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HOPEFUL by Crazy Baron NOTIFICATIONS AND DISCLAIMERS This work may be distributed to forums where it can be read free of charge, provided that the author gives his explicit permission and that the text is not altered. Please note that this story is intended for mature readers only. The people and incidents depicted herein are completely fictional. THE STORY The society circles of the town of Northboro were admittedly small in size, like the town itself, but even in a much larger community, her refined but friendly manners, elegance and sophistication would have made Mrs. Helen A. DuBois stand out. The widow of a renowned business executive, she was now in her mid-60s, be it that she scarcely looked over 50. Her posture was still excellent and she was not an ounce overweight, and her blue eyes were as bright and attentive as ever, speaking volumes of her intellect and observant nature. The most visible sign of her age, and that a dignified one, was her hair. Once an alluring shade of natural strawberry blond, it had gone silver all over without losing any of its volume. Fittingly for her background and lifestyle, she had a tendency towards conservative rather than liberal values, but while she was known to hold many of her opinions with sincere conviction, she was too polite to get into a heated argument over politics or religion with anyone. It was no wonder that she was welcome to just about every home and was usually involved whenever the people of the town were organizing a fundraiser, a festival or some other local event of note. There was one detail in her life, though, that would have seemed decidedly incongruous to those who didn't know her, or to those who thought they did but were not in fact very familiar with her. On that quiet Wednesday afternoon in early April, the detail in question was sitting in her living room together with her, seated in an armchair to her right and taking a delicate sip of tea from an ornate fine china cup. "I thought I'd try a herbal-lemon blend for a change," Helen said. "What do you think?" "Oh, it's delicious," her guest replied enthusiastically. The voice that pronounced these words was a man's, but it was straining to reach a pitch that was unnaturally high for the vocal cords of the speaker. "I love it, Helen!" "I was hoping you would," the genteel woman remarked with a smile. "It's sort of piquant but not bitter, wonderfully refreshing as long as you don't add too much sugar." "You're absolutely right. I bow down to your judgment again." Aside from Helen DuBois, few people in Northboro were willing to consider the other person present a female in any sense of the term. To the authorities, this was Gregory Wooley, and their records stated his age as roughly the same as hers and his sex as male; the townsfolk knew him by Greg, or a number of other nicknames, the majority of which were not exactly complimentary; and the bullies who had endlessly picked on him and isolated him throughout his school years had called him Greggy Wool-For-Brains, the slowest boy in class. For the moment and from Helen's perspective, however, he was a she, a woman named Geraldine. The contrast between the two people was so stark that it bordered on comical. Where Helen was willowy and lean, Greg's body was badly out of shape, and the arms and legs that emerged from the frayed long blue dress Geraldine was wearing were thick and flabby. Mirroring Greg's trouble affecting a feminine-sounding voice or moving and carrying himself gracefully, the layer of makeup on his doughy, round face struggled to cover up the stubble that his carelessly shaven skin was pushing up from underneath. The curly, medium-length wig on his head had been expensive when Helen had purchased it for him, but years of use and poor maintenance had taken their toll on it and it was nearing the end of its useful life. Helen had had a career of her own in her youth and she had accumulated a comfortable amount of wealth, while Greg had barely been able to hold down a succession of odd jobs to support himself. All this went a long way towards explaining his reputation as the village idiot, together with the reason why many were at such a loss to understand Helen's inclination to associate with him. Times had undeniably changed since Greg's childhood even in the rural, out-of-the-way Northboro, and nowadays the instances when he had to endure open public ridicule from other people were rare. Nonetheless, he was far from being universally accepted. When he was out and about, the adults looked at him, frowned and then quickly turned their eyes away, and the children stared in silence. If Greg ended up speaking with someone, the other person would typically stammer an awkward pleasantry or two and then leave at the first opportunity. It was plain enough for him to comprehend, and no amount of common courtesy could hide it entirely. He had learned to shrug it off and let the pain and the negative thoughts pass, but he was not unaware of it. "By the way, Geraldine," Helen spoke up, changing the subject. "When we talked on the phone, I think you mentioned you have some good news for me." Geraldine brightened instantly. "Oh, yes! I do indeed! Just a second, dearie." She put the cup down carefully, cleared her throat lightly and crossed her legs in a ladylike manner, so as not to let her excitement get the better of her. She was again being her prim, extremely well-mannered if a little bit fussy self, modeled in no small part after Helen. As it happened, Greg's repertoire included two other feminine personas: there was Francine, an extroverted and smart brunette, and Missy, a girlish, shy blond. These identities, Greg felt, were bound to the three wigs that he owned; whenever he put one of them on, he became that particular woman. The girls therefore needed separate names, and it could be Francine or Missy who came to have tea with Helen or went to the grocery store, instead of Geraldine. "I've been doing a bit of research," she finally begun after smoothing the hem of her dress. "You won't believe what I discovered! Helen, there is a way." "I beg your pardon? A way to do what?" "To make my dream come