The Bald Truth, Part 2                    by: Emmie Dee                  © 2000

 

ACTING UP

That set the pattern for the rest of my high school years. I got along okay as the bald kid in town, although it bothered me to know that a lot of people pitied me. We didn’t make it to every meeting of the Shiners, but we got there pretty often. Things got a little cooler at school. Obviously, I was never in the "in group," but I probably wouldn’t have been even if I had kept my hair. Some people would get all weird, though, and act like I was contagious or something—especially new kids, or kids that had never gotten to know me. So one day during the fall semester of my sophomore year, our communications arts teacher (that means English--duh) asked us to give speeches about ourselves, telling the class what we would like others to know about us. So I did.

"I’m Phil O’Conner. Not the bald kid, not the space alien, not the freak, just Phil. Up until a year ago I was an ordinary kid, well, maybe on the small side of ordinary, who worried about what hairstyle would make me look cool. I don’t worry about that anymore. As you may have noticed, I always wear my hair the same way. I have alopecia, which isn’t a disease, caused by germs or anything, it’s a condition—like being nearsighted. So it’s not contagious. Actually, alopecia is a medical term which means, ‘hey, that kid doesn’t have any hair.’ Will my hair grow back? Maybe. I don’t know. But I’m not holding my breath. I have better things to worry about. And there are more important things about me than the fact that my forehead keeps going and going and going." So I went on to explain about my family, my friends, things I did for fun (no, I didn’t mention dressing up as Fiona to go out of town), and some of my dreams and goals. The other kids seemed to like it, and a lot of them complimented me on my guts to be able to talk about it like that.

Mrs. Henry, the communications arts teacher, asked if I would stop by and see her after school. Oh no, I thought. Did I say something stupid to get the faculty all paranoid again? I guess not. Her smile was warm and friendly, not nervous, as I walked into her office. "Phil, you did a great job today—you have an A in my grade book." I muttered thanks. She went on. "You were really calm in front of the class, and you have a real presence when you speak. And I know by your written stories that you have a good imagination. I think that you would be terrific at acting, and I believe that acting would be good for you. Would you sign up for the school play?" Mrs. Henry is a drama coach at our school, and also volunteers at a little community theatre group in our town.

"I never thought about it, Mrs. Henry. I’m short and I’m bald—not quite leading man material. Of course, if you wanted to make a play of Deep Space 9, I guess that I could be a Ferengi."

She laughed. "Look at it this way, Phil. Being a leading man—or leading woman—is kind of boring. What’s really fun is to be a character actor—you get those small, juicy parts that steal the show."

"Well, small I’m good at."

"That’s what I mean. A character actor can take what might seem like a disadvantage and turn it into an advantage. It’s always worked for me." Mrs. Henry is large-boned, has blah hair, and a face you could only describe as ordinary, but when she’s on stage, she’s a delight. So I guess that she knew what she was talking about. "I know that you accept your baldness in real life and don’t want to hide behind a wig, and I’m proud of you for that. In drama, though, with a wig, you could play almost anything. Old man, child, boy, girl," If only she knew about Fiona, but I wasn’t about to tell her. "I’ve heard your quick comebacks in the halls when somebody puts you down, Phil. With your Irish wit, you could really sparkle on stage."

It turned out that she was casting a play already, and wanted me to play an 8-year-old boy—oh, yeah. Since I so enjoy always being seen as younger than I am. The kids playing my parents were tall—"Dad," Kyle Baker, was 6 feet 2 and "Mom" 5’11", so I did look like a little kid between them, with my 5’3" frame, baby face, and a Dennis the Menace style blond wig. And I fell in love with acting. I was, indeed, a ham, which didn’t surprise mom at all. When I told her about all the smartass things I got to say and devilish things I got to do on stage, she just smiled and said, "But I thought that you were going to be acting. Sounds like typecasting to me." Most of the cast was made up of juniors and seniors, but I did okay, if I do say so myself.

