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The family meeting was called to order later by the Tribunal. Family meetings were supposed to be a calm, nonchalant affair, but what almost always occurred was James sitting in a chair on one side of the room, and his mother, his step-father, and his sister on the couch on the other. Over time, James had begun to think of this arrangement as The Tribunal. Seeing as how the other members of his family always seemed to agree on every subject, he had learned that the fastest way to get through a meeting was to shut up and not offer his opinion on any subject. Tonight however, the Tribunal was not going to be satisfied with James taking the fifth.

Anne began by summarizing the news. She informed Randall that James had decided not to go riding with him anymore. Randall responded with a shrug. Next, the entire group was informed of James' diagnosis. The terms that were laid out were almost identical to the clinical language that Dr. Hubbard had used when describing the condition to James.

"Huh? Does that mean he's going to turn into a girl?" Elaine's question was delivered with a slightly confused tone that was unusual from the fourteen year old. With her dark hair and short height, she was almost James' opposite in every conceivable way.

In response, Randall snickered before standing and heading into the kitchen. "Hey Anne? You want one?" He asked, most likely pouring himself a drink

"Sure." Anne replied, before addressing Elaine's question. "Yes, honey. That's exactly what it means."

"Gross!" Elaine's response was quick and pointed. "He's not, like, going to be going out on dates and stuff with boys?" The look of disgust on the girl's face was impossible to miss, but James tried to ignore it.

"Better lock up your boyfriend!" Randall commented, returning to the room with two small glasses filled with a clear liquid and lemon slices. He handed one to Anne, before returning to his seat.

James reflected that he had always loathed Randall. His humor was offensive. His mustache, (which James had NEVER seen him without in 10 years, counting his previous experience) was the most noteworthy feature on his chiseled face. Obviously Anne saw something in him, but James had never figured it out. He knew that Randall never hit his mother, and since his James' father had, she probably saw some safety in him. Of course, that didn't mean James liked him, just that he didn't hate him as much as he could have.

Anne didn't do James any favors, also ignoring the comments by the other two members of the Tribunal. She merely stared at James, with a puzzled look on her face.

"James, you're awfully quiet tonight." She looked at him, waiting for his input.

James wasn't sure what to do. At this time in his life, he recalled that he had had a pretty poor rein on his temper. The fact that he wasn't responding to the digs by either Randall or Elaine was downright out of character for him.

"I guess I just don't have anything to say, Mom. I'm kinda hungry right now." James tried, standing up from the chair where he had slumped. "You mind if I grab something?"

"No, go ahead." Anne responded, watching as James moved to the kitchen.

Entering the small area, James immediately opened the refrigerator, and spying a leftover piece of chicken, snatched the plate it was lying on. Acting quickly, he slapped the item into the microwave, set the timer and started the oven. As the item heated, he could hear conversation from the living room as his family talked. He couldn't make out exact words, but his sister's voice and his mother's seemed to be the most common, with an occasional grunt or comment being made by Randall.

With a ding the microwave finished, and James wasted no time wolfing down the meat. He quickly ran his hands under the tap, drying them on his pants. As he did so, he noticed how tight in the hips his pants seemed to be getting. He groaned inwardly, knowing exactly what it meant.

When he returned to the living room, it appeared that the other three were wrapping up their conversation. James quickly returned to his seat near the unlighted fireplace.

"James, honey, I think we really need to talk about college." Anne stated.

"I still want to go." James' response was short and to the point. Internally, he was ready to explode. The very concept of remaining in Monterey was abhorrent.

"I know you do, but it's different now that uhm..."

"Mom, using a euphemism isn't going to negate my apprehension."

"Whoa, somebody swallow a thesaurus?" Randall's comment brought another inward groan to James. Yes, he did tend to use large words on occasion. It was a habit he had picked up to grab people's attention in LA. He desperately wanted to reply to Randal's jibe with "go flagellate yourself, you myopic troglodyte", but he didn't think that would go over too well.