true!" In her excitement, Geraldine lifted her bottom lightly off the chair, and she suddenly lapsed into speaking in what was essentially Greg's own voice and style. "Believe it or not, but there's a person out there who can do it. No drugs, no knives, no nothing." "You mean your sex reassignment?" "Yeah, exactly! I read about this guy online, and he says you don't need a surgery or anything like that. And it gets better. I emailed him, and he replied today and said he'd be happy to help me! All I've got to do is arrange a meeting with him somewhere, and that's it!" "Honey, slow down a little," Helen said to her guest in a soothing tone, be it that alarm was quietly mounting behind her composed and warm exterior. "Let's take one thing at a time. What's the man called?" "He didn't say. He goes by a bunch of aliases, but I don't think his real name is any of them." "I see. How did you find him?" "I made a search with some random words a few days ago and this discussion forum thing popped up where people were talking about him and saying how great he is. I got his email address from there." "Oh, okay. Did he promise he'd do something for you?" "Yeah. He's going to change me into a girl when we meet." "How?" "He can do magic, that's how. Isn't it incredible?" Helen let out a weary sigh. This was not the first time Greg Wooley had fallen for a shameless scam or a joke that virtually anyone else would have laughed off immediately. "You're right," she remarked, unable to keep a wry, joyless smile from rising onto her lips. "Incredible is the correct word." "It goes to show magic does exist, no matter what some people say," Geraldine went on, cheerfully oblivious to the actual gist of Helen's comment. "I've always known that. You've got to search for it and you can miss it if you don't look close enough, but it's there. Why else would they make all these films and songs and books about it if it wasn't real? That wouldn't make any sense." "We've had this discussion before, as I'm pretty sure you recall," Helen reminded her. "I don't want to argue about this, but if someone came up to me and told me what the man apparently told you, I wouldn't put much stock in it. People sometimes say things that aren't strictly true, Geraldine. You know that as well as I do." "But why would he promise to change me if he couldn't do that? What's in it for him?" "Maybe he does it because he thinks it's fun to tell silly stories to other people, or maybe he honestly believes in his magic but he's mentally ill. He could think his spells work, but it's just in his own head, and nothing more." "Oh." The next couple of seconds passed while Geraldine remained quiet and in deep thought, considering the possibility that perhaps her best friend had a point, before she bounced back to her previous level of enthusiasm. "I have a good feeling about this. I've never been so sure about anything in my life. And even if he's not a real magician and he can't transform me, what have I got to lose?" Helen could have given a whole list of items in answer to Geraldine's rhetorical question, but she decided it was better to drop the topic and try to ease the discussion onto a different track. "From what I've read," she said, choosing her words with care, "I've gotten the impression that magic isn't always very reliable, assuming there actually is such a thing. When someone casts a spell in a fairytale, it often backfires or the result is not what they thought they would get. Don't you think it would be safer for you to go with an approach that's known to work?" "Like what?" "Well, medical methods. Modern medicine has come a long way over the last couple of decades." Although Helen had dared to hope for something more reasonable and less passionate, Geraldine's reaction was hardly a surprise to her. "You mean surgery and hormones?" the guest gasped. "Never! You know I can't stand doctors and needles a-a-and hospitals! It's just... No, it's so gross and scary I don't want to think about it!" "Honey, it's okay. Nobody is forcing you to do anything. Still, I have to say you might not necessarily have the right picture in your mind of what those people do. Unless I'm mistaken, you can---" "No. I've told you a gazillion times, I don't want them putting their needles and knives and tubes in me! I get the shivers and almost pee my panties if I even imagine that!" "You don't have to go through with a surgery if you don't want to." "Yeah, I don't. I don't want to." Geraldine crossed her arms over her chest defiantly and paused for a moment before continuing with, "Besides, they can't give me what I want anyway. They only cut off the boy parts and fiddle with the stuff down there so it looks like a girl part. I wouldn't be a real girl, and I wouldn't get to be young again. It's not enough." "Geraldine," Helen addressed her friend, doing her best to sound sympathetic and push aside the frustration that was attempting to gain ground in her thoughts, "we've been over this, too. As fantastic as it would be to have your youth back, it can't be done. If something like that existed in our world, surely movie stars and other rich people would be using it all the time and we wouldn't see them age, but we do." Geraldine huffed, more out of sadness than the childish, petulant anger that had temporarily come close to erupting. "It is too much to ask? Why can't I have that one thing I've always wished for? If there is a God and He loves everybody, why can't He make me a little girl who gets to have a loving family and friends?" "I honestly don't know," Helen said, "but my belief is He doesn't do things that way. Even if you're a good person, you have to live the life you are given and make the best of it. You can't simply demand for a second chance and then get to start over. It would be nothing short of a miracle if that ever happened to anyone." "Maybe it could happen to me. I'm a good person, aren't I?" "Yes, you are." "If that's so, don't you think God could've sent the magician to help me?" "Geraldine, do you remember when you came across the music videos that were supposed to transform your body?" "Oh, you mean the Subliminal Waves channel on Youtube!" Her eyes lit up and she chuckled at the memory. "Yeah, it was pretty dumb of me to fall for that, but I've learned from the experience. I'm much more wary now." "Or the sham multi-estrogen supplement you bought online for--what was it, eighty dollars?" "Eighty-nine dollars and ninety cents. But yeah, I guess that wasn't a smart buy. I found out the stuff doesn't work but it didn't hurt me to try." "The thing is, it did hurt. Whoever sold you that took your money and gave you a bottle of cheap basic body lotion in return. What's more, it could easily have ruined your health if it had contained anything that has an actual effect on your hormones." There had been many more of these incidents, and they invariably followed the same pattern. First, Greg would discover an unlikely means of attaining his dream of turning into a young girl, and he would breezily ignore Helen's warnings, going on to invest time, money or both in it. He would come to her house several times a week to show the progress he thought he had made towards his goal, have her measure his chest and height, and reason away why his body hadn't shrunk or become more feminine in the meantime. Little by little, he would grow impatient and disappointed, and then Helen would begin the process of gradually weening him off the fake remedy. In the end, he would admit to having been credulous and stupid and tell her that he had learned his lesson, only to make the same mistake again the second another charlatan or crackpot attracted his interest. At times, she wondered which played a more important part in sustaining this cycle--Greg's naivet? or his sheer despair at realizing, if not accepting, that his goal was forever beyond his reach. There was no question that he suffered from some cognitive limitations, but on the other hand, he could take care of himself, work for a living, drive a car and carry on a meaningful discussion. Her inability to break the pattern and talk sense into him, to save him from himself, was one of Helen's greatest concerns and regrets in her current life. At the end of the day, the fact remained that Greg was an adult and legally competent, and this set the ultimate limit to what she was able to do to safeguard him. "Anyway," Geraldine said, her tone of voice attesting to Greg's trademark optimism having recovered and preempted Helen's strategy, "there's no reason why the magician couldn't be the real deal. He's got nothing to do with the lotion, the Subliminal Waves or the energy stones. I checked. I've been doing this for so long I've got to strike gold sooner or later." It was no use pressing the issue here and now, Helen thought. With any luck, there would be better opportunities for that later, when Greg was less excited and enthralled by false promises. She could even hope that the person pretending to be the wizard would become tired of his cruel game sooner or later and leave his poor victim alone. Since Helen didn't seem to be offering a response to her remark, Geraldine took up the task of continuing the conversation. "Oh, right. I was going to talk about the arrangements with you." "The arrangements?" "Yeah. If this goes to plan, I'll probably be moving away." The hostess' heart skipped a beat. "You didn't say anything about that!" "Helen, I need your help with my apartment and the rest. If I go to see the guy, I'll leave the keys to you. I'm thinking we should also take a look at the papers together so everything's sorted out and the landlord can give my apartment to somebody else if I'm not going to be staying there anymore. I'll pack all of my things beforehand as well." "Are you sure that's a good idea? Geraldine, no matter what, you must have a place to live!" "I will. This is only in case I don't come back, but I might. If that happens, you won't have to do anything." Helen shook her head. "I sincerely hope you know what you're getting yourself into," she said quietly. She was in for a hard fight to prevent disaster. "Please don't worry, darling," Geraldine responded in a jovial manner, slipping back into her role as a classy society lady and tasting her tea again. "I'm convinced it'll be alright. Though it might not always seem like that, good things happen to good people in the end." ***** Greg was up early that morning. He treated himself to a light breakfast of toast and tea as soon as he was out of the bed and then quickly washed the dishes in the sink. Humming to himself, he then exchanged his night dress for a matching set of off-white bra and panties (both passably clean), put the breast forms meticulously in place and went into the bathroom. Today, Greg told himself, his literal journey to a fabulous new life would begin. He was not going to hold back. He devoted the following three quarters of an hour to doing his makeup in front of the mirror. Although Greg was an experienced crossdresser and always took pride in looking his feminine best, his gnarled, stubby fingers were anything but well suited for this sort of work. He slathered the primer and the foundation on liberally, rubbing them on with the tip of his thumb, followed them up with concealer and matte powder, traced slowly and extremely cautiously around his eyes with an eyeliner pencil, noticed that he had missed a few spots and applied more concealer, broke out the mascara and eye shadow, put on some blush, fixed a few mistakes with the eye makeup, and finally coated his lips with lipstick before stopping to admire his handiwork. Even a forgiving critic such as Helen would have been at pains to say anything nice about the result. Not only were the colors and shades chosen seemingly at random, without much regard to his natural skin tone; neither the lipstick nor the eye shadow had stayed within their proper boundaries, and everything else had mixed together to form a thick, pasty mask on his face. Greg, however, was essentially pleased with it. He could move onto the wig and the outfit. It wasn't as though he completely failed to grasp that his makeup skills were wanting. Helen had given him a few lessons, and another friendly woman had done the same many years earlier, but what Greg had gained from them amounted to no more than a rudimentary understanding of feminine cosmetics. While he may have mastered