting for Aaron to make his appearance, I had a good chuckle over that trivial piece of history. Despite what everyone else in the place might have been thinking as they took advantage of every opportunity they could to surreptitiously glance over to where I was nursing my beer, I wasn't violating that rule. Aaron arrived just in time to save me from having to shoo away a young buck who'd taken pity on lonely little 'ole me and was about to offer to keep me company. "Enjoying yourself?" Aaron asked with a broad grin on his face as he watched my wannabe companion beating a hasty retreat. I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please." "Well I don't know," he remarked as he took a seat across from me. "You might have found his company more enjoyable than mine. After all, you did seem a bit peeved with me when we last talked." "Speaking of that, Mister Stone," I stated doing my best to sound menacing. "Before you say anything else, you will answer my question." "You remember what I told you about what I did in the Air Force, right?" "Yeah, something about electronic warfare," I replied as I tried to make the connection between that and the topic at hand. "Well, I was initially hired by my current employer to do the same thing for them." "Okay. But what's that got to with . . ." before I finished my question, I suddenly realized I had the answer to my own question. "Triangulation!" I announced. Aaron sat upright, grinning from ear to ear. "Bingo!" As pleased as I was at having sorted out that mystery on my own, I found myself somewhat appalled. Leaned forward, I glared at Aaron. "You mean to tell me you've been tracking me using my own cell phone's signal?" Before he could respond, a waiter came up to the table. "Have you eaten yet, Jordan?" Having skipped lunch and worked straight through the afternoon on Lange's paper, I suddenly realized that I was famished. "Um, no. What's good on their menu?" Without answering, he ordered burgers and fires for both of us. "Aren't you being a little presumptuous?" I asked unable to hide the grin that tugged at the corners of my lips. "Not at all. You'll love their burgers. Now, back to your question. As long as your cell phone is on, it's sending out a signal, trying to locate the nearest cell towers." "And you," I concluded, "have access to that system." Aaron answered me with a smile. "Now that that's mystery has been solved, can I ask if you've given any thought yet as to how you're going to go about working your way into Lange's and Khalje's good graces?" Leaning over the table and speaking in a voice barely loud enough for Aaron to hear, I spent the next few minutes explaining what I had in mind. Despite his best efforts not to, I could tell by Aaron's expression that he wasn't exactly thrilled with the way I was going about it. When I finished, he sat back and took a long sip of beer. "You do know, Jordan, I am Jewish." "Yes, you told me. So? What's that got to do with all of this?" He looked away, taking a moment to think things over before shrugging. "Sorry. Nothing really, I guess." Then, after giving the matter a little more thought, he continued. "It's just that I tend to get a little defensive whenever someone takes the events of 1948 and the reality of the situation in Palestine at the time out of context in order to bash Israel. They had no choice, Jordan. Surely you can appreciate that." Raising my hand, I took to apologizing. "Aaron, I know, I know. The truth is, I feel the same way. I just don't know what else to do." Before I could utter another word, Aaron reached across the table and took my hand in his. "Jordan, it's alright. I understand, really." The feelings that holding his hands generated within had nothing to do with the state of Israel, our political views or the reason I was working as an informer for the FBI. Unable to help myself, I found myself gazing into his warm, inviting eyes as my thoughts wander off the reservation and into territory that had, until recently, been strictly off limits. Only the arrival of our burgers saved me from straying too far afield. > With Monday night's performance still fresh in my mind, I took it easy on my poor stomach. The advantage to this approach was that I was able to enjoy Aaron's company. The disadvantage was that I was able to enjoy Aaron's company. By the time we finished it was dark. Without ever asking if he could, or me asking if he would, Aaron walked me back to my apartment. Neither one of us said much of anything along the way as we slowly shuffled along the quite city streets, me with head slightly bowed as I clung to the strap of my shoulder bag with both hands and Aaron with his stuffed in the pockets of his coat, casually looking about at everything but me. It was almost as if we were both doing our best to pretend that the other wasn't really there while remaining painfully aware that they were. Upon reaching the front of my building I stopped before going in, unsure what to say, what to do. Aaron seemed to find himself having to wrestle with the same problem as he turned to face me. "Well, I guess I need to be going," he muttered without making any effort to do so as he intently studied the patch of sidewalk that lay at our feet. "Yeah, I've, ah, got more work I need to do," I replied, in a tone that didn't sound very convincing even to me. "You know, reading and stuff." Aaron looked up at me before jamming his hands deeper into the pockets. "Jordan, we really need to get together in the next few days." His comment caused me to look up into his eyes. "Oh?" "Ah, yeah," he quickly added. "I mean, we need to discuss your background story, the one you're going to need to operate under as you, ah, begin to get involved with those people. It's important." I understood that. What I didn't understand was what was going on between the man who was standing but a foot away from me, regarding me with an expression I had no idea how to read or respond to. Even more puzzling were the feelings that were roiling up within me. I found myself hoping, no, wanting him to do something. I wasn't sure exactly what it was I wanted him to do but as I stood there, I couldn't help but think that whatever he did, I probably wouldn't have the strength, or the desire, to stop him. Eventually, Aaron broke the awkward impasse. "Well," he finally muttered as he flashed me an enigmatic smile. "I guess I'll be going." With that, he whirled about and headed off down the street, head bowed and hands safely tucked away in his pockets, leaving me standing there wondering why I was feeling the way I did as I watched him disappear in the distance. > Sleep refused to come that night. There were simply too many thoughts swimming about in my head, visions of things to come colliding haphazardly with memories of events that were as vivid and disturbing to me now as they had been on the day I'd witnessed them. Joining this muddle were the images of three people who'd never met, people who were poles apart in every way imaginable but were, or soon would be, pulling me in directions that I wasn't at all sure I would be able to deal with. Each had entered into my life uninvited and unexpectedly. Yet each seemed to be destined to play a major role in it, a role that was as ethereal and ill defined as my dreams of them were. Anxious to calm my mounting anxieties before they sent me careening into the dark abyss that I so feared, I slipped out of bed and made my way along a still unfamiliar path to the bathroom. There I opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved a reliable old friend of mine who'd helped me get through troubling nights like this. It had been awhile since I'd needed to call on the pills the VA kept giving me. Though they were meant to quell other, more disturbing dreams, I had not doubt that they'd be just as effective in quieting my new dreams, dreams of people and things I suspected could never be. Thoughts of Aaron, of Megan, and of Khalje caused me to stop as I was about to screw the top to the sleeping pills back on. One might not be enough tonight, I found myself thinking. Best to take another, I reasoned as I upended ended the bottle to retrieve a second pill, just to be sure. no problem with. Chapter Seventeen The next few days passed relatively uneventfully, which came as something of a relief. I had more than enough drama going on in my life at the moment, thank you very much, to fill several Tom Clancy and Danielle Steel novels. The last thing I needed was to have a new character or plot twisted thrown into the mix. That doesn't mean that nothing happened or that the pace of events showed any signs of slowing down. On the contrary, everything that had been set in motion, intentionally or not, continued to move forward. It's just that they now did so at a more reasonable pace, one that allowed me to catch my breath, collect my thoughts and assimilate each new experience before being hit with another. This was particularly true in the classroom, thanks in no small part to mid-terms and a multitude of papers that everyone suddenly realized were due. Faster than I had thought possible, my sudden transformation from Jordan He to Jordan She became yesterday's news, which came as something of a relief for me. My exit, stage right, allowed me throttle back on the amount of makeup I wore and time spent applying it in morning before blitzing out the door to class. When I mentioned this to my sister she said nothing but, based on the knowing smile she gave me, I suspected that there was some significance to what I'd just told her that I wasn't quite getting. The one school related development that I didn't need anyone to explain to me was the way Megan behaved whenever we were together. From being just ano