As usual, Anne just ignored the comment and continued with the conversation.

"Alright, James, now that you're going to be a girl, I think I'm being reasonable when I say I have concerns." Anne's voice had taken on the legalistic tone that she often used when dealing with school officials. Her statement, despite its formal tone, brought another snicker from Elaine, who looked at James with a smug expression.

"It's not like I chose this, mom." That wasn't exactly true. He had chosen to allow the whatever-it-was to make one change. "I made plans before this, and I don't want to put my life on hold."

"Even with the fact that you'll be going through some changes?"

"Absolutely."

"And you realize that we have to leave to take you up there in five weeks?"

"Five? I thought classes didn't start for two months." James' mind whirled. He recalled that they had taken three days for the drive to Idaho, but three extra weeks?

"Randall and I both agree that you still need to do Rush week if you go." Anne's expression did not waver.

"That makes six weeks, mom, not five." No problem, he quickly adjusted. He would still have to deal with those moronic frat boys, but this time he wouldn't get his hopes up.

"No, honey, Sorority Rush is two weeks before classes, not one."

"Wait, you want me to pledge a sorority?" James asked, dumbfounded.

"Like the frats are gonna take you." Elaine commented, leaning backwards with her arms folded.

Another sting that James had to ignore. A sorority had not been in the plans he had been trying to make.

"I guess." The only response that he could make.

"So, let's make some plans." Anne pulled a small notebook from the purse near her feet. She flipped through the notes, before settling on the calendar. She removed a pen and began to write.

"Tomorrow, that's Thursday, you have that appointment to get your braces removed. That actually is some good news because it saves us a lot of money." Anne continued, looking at James meaningfully. "The rest of the week is pretty free up until next Wednesday, when you have an appointment with Doctor Lindel."

"Wait, who's that?" James racked his memory trying to remember that name. It sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.

"She's our oh-bee-gee-why-enn, duh." Elaine explained.

"WAIT." James interjected, "A gynecologist? Now?"

"James, she's going to be making sure that you're developing properly. This is not something..." Anne paused to shoot a poisonous look at Randall, who had begun chuckling fairly loudly. "I hate to be cliché, but this is something you're going to have to get used to."

"I... It's just..." James stopped, collecting his thoughts. "I didn't think I'd have to go until it was over."

"Well, you do." Anne stated, finishing the debate with the pronouncement. "The next three weeks after that you'll have an appointment with her once a week. Now, I know we still have to get you packed for the trip."

"Yeah, I guess." James reflected on the fact that his mother must have been very busy in the time since she'd learned of his change.

"Alright, now I'm not going shopping for you two or three times, so we're going to wait until your final sizes before we go."

"Uh, shopping?"

"Cool! Mom, can I come?" Elaine perked up. Her attitude had been one of dejection and derision, but now that seemed to be giving way to enthusiasm.

"James, you're going to need a lot of things. I mean, right off the bat, you don't even own a bra."

The comment brought an outright laugh from Randall, who covered his face with his hand as he chortled. Anne ignored him again, concentrating on James.

"A BRA?" James couldn't hold his temper in check much longer, and he realized that the conversation needed to end soon, before he lost control. The statement came out as a half question, half shout.

"I thought you could deal with this, James. You have to face certain realities." Anne's voice was a calm counterpoint to his anger. The guffawing Randall in the background didn't help much. James tried to calm himself, thinking of chords. For some reason, the thought of playing chords on his guitar seemed to work. He took a deep breath, before responding.

"I can deal with it mom. I just need a little more time." He tried to insert every ounce of sincerity into the words.

With that final statement, the conversation effectively ended, save a snide comment from Randall that James ignored. He was allowed to leave, and immediately proceeded to his room, which was at the top of the stairs a short ways down the hall from the kitchen. He opened the door, and peered in.

It hadn't changed a whit from his memory. Everything was there, from the magazine basket filled with Mad and Air and Space Magazine, to the bookshelf crammed with far too many cheap science fiction novels. The carpet was still the deep rust red color, and the walls the white plaster. He briefly noted the small hole in the wall where he had put his fist through it in a fit of rage. It was covered over with plaster, but the indentation was still there. There was no guitar. He hadn't taken it up until after the Navy. The small window that looked out over the driveway was closed, but James could still see the ocean as he looked out over the bay. The house was higher than the rest of the city, since the city itself was laid out in a slope towards the ocean. The curve of the beach was visible, and it faded from sight as it turned north, curving up towards Santa Cruz.

Unable to sustain interest in the sight, James moved over to a small chair that sat next to a wooden desk. It was old, his parents having found it at a garage sale somewhere, but it was a place to do schoolwork. He slumped in the chair, and looked down at his hands. They were still the same slim hands he remembered from his childhood, but there was something wrong. It took him a moment to realize it, but the scar on the back of his right wrist was completely gone. In its place was new, hairless skin.

Getting his braces removed didn't hurt as much as he remembered. Of course, the last time that he had the procedure, his mouth had been a ravaged chunk of beef, with metal sticking into it at odd angles. The metal was still there, but the lack of injuries greatly lessened the inevitable discomfort. James ran his tongue over the teeth that sat solidly in their sockets. Apart from one tooth that jutted slightly on the lower left side of his mouth, his smile was nearly perfect.

"It looks nice." Anne commented as they left the orthodontist's office.

"Yeah, it feels a lot better without the piano wire in there."

"You're just so lucky. We thought you'd have to be in braces for at least the rest of college."

He had been. James recalled that the only way he had gotten them off was to enlist. The Navy had not been too keen on a sailor wearing braces to basic.

James spent the drive home thinking. The morning had already held some unpleasant surprises, not the least of which had been trying to find a pair of pants that fit. Almost every pair that he owned was now extremely tight in the upper portions. Although his height had not changed, the proportions of his lower extremities had. He had eventually given up and selected a pair of sweatpants, much to his mother's chagrin.

The changes were indeed subtle. Looking in the mirror, James could still easily recognize his own face. It was the little ways that he had changed that were starting to bother him. His eyes, for example. It wasn't anything major, but the way they seemed to draw his gaze bothered him. He recalled an old class that he had taken in sculpture where they had attempted to recreate the eye of the statue of David. The depth of the eyes had been exaggerated in order to enhance the masculinity of the figure. Now, James realized that the structure of his eye sockets was changing in precisely the opposite direction. Where before he could press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets without applying pressure on the eyeballs themselves, now the slightest force brought the feeling of impact to them.

His nose too had lost a slight amount of definition. Where before it had been a precise line from his forehead to slightly above his lips, it now was more of a curve. Combined with the forward progress of his eyes, it gave him a softer look to his rounded face. If anything, he was starting to look like the stereotype of a gay man.

When they returned to the house, James' first thought was of food. Although he had already eaten this morning, a ravenous desire was sweeping through him. He began to fantasize about steaks. No, not steaks, fajitas. Large ones. Bell peppers and onions. Maybe a side of refried beans, with some guacamole covered nachos to boot.

He contented himself with a meatloaf sandwich, which was the fastest thing he could slap together in the kitchen.

"You're eating like a pregnant woman," Anne noted when she saw James digging in the bottom of pickle jar after downing his sandwich.

"It's not my fault. I'm just hungry."

"Uhm, James, have you lost weight?" Anne's question took shape as she stared at her son, her eyes roaming over his form.

"I don't think so. My jeans don't fit anymore." James replied through bites of a pickle slice.

"I don't think that has much to do with your weight, honey." Anne smiled at his response. Her face had a knowing look on them. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." James rinsed the empty jar in the sink, peeling the label off. He placed the now clean jar in to the dishwasher, along with the plate that he had made the sandwich on.

"Have you noticed any major changes yet?" Anne looked directly into James' face.

"No, not really." James lied. He rooted in the refrigerator, looking for something to fill the tiny empty spot that still remained in his stomach. He settled on a small strawberry yogurt.

"Well, I have. " Her response to his omission did not give any hint of anger. She was treating him like the child that she thought he was. "I think that you're going to be very beautiful, James."

"Huh?" James ceased his search for a utensil as his mother's words made their impact. "I don't really care about that, mom. Right now I just want to get through this, and is there a fricking spoon in this house?"

"Try the dishwasher. I think you should think about it, James. It's not a bad thing to be pretty."

"Mom! Look, the last thing I want to worry about is my looks." Opening the dishwasher, James found a spoon that didn't look too repulsive. He washed it off in the sink, using a small bit of dish soap. "I've got enough problems with classes, and now this rush thing, and oh by the way, have we figured out how we're going to be explaining that I'm a girl to the college?"

"Yes. We're treating the forms they sent us as a mistake. I put the corrected ones in the mail this morning. Since you're already accepted, I just said that there was a typo on your original paperwork." Anne answered, leaning against a nearby counter.

"Typo? How the hell did you pass me off as a girl with a typo?"

"Watch your language. I just went with your middle initial. I said that it should be M. James Fletcher instead of James M. Fletcher."

"Oh. Wait." James paused, halfway through the small carton. "What does the M stand for?" In his own name, it stood for Michael, which was not exactly a girl's name.

"Margaret." Anne replied, rather blasé. "It would have been your name if you'd been a girl."

"Margaret? You were actually going to name me Margaret?" James groaned. Of all the names he could have been stuck with Margaret was one of his least favorites.

"Don't talk with your mouth full. You can go with Emmjay if that makes you more comfortable." Anne offered, trying to come to some compromise.

"Oh, Great. A little Scottish chick with the name of a professional basketball player. That'll go over real well." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"James. I'm trying to help you here. You can't go by your other name."

"And why not?"

"Because no sorority is going to accept a woman named James. That's why not. I am not happy with you going off in this state as it is. I am not going to have you throw away your safety for your vanity!"

"But mom..." James checked his voice. He was actually starting to sound like he was sixteen again, right down to the speech pattern. He guessed it was true that you end up reflecting the expectations of others.

"No buts. You can either do what I say on this, or you can spend a year at MPC." That was a threat. James loathed the local community college, since the vast majority of the students there were nothing but slackers who had been attending classes since the early eighties. He had actually had to take several classes there during one of the periods when he was home. The thought of dealing with that again was hideous.

"Yes, mom." James sighed in defeat. He finished the yogurt, and tossed the empty carton into the trash. He started towards the front of the house.

"Where are you going?" Anne asked, stopping him in his tracks.

"For a walk." He replied, beginning to move again.

"Be careful. I expect you home in two hours, young lady."

"What did you call me?" James asked, whipping his attention back to his mother.

"I'm sorry, James. It's just that from behind..." Anne explained, somewhat embarrassed.

James ran his hand through his long hair and shrugged. He figured he might as well get used to it. He turned and walked to the front of the house. He left through the front door, started down the driveway. He noticed his mother's husband loading several items into the large tan truck in the front of the property. At James' approach, Randall turned and tossed off a slightly sarcastic greeting.

"Hey, Margaret!" The voice of Randall brought a surge of anger to James. He moved past the working man, flipping him the finger as he did so. Not waiting for the response, James walked down the sidewalk in front of the house. The sidewalk was even, since the street he lived on was a cross street. He continued on for about a block, before turning to his left and crossing the street along the main boulevard. There were not as many cars on this road as there were deeper in town, but the road saw a fair amount of traffic. As he walked, James saw the city hall on his left, and the city police department across from it on the right. The local fire department and library completed the rest of the block, setting the perfect small town atmosphere. About a block after that was the main thoroughfare of Alvarado Street. James hurried on, until he stood at the corner of the street.

Alvarado Street was about three blocks of stores on a one way avenue. Most of the shops catered to tourists, but occasionally there was something that a younger person could be interested in. Apart from that and a coffee and donut store, unless you were interested in knick nacks, there wasn't much. He strolled along the sidewalks, noting the tourists snapping pictures of everyone and everything. Occasionally words in a foreign language would reach his ears, but for the most part the conversations were recognizably American.

Before he knew it, James had reached the end of the street. The convention center at the end of the street was not very interesting, and unless he really felt like smelling dead fish there was no reason to walk down to the wharf. Besides, there was a very good chance that if he continued on, he might run into one of the Rats. The Alvarado Rats were just bored kids, like he himself had been. This particular summer he recalled that he had gotten into trouble by shoplifting along with the rest of them. That incident hadn't yet occurred, and if he had his way, James would not let it occur this time through. He turned and began to walk back up Alvarado Street.

About halfway up, James spied the awning of Abinante's music. The store had gone through many changes over the years, eventually selling out to a chain called Music Unlimited. For now though, there it was. Looking through the large shop windows, he could see instruments of various types. Along one wall, set across from the counter was a wall of guitars. James felt an almost overwhelming urge to go in.

"I'm just looking." He told himself as he pushed the door open. A small bell on the opposite side of the door clanged softly as he pushed it open.

"Can I help you, miss?" The stocky man on the other side of the counter asked. James brushed the hair out of his face and shot the clerk a withering look.

"Sorry. Can I help you, sir?" the man asked again.

"Yah, I'm in the market for a guitar."

"Oh, alright. Well, tell me if anything interests you." The clerk stated, staring at James. James knew that he was a suspected shoplifter already.

Turning his attention to the wall, his eyes flitted over the wall of guitars. The vast majority of the instruments were marked up to ridiculously high prices. Even the Japanese Fenders had prices over two hundred dollars. Well, if you're going to look, might as well look at the best.

"Can I take a look at that Les Paul?" James addressed the clerk, who had been boring holes into James' back with his gaze.

"That's a very expensive guitar." The clerk said, making no move towards the wall.

"I just want to hear how it sounds."

"I'll need to see some ID." The clerk demanded, looking at James imperiously. Normally, James would have been insulted by the clerk's manner, but the urge to play a few notes was rapidly becoming overwhelming. He fished in his back pocket, and produced a well worn student ID, which he handed to the clerk.

"Do you have anything else? Driver's license? Credit Card?" The man asked, looking at the ID like he had been offered a diseased rat.

"Give me a break man, I'm not going to smash it." James sighed, trying to think of a solution. "Here, take my wallet." He flipped the entire package to the man, who accepted it with the same trepidation that he had show to the ID alone.

"All right." He replied after a few moments thought. "This is the only time though. Next time come back with your parents."

"Deal." James nodded eagerly. He just needed to play a little. The itch in his fingertips had been growing since the previous night.

Using a long rod that had been secreted behind the counter, the burly clerk lifted the instrument from the wall. He lowered it down and gingerly handed it to James, as if expecting the youth to bolt the instant he let go of it. When his expectations were not met, he grudgingly pointed to a small stool next to an amplifier. James moved, and sat down, whereupon the clerk handed him an output jack. James looked at the amp as it was turned on, snickering slightly at the "ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY, NO STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN" sign above it.

A slight moment of feedback, and the he was ready to play. James momentarily considered playing the long version of Stairway, just to piss off the clerk, but thought better of it. With a smile he began slowly, picking out a few notes, before finishing it off with a powerful A chord. The sound was clear and precise, and he closed his eyes as he began to run through a punk riff.

He changed tempo and riffs rapidly, noting with some distress the pain in his fingertips as he played. At sixteen, James had never picked up a guitar, and while he might have the memory of how to play, his hands were not used to the abuse that the pressure of strings brought. He finished up with three quick chords in succession before shaking his hand, trying to get some blood flow back into the tips of his fingers. It would take a lot more practice. He looked up, noting that there were several other people in the store, some obviously listening to him, and others doing the same thing, but surreptitiously. He smiled, then unplugged the Les Paul, handing it to the clerk.

"Nice tone, but you gotta work on that amp. It was a little tinny." He commented, holding his hand out for his wallet.

Not saying anything, the clerk handed James his wallet, before replacing the instrument on the wall with the pole. James shrugged, recalling that nobody likes a wiseass, and exited the store with the slight clanging of the bell in his ears. He looked down at his hand, noticing the imprints that the strings had made on the tips of his fingers. He shook his hand again, trying to get the residual pain out of them as he walked.

The return walk home was dull as the walk down. He arrived home before his mother's deadline, appeasing her enough that she didn't feel the need to address him. After a quick snack, James returned to his room. For some reason, he had begun to get tired very easily. He lay down on his bed, only meaning to rest his eyes for a moment, since it was only six in the afternoon.

Over the next twelve hours, which was how long James slept, small changes continued to occur. Bone structures that had been in place since his birth began to rearrange themselves in accordance with their new plan. As a minor effect, the snore that had been part of James' sleep pattern since he hit twelve slackened, and disappeared entirely. Silence filled the room, except for a groan or two as James tossed and turned from the nightmares that he was having.

The nightmares were brief images, flashing back and forth as nightmares often do. He had a powerful image at one point of being shoved face down in a bed, and being unable to do anything about it. Then pain. Powerful pain as he felt himself being opened; taken. A flash, and the memory gave way to another, of a face of a laughing creature. Then a vision of his fingers, bleeding as they tried to touch something that meant so much. The image was weak, indistinct. What was it that he wanted? Finally, the last image that left an impression on his mind, was himself. He saw himself lying back on a floor, eyes wide open and staring blankly. He saw what could have been.

When James awoke, the first thing he did was brush the hair out of his face. With some dismay, he noticed that his hair had grown during the night, and now reached to his tailbone. He immediately resolved to ask his mother for a haircut. The second thing that James noticed was that he was once again ravenous. He rolled off of his bed, and immediately headed down the stairs towards the kitchen. The smell of eggs cooking greeted his nostrils.

"Morning, sleepy." Anne's back was towards him, as she stirred something on the stove. "You want eggs this morning?"

"Please." James replied, moving next to his mother. "I'm starving."

"That's great," Anne replied, turning to face him. "I was thi..." The spatula dropped from her hand as her mouth opened in shock. Her hand came up and she swallowed briefly. "James?"

"What? I got something on my face? What are you looking at?" He asked, his mind still in a bit of a sleep fog.

"Have you looked in the mirror this morning?" Anne asked, picking up the spatula again. Her view roamed over James's form.

"Uh, no." James said, "But I know I need a haircut."

"I think you had better go take a look."

Shrugging, James tromped to the bathroom. He opened the door, and moved to the sink. He focused his eyes on the reflection in the mirror. As the image took form, he screamed.

The face that screamed back at him was his own, but it had changed overnight. Panic tried to overwhelm him as his gaze swept over the eyes that he could recognize as his own. They had not changed, but combined with the new shape of his nose and eyebrows, brought a softer, more feminine look to his features. His jaw too had changed, losing some of the solid mass and becoming slimmer. He brought his hand up to run along his cheek, noting no stubble at all. At sixteen he had not had to shave much because the hair that had grown on his face was light colored, and did not show up easily. Now there was no need to do even that, as his hand ran along the smooth cheek.

"JAMES! Are you alright?" His mother asked from the doorway. She must have run here as soon as she heard his voice.

"I'm... I'm..." James stared at the face in the mirror, unable to comprehend how fast the changes had happened. "I thought I had a month..."

His mother came up behind him, and rested her hands on his shoulder. For a moment he felt like retreating from the touch, but the comforting feeling was welcome. He closed his eyes, feeling tears welling in them.