the art in principle, his hands oftentimes refused to do what was asked of them and made a mess of things. Nevertheless, this didn't seriously bother him. He accepted that he had probably reached his limits, so he embraced an offbeat style of doing his makeup and considered it part of his image, and that of his female alter egos. As far as Greg, Francine, Geraldine and Missy were concerned, there was nothing wrong with standing out from the crowd. If someone wanted to make disparaging remarks about how other people looked, that person only put their own immaturity on display and embarrassed themselves. Choosing the wig was perhaps the best part of dressing up for Greg. It was the hair and hairstyle that really brought the feminine persona to life, more than the clothes, breast forms or makeup. This time, he had made his decision the night before. It would be Francine who took the lengthy trip to Nebraska. Her positive and outgoing yet thoughtful and conscientious character made her perfect to deal with and survive the rigors of the road. Greg returned to his bedroom, collected the dark, straight, long-haired wig from its styrofoam stand and pulled it on, without undue hurry and adjusting the fit until the wig was firmly in place, covering his thinning hair. Eager to see how she looked, the new woman went to check herself out at the full-length wall mirror in the hallway. "Mmm," Francine cooed and blew her reflection a kiss in an exaggerated, theatrical manner. She couldn't resist the temptation to preen a little. "Looking fine, girl! You're ready to take on the world!" That was precisely how she felt. Greg had laid out some clothes for Francine, and she turned her attention to these next. She found a pair of brown pantyhose, a shirt, a soft pink fluffy sweater and a blue knee-length pleated skirt waiting for her on the couch. Picking up the items one by one, she looked them over and gave her silent approval before putting them on. The wig required another adjustment afterwards, of course, but when that was done, Francine was good to go. All that remained was to pull on the brown leather boots, get the jacket and the purse from the coatrack and haul the suitcase into her car, an ancient but still sprightly yellow Volkswagen Beetle that was waiting outside in the parking lot of the two-story apartment complex. She stopped to take one final look around. These cramped, run-down rooms had been home to Greg for over a full decade, but that time was at an end. Aside from the wigs and the girls' clothes, the whole of his meager belongings--a TV, an old laptop computer, a couple of books, small gifts, mementos, souvenirs and his tableware--were in large cardboard boxes that littered the floor. Helen would sort them out as soon as it was clear that Greg wouldn't be coming back. She could throw away everything she considered worthless and sell or keep the rest. The apartment itself would pass on to a new tenant. Despite her excitement and confidence, Francine couldn't help the brief feeling of uncertainty and even melancholy that surfaced at this parting. After all, nobody could say for certain what the future would bring, and while chances were that a much better life was waiting for both Francine and Greg just around the corner, he had undeniably had some happy moments here. They would always stay with him. But that faint shadow of doubt and sadness had disappeared without a trace by the time Francine closed the door of the apartment behind her, and when she pulled up at Helen's house ten minutes later, she was once again the bubbly, eternally optimistic big girl whom Helen knew so well. Helen was in her garden; Francine could see her silver mane moving around behind the white picket fence surrounding the DuBois property, so she parked the car by the curb and made her way over to the fence. "Helen, darling!" she called out to her friend. The absentminded expression on Helen's face changed into one conveying pleasant surprise when she caught sight of Francine. Nonetheless, a sharp-eyed observer could have discerned an air of apprehension about her. Francine, true to form, was too excited to pay attention to such fine details. "Oh, hi!" Helen returned the greeting, and the two shared an awkward hug over the fence. "Look at you! All dolled up!" "Yeah, well," Francine said, blushing coyly at the compliment. "I thought I needed to be presentable." "Does this mean you're...?" "Yes, Helen. I'm going." She drew a deep breath to contain her exuberant happiness. "It's happening, and I'm doing it! I'm going to see the magician! Can you imagine?" Helen had great trouble keeping the dismay from appearing openly on her face. Greg had been gearing up for the trip for the better part of two weeks, visiting her almost daily and enthusing about it at great length. On every single occasion, she had done her utmost to talk him out of it and help him see the senselessness of his endeavor. Although he had not showed any clear signs of reconsidering, she had nevertheless entertained a glimmer of hope that he might slowly be coming around to her point of view. Now, however, that glimmer went out altogether. "It's not easy to wrap my head around it, that's for sure," Helen remarked and smiled shakily. This was as far as her conscience allowed her to play along, though. "I have to tell you, Francine," she went on in a much more serious and concerned tone, "I really don't think you should go." "Why not? I mailed the magician guy yesterday, and he replied and said he can meet me tomorrow in Lexington, Nebraska. There's an airport outside the town, and right next to it is this big open field, like a parking lot or something. He'll be waiting for me there. It's settled." "Nebraska? Do you even know how to get there?" "Of course! He gave me real good directions, and I looked it up on Google Maps. I drive along Route 30 and turn left when I get to this intersection. I memorized how it looks. I can't possibly miss it." "Where will you be staying for the night?" "I'll find a motel or something, and if I don't, I can sleep in the car. It's a bit tight in there but I'll survive." "Honey, think about this. You'll have to drive alone for hundreds of miles, and you've never