Rehearsals were fun. I have a good ear for voices and can mimic pretty well, so when other kids missed a rehearsal, I would read their parts, too, changing voices as I went along. The week before Production Week, we were all wearing our costumes to get into the feel of our roles. Karlene Rogers was out three days with a sore throat. Karlene, a foxy senior, played what Mrs. Henry called a vamp—a sexy, seductive woman, up to no good. Her character was in different scenes than mine, and so when they were rehearsing those scenes was just sitting around causing trouble by making little whispered commentaries on the show. Then Mrs. Henry said, "Phil O’Conner, since you don’t have anything better to do, could you read Karlene’s part, please?" Everybody laughed. I blushed, but I grinned and got up, flipping my script to the right page. I wanted to show these juniors and seniors that I could act better than most of them, so I decided to go for it. What the hey?

"Jonathan, my darling," I purred, as I slinked up to the man who played my father when I was in my normal role. "Why don’t you leave that drab little family of yours and—ahem—enjoy your life a little?" Dad—Kyle--got so flustered that he flubbed his line. We tried again, and got a little bit farther.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Henry," Kyle said. "But when I look down and see Phil here, it’s a little hard getting into the spirit of things. It feels like I’m gay or something."

Cindy Ramirez giggled. "Maybe if Phil put on Karlene’s dress, everybody could get more in the mood." I frowned. The idea didn’t bother me at all, but I didn’t want anybody to know that.

"No, that’s not necessary," Mrs. Henry said. "Let’s don’t embarrass one another. Phil’s doing a great job, and he’s showing a lot of courage as it is."

We tried again, and Kyle flubbed again, and blushed.

"Okay," I finally said. "It’s getting late. Either somebody else read the part, or bring me the dress." You can guess what happened next. Cindy was slipping a red sequined gown down over my head. The glittery gown covered my little boy’s shorts and striped shirt. My blond boy’s wig slipped off as the dress went on, and another girl came in with a "big hair" wig full of black curls. I took a deep breath, then started the scene again. This time Kyle got through it, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

Two days later, Karlene was still sick, so I just slipped on the dress as soon as my little boy scene ended and the vamp’s was ready to begin. "Mrs. Henry, if Karlene stays sick and isn’t able to do the part, can Phil have it? If we do makeup on him, nobody would know that he wasn’t a girl."

"No!" Mrs. Henry and I both said. I shouted a little louder than she did. (Actually, I could have been talked into it.) Much to everyone’s relief (nearly everyone’s), Karlene was back for the Friday rehearsal. She couldn’t speak her lines, wanting to save her voice for Production Week, so she waltzed around on stage wearing her gown, and lip-synched while I read her lines from the edge of the stage. The play itself was great fun—Mrs. Henry is a wonderful drama coach, and we all had a fun time on stage. Thus, my acting career was born. Now, I wish I could say that we moved to Hollywood and I became a star in a series of short bald teen-aged angst films, but I can’t.

FIONA’S CHOICE

My acting career continued, however. In another school production, I played Dr. Einstein in Arsenic and Old Lace. That’s an old-time play about two sisters who feel that they are doing big favors to the single old men at their boarding house by serving them poisoned elderberry wine so they won’t be lonely any more. My part wasn’t the E=MC2 Dr. Einstein, but a Dr. Einstein who was a plastic surgeon who helped gangsters change their looks. I ran around in a dirty lab coat and a cheesy German accent.

Mrs. Henry also directed a little community theatre group, the Twin City Players. No, we don’t live in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Our "twin cities" are really two small towns, about three miles apart, each on the other side of a river. One summer day between my junior and senior year of high school, Mrs. Henry called me and asked if I would be interested in acting in a melodrama--the Players always presented one during Frontier Days. "Sure," I said. "What’s the part?"

"Well," she paused. "Do you remember how you filled in for Karlene during rehearsals? I really would love it if you would play a character named Bridget in a play called Bertha the Beautiