Chapter 17

"I'm not gay," Marilyn said finally. "I'm a girl trapped in a boy's body. I wake up every morning and have to deal with disappointment that I'm stuck in this," ne waved a hand at the buff male body dressed in tight jeans and a loose silk blouse. "I'm attracted to boys, because I'm a heterosexual girl. I just happen to be stuck in the wrong body."

I pulled out my tablet and scribbled.

We could go just as friends.

"But you want to be more than friends."

I just nodded.

"I can't be your boyfriend."

Don't want you to be a boy, I wrote. Don't know if I want you to be a girl. I just want you.

I looked up at my friend and I was sure that I saw the same tears in nir eyes as I felt in mine.

Sorry, I wrote, it was stupid. I turned to run away, but a finely manicured hand stopped me.

"It isn't stupid," Marilyn said as ne turned me to face nir. "I never imagined that anyone would just want to be with me like this." Ne grinned. "I have a wicked pair of heels that I would just love to dance in. I would be honored to go to the Christmas Dance with you."

Writing took too long, so I just wrapped my arms around my friend and squeezed. Words are overrated.

"We'll talk more over coffee," Marilyn said, "but it is just about time to head to class."

I couldn't tell you what either Math or Chemistry was about. I spent the time trying to decide what I should wear to the dance. It wasn't something that I had ever had to worry about before.

"Petunia," John Wayne caught me at my locker as I was putting on my winter coat. "Could you look at my essay?" He handed me a stack of paper. I read through it. I had to be honest. I was impressed. He started with the bumper stickers, but went on to talk about how popular culture trivialized important debates. Positions became so polarized that discussion was all but impossible between opposing sides. I gave it back to him with a big thumbs up.

"Um," he said after carefully stowing the paper away, "would you like to go to the dance with me? I mean I've learned a lot from you and it would be fun."

If my face looked like I felt, I'm sure he would have run screaming down the hall. I tried to keep my anger at bay. Having to bring out my tablet and write helped, a little.

Why would I go out with someone who sends me porn emails?

I put my tablet away and closed my locker. When I looked at him he looked like someone had handed him a live hand grenade.

"What?" he said, "What emails?"

I pulled my tablet out and booted my email. I showed him the special file of spam that he had sent. I don't know what I was expecting him to do. I didn't expect him to turn white and look like he was going to puke.

"I never," he said, "it wasn't me. That BITCH!" He screamed and slammed his hand into the locker next to mine. "I'll kill her." He ran off down the hall still shouting, mostly incoherently.

I looked at the emails on the tablet. I was a math genius, not a computer geek, but I supposed there was a way to find out who had really sent those emails. I'd have to do some research tonight.

After coffee with Marilyn.

And after I decided what to wear to the dance Friday night.