been to Nebraska in your whole life! What if you get lost, your car breaks down or the man is not there when you arrive? What are you going to do then?" "Why wouldn't he be there?" Francine sounded genuinely puzzled. "We made a deal. Of course he'll show up." Helen sighed. "I hate to have to keep repeating this to you, sweetheart, but evil people exist. Some want to hurt you, some are after your money, and some like to laugh at you behind your back if they can talk you into doing stupid things. I'm sorry, but that's just how things are." "You think the magician is a bad person?" "I'm not saying he is, but he could be. There's no way for us to know." "But why would he make these promises if he couldn't deliver?" Helen went quiet, trying to come up with a way of expressing her thoughts so that Francine, Greg, could finally see what she was getting at. It ought to have been absolutely plain for any grown person, anyone who was willing to accept that not everybody could be trusted by default, but the innocent Greg Wooley unfailingly believed what he was told if he was being lured with the thing he wanted the most. There was no turning his head anymore; Helen DuBois knew that all too well. She should have thought of a far more decisive way of putting a stop to this madness in good time. Nonetheless, she was not prepared to throw in the towel quite yet. She could never forgive herself unless she truly exhausted her options. "Francine, I'm aware I'm repeating myself, but let's look at the big picture for a second and go over this one more time. The person you've been in touch with is going to cast a spell or something that transforms you into a full girl, is that right?" "Basically." "He'll use magic to change you, and it happens on the spot?" "Yeah. He's a magician." "Do you feel it will actually work?" "He told me it definitely will, but only if I trust him completely." "Oh, Francine," Helen said, drawing her lips into a sad smile. "I sometimes envy you because you see the good in everyone and your mind is so wonderfully open, but... There's no such thing as magic. The spells and wands and other gimmicks are just to distract you from seeing the trap doors and hidden compartments where the rabbits and canary birds come from. It's not real, no matter how much you believe in it." "Hey, give me some credit!" Francine laughed. "Of course I know the stuff you see at carnivals and circuses is fake. I'm not that silly!" "I didn't mean---" "But this is totally different. The magician's nothing like a circus guy. He doesn't even want any money for his services! How cool is that?" The last piece of information, which Greg's feminine alter egos had neglected to mention until that point, did a good deal to allay the worst of Helen's fears. Regardless, her lack of faith in the magician's abilities, and by extension in the wisdom of the road trip, definitely remained. "I guess you know best," she relented against her better judgment, "but promise me something." "Anything." "If there is the smallest sign of trouble, you get scared or you start to suspect the man is not what he's supposed to be, you'll come back straight away and cut off all communication with him. Do you understand, Francine? This is for your own good." "Yeah. I will." Their roles had undergone a drastic change. Instead of two mature females who regarded each other as peers, there was a mother worrying about her child who was about to leave home, and the child, a boy who liked to pretend that he was a girl and who was too young and naive to look after himself. "Have a good trip," Helen wished and pulled Francine into another hug. Both were close to tears, and Francine let out a sniff. "Thanks, Helen," she replied and squeezed her best friend tightly. "I'll be careful." "You'd better, sweetie." "I almost forgot," Francine continued when they had separated again. She fished out the keys to her apartment from her purse and handed them to Helen. "I'm giving you these so you can get in there, like we agreed." "Okay," Helen acknowledged. "When you come back, drop by so I can return them to you." "But if I don't, you'll take care of everything, right?" "I will, but I hope I won't have to." This answer puzzled Francine. "What do you mean by that? Me not coming back to this sad life is the whole point, isn't it?" "I know, but I'm so worried about how everything will turn out." "It's going to be fine, trust me. But it could be that we won't be seeing each other again, at least not any time soon, and..." Francine's emotions came close to overwhelming her again, and she had to wipe off a tiny teardrop and swallow hard to maintain her composure. "What I was saying is... I'll send you a message if everything goes well. If I find the magician and he transforms me, I'll text or call you." "How about you do that in any case," Helen suggested. "I'd like to keep up with how things are going with you." "Alright. Consider it done." Both women, the genetic and the aspiring alike, went quiet for a moment. They had clearly said everything that needed to be said. In her heart, Helen was still tempted to make one last effort to persuade Francine to drop her ridiculous plan and tell her to go home, but she understood that pleading with her wouldn't have done any good now. It was too late. "Bye bye then," Francine spoke up finally. "I've got to be going." "Please take care of yourself, honey," Helen said to this. "It's a big world out there." "Okay. I... I will." Francine turned around and walked to her car. After giving Helen a smile and a wave of her hand, she sat on the driver's seat, started the engine and drove off, attentively and slowly. Standing by the fence and craning her neck to keep the car in sight for as long as she could, Helen waved after her friend until the Beetle was hidden from view by the neighboring houses and the trees planted along the sidewalk. To say that Helen DuBois was anxious right then would be a blatant understatement. She was nothing less than intensely afraid for the person who had just paid her a farewell visit. Things had gone terribly out of her control, and she felt the burden of responsibility keenly. The best outcome she could hope for was that the "wizard" would not come to the meeting at all. Greg's disappointment would be crushing, of course, but it was infinitely preferable to any other result she could readily imagine. Closing her eyes, she said a quiet prayer for him, painfully aware of her powerlessness to do anything more. Francine, in contrast, was in excellent spirits. The weather was sunny (albeit not very warm) and the sky was clear, and the little car was running smoothly as she drove on the winding country road. This was the beginning of a great adventure for her. Greg had not left his hometown for twenty years and had never traveled much in general, and so every mile and curve of the road brought fresh, captivating sights: green fields, trees, some scattered houses and the looming shapes of high mountains on the horizon. Pleasant excitement and anticipation tingled in the back of her mind. She would take her time and enjoy the trip, her last in a biologically male body. Ever the level-headed, practical girl, she was conscientiously staying below the speed limit. Speeding could kill, as she well knew, and rules were invented for a reason. If anyone was in a hurry and wanted to go faster, they were welcome to overtake her. Incidentally, one man did this in his blue Corvette on a straight stretch of the road, and he saw it fit to give Francine the finger. She responded with a gentle smile and a wave at the person, like a true lady should. Love was the answer to rudeness, not anger. Some two and a half hours later she began to feel hungry. Greg hadn't eaten a very large breakfast in the morning, and Francine knew from experience that she would need to use the bathroom pretty soon, considering she had been sitting down for a long period of time without being able to move around. Luckily, she spotted a gas station nestled in the middle of low hills and farmland almost immediately. There was a diner, with a hand-written sign by the road advertising that the establishment was open for business. Francine didn't hesitate for a second. She slowed down, switched on the turn signal and steered her car into the station yard. She pulled up and parked opposite to the entrance, got out of the car and locked its doors, making sure she had the keys in her purse. The main door of the diner swung reluctantly on its hinges to let her in, and a bell chimed noisily somewhere above her head to announce her arrival, so noisily in fact that it gave her a slight start. Other than that, the room was quiet, with no customers at the bar or at the tables. The unwashed windows tinted the incoming daylight that fell on the sun- bleached and stained wallpapers, and the smell of fried food and cigarette smoke, ingrained into the building material over untold years, floated around her. A lone ceiling fan was spinning lazily above the row of tables and chairs lining the wall with the large windows that overlooked the front yard and the fuel pumps. The only person present besides Francine was a balding, mustached man behind the counter. He had a big, egg-shaped head, drooping eyelids, a short pitch black beard, thick lips and a large belly. A pair of brown eyes stayed constantly fixed on Francine while she walked up to the cash register. Their gaze was not overtly hostile but it scrutinized her intensely enough to make her feel naked. For the first time, a pang of instinctive fear struck her, and she had to force herself to go on instead of rushing out of the door. "Hello," Francine spoke up in his best feminine tones when she had closed the distance to the counter and the man. With a bit of politeness and self-assurance, Greg's mother had always told him, you could win anyone over. She put her faith in that dear old piece of wisdom once more. "Is your kitchen open?" "Sure thing," the man replied in a gravelly voice. To her, he seemed even more like a gangster from an old black-and-white movie now that she was having a conversation with him. "What'll it be?" "Oh, I'll have some toast and bacon, and a fried egg. With ketchup and a Coke." "Coming right up," the man grunted without enthusiasm or kindliness. Francine's eyes wandered over the prominent grease stains on the diner keeper's white shirt and then his left hand which was resting on the counter. The man had enormously thick, bulky, calloused fingers, and the back of his hand was covered in coarse hair that matched his beard in color. "Will that be all, sir?" "It's Miss," Francine corrected primly. She pushed a stray tress of the wig's hair behind her ear. The man's lips twitched and formed into what might have been a joyless smile or perhaps a wince. "Look, I don't care what you prefer to be called. Anyone's welcome to sit down and have a cup of coffee, breakfast or lunch as long as they pay for it, don't start fights and don't smash things up. I get along with pretty much any kind of folk, and you're not the funniest-looking person who's walked in through that door in the time I've been running this place. It's not my job to judge." Keeping Francine under his unrelenting gaze, he bent over the counter as he went on, slightly lowering his voice, "But here's the deal. Some of my customers aren't that easygoing, if you know what I'm saying. There's guys like this trucker who drives past here on Tuesdays and Fridays and always stops for a coffee and a sandwich. He's a big, muscular dude, and though he's mostly an okay person, some things can really tick him off and bring out the worst in him. That's pretty bad, I can tell you. For one thing, he's not very fond of gays, lesbians and trannies." "I'm not---" she began to protest, but the man cut her off firmly with, "I want you to understand I'm not discriminating against you, and I'm perfectly happy to take your dollars. You can stay and eat your meal, but I can't guarantee things won't turn ugly if you're still here when the trucker shows up." Francine's fears rapidly flared up again. "Is he coming?" "Like I said, he comes every Tuesday and Friday, and today's Tuesday. You do the math. Besides, he's not my only regular who doesn't think too highly of people like you. Not by a long shot." "O-okay," she mumbled and took a step backwards instinctively. Her confidence was fast crumbling away, along with her sense of femininity. "I think... I'm not that hungry anyway. Thank you, and bye." She turned on her heels and began to walk unsteadily towards the door. "It's nothing personal," the owner of the diner called after her, but Francine hardly heard him anymore. A nauseous sensation was churning in her stomach, putting an acidic taste in her mouth, and her legs were shaking. She pushed the door open and staggered outside, taking deep breaths in the hope that the paralyzing, disgusting sensation would go away. And then, the cultured and mature lady named Francine was no more. He was once again Greggy Wool-For-Brains, the dejected plump fourth-grader who had no real friends and who was always bullied, pushed around and laughed at. It took him a while to notice that something terrible had happened to the whole Universe and not only to him. Greg would have had difficulty putting it in words, but it was as though the colors of nature had been drained, the warmth of the sun stolen and the spirit of wonder and magic replaced with hidden but omnipresent danger. Everything he could see had been inviting and friendly just minutes before, but now the open space around him, the road that crossed the land and even the clear blue sky above were cold and hostile. They reminded him by simply being there that he was utterly alone, abandoned and vulnerable, with no one to protect him. There were evil eyes and wills everywhere, mean people who would hurt him for fun. He would not survive for long if he had to be among them. This trip had been a bad idea. The world outside his home was nothing like he had assumed it would be. It was revealed as harsh and unforgiving, and he was not prepared to face it. He didn't belong here; he wanted to go back to his modest home, have tea with Helen and live out his days like he had been spending them for years, dreaming up happy little fantasies and nursing the notion that maybe the fairies and unicorns and other magical creatures he had read about or seen in the movies were actually living in some faraway land and that if he was a good girl and believed with all his heart, his wishes would come true. He had departed that comfortable little kingdom, and the agonizing thought that there was no going back was gaining more and more ground. His purpose had been to meet the magician who could transform anyone into a different shape, but was there such a person? More than anything, he wanted the man to exist, but at the same time, a stern voice--which sounded a lot like his late father--was telling him in his mind that there was no magic and no wizard. He hated the voice but he couldn't shut it out. Greggy Wool-For-Brains had been fooled again. Greggy Wool- For-Brains was a dumb boy. He took out his car keys and unlocked the driver's door. For him, the walk across the parking lot had lasted both an eternity and no time whatsoever. Exhausted, he slumped down on the seat and leaned back with his eyes closed. Maybe he was temporarily safe from the truck driver and the other haters, but that was small relief next to his entire belief system collapsing on him. No matter how he dressed, how much makeup he wore, which wig he chose or what name he used, he would forever be Greg. He was not a beautiful woman, not a cute little girl, but the same old Greg Wooley, Greggy Wool-For-Brains, an adult man who thought and acted like a small child. Sobs began to rack his body, and tears followed, running down his cheeks and smearing his already messy makeup even more. He cried because of his desolation, emptiness and hopelessness, and he knew that he had a lot to cry about. A light tap on the window surprised and scared him so badly that he sprang upright in the seat and his weeping came to a sudden stop with a heavy choke. Through his bleary eyes, he saw an indistinct figure standing by the car, bent down and looking at him. Greg blinked several times, and the shape gradually cleared up, forming into a stout old man with a reddish, wrinkled face and a massive white beard. He had aimed his bright green eyes squarely at Greg, and his sizable, somewhat misshapen nose was almost pressed against the glass of the side window. "You okay in there, buddy?" a husky and throaty but pleasant voice asked. Although Greg had heard the question, he had trouble comprehending what it meant, and he merely looked back at the stranger in nonplussed astonishment. "Are you okay?" the man repeated, more loudly than the previous time and pronouncing his words carefully. Greg swallowed. He had to reply somehow, but he had no idea what to say. Reluctantly and with a shaking hand, he cranked the window down. Come what may, he would not leave the car until he was positive that the man was not a threat. "I'm good," he stammered, well aware of how unconvincing this sounded. He didn't try to put on his feminine falsetto; his throat was too sore for that. "I... I had a sad moment, that's all." "Yeah," the man remarked and grinned. "I can see that. Your mascara's running." Greg felt a shiver pass down his spine but he nevertheless made a brave attempt at a smile. "Oh, you... noticed." "It's kind of obvious, to be honest with you," the stranger went on. "Greg Wooley, right?" If his unexpected appearance had been a shock to Greg, this was another and nearly equally severe. His heart, which had slowed down to a somewhat calmer tempo, began to race anew at the realization that he was more likely than not in serious trouble. "Who are you?" he managed to ask, barely keeping his teeth from chattering. "How do you know my name?" "I know lots of things," the man replied and smiled again. "Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you. You wrote to me, remember?" "What are you saying, wrote to you?" Greg repeated. "I don't---" "The email you sent. I'm glad we finally get to meet face to face." This was encouragement enough for Greg's curiosity to overpower his fear, and he opened the car door and stepped out. His limbs were stiff and his extremities numb, but he succeeded in clambering to his feet. Potential risks aside, exiting the car gave Greg an opportunity to get a good look at the stranger. He was maybe five or ten years older than Greg, about the same height and decidedly portly, but his loose beige trousers and plaid, long-sleeved shirt hid his physique, making it difficult to tell on a quick glance if his weight was more due to muscle than fat. His long, silvery white hair and beard softened his features and gave him a grandfatherly quality. Greg, in any case, wouldn't have described the man with these terms. To him, there was something reassuring and familiar about the stranger, something that reminded him of childhood, the faces of friendly people long gone and the rare times when he had felt unconditionally loved. He decided to trust that feeling. "Are you the magician?" he asked, breaking an expectant silence that had lasted for several seconds. The old man let out a little laugh. "It sounds funny when people call me a magician or a wizard," he said, "but I'm fine with that. It's just that I get this mental image of a crazy guy who's wearing a pointed hat and a cloak when I think of wizards, and that's not really me." "But... Are you him?" "The Magical Mystery Man, at your service," he said with another chuckle and a humorous, mock formal little bow. "I'm the guy who replied to your mail and agreed to change you." "How did you know where to find me?" Greg inquired in amazement. "Weren't we supposed to meet down in Nebraska?" "I thought that'd be a mighty long drive for you, so I figured I could save us both some trouble if I came here. This place is as good as any." With that, the last of Greg's misery and misgivings evaporated. Every form of evil everywhere was vanquished in one fell swoop, or at least pushed too far away to threaten him anymore, and his faith in the good in others was restored. Magic was real after all, and this old man here was the proof of that! Greg was soon on the verge of tears again, but the tears that waited for their chance to roll were ones of unadulterated joy, not depression and grief. "Okay then, buddy," the magician said. "I know you're anxious to get it over with, but I've got to make sure we're on the same page. Why don't you tell me what you're thinking so I can picture the person you will be." "You mean...?" Greg began, with his cheeks flushed. A burning excitement, pleasurable but extremely intense, gripped at him and cut him off in mid-sentence. "Yeah. Explain to me what kind of girl you want to become." "Oh, gosh! I... Let me think. I'm sorry; I've got to say, one part of me never thought I'd live to see the day when..." "Don't worry. Just take your time." "Right, right." Greg paused and inhaled deeply a couple of times in an effort to calm down and stop his hands and legs from shaking. "Okay. I want to be young, way younger than I am now. I want my childhood back." "I can do that," the man said. "How's nine years old sound to you?" "It'd be perfect! And a mommy and a daddy who give me a home and care for me and buy me lots of pretty clothes?" "Comes with the package." "Really? You can do that?" "Oh yeah. I know just the people. They'd love to have you living with them, and I took the liberty to make some preparations beforehand." "Gee, that's wonderful! So--curly chestnut hair, a super cute face, maybe some freckles on her cheeks, dimples, big green or blue eyes..." He went quiet again, trying to think of any other physical attributes that he wanted to have in his next life. It was surprisingly hard. He had waited for this very moment for as long as he could remember, hoping fervently that it would come, and now that it was at hand, his mind was blank. "She's got to grow up to be beautiful," he finally added emphatically. "Real beautiful. I'm forever done being homely." "Anything else?" "Not too tall or too short, or too fat or too skinny. And... I don't know. Make her just right." "Just right," the magician repeated, and Greg saw a mischievous but friendly glint in his eyes. "Got it." "What happens next?" "I put my ability to work and you change. I need you to close your eyes, relax and stand still. It's going to be over in a matter of seconds." Greg did as he was told and closed his eyes. "Will it hurt?" "No, it won't. It's totally painless. Okay, here we go." A mild prickling sensation, barely noticeable at first, began in Greg's toes and fingertips and then started to spread gradually across his arms, legs and the rest of his body. He smiled to himself but kept his eyes tightly shut, precisely like the old man had instructed him. This was finally it, for real. ***** The airy chime of the phone reached Helen's ears when she was watering the flowers in the guest room. Putting down the small plastic can, she walked briskly to the kitchen where she had left her cell phone lying on the table. Her heart was hammering in her chest when she picked the phone up and opened the screen lock. There was a text message from Greg waiting for her. She was positive that it would be bad news; it had to be. Anxious to be rid of the terrible uncertainty and bracing for the inevitable shock, she pressed the letter icon. The message field promptly filled the screen, allowing the text to be read. The first thing that Helen saw was a long line of various smilies related to love, happiness and cuteness, and below them a single word, written in all capitals and followed by several exclamation marks: YES!!!!!!!! She spent five seconds in a stunned silence, staring at the screen. Then, with the truth sinking in, a joyous warmth began to swell inside of her. She let out a little laugh, almost involuntarily, and her eyes became misty at the same time. The impossible had happened. Her instinctive, emotional conviction defeated her rational doubt, and she required no further confirmation. In spite of the laws of nature and common sense, Gregory Wooley, alias Francine, alias Missy, alias Geraldine, had found his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Although Helen now knew that she would indeed never see him again, at least not in the form of a lumbering, slightly slow- witted, 60-something man dressed in tattered women's clothing and haphazardly applied makeup, she was indescribably happy for him regardless. "Maybe faith is all you need, sometimes," she said to herself with a smile. "Faith and innocence." She decided to treat herself to a cup of tea, for old times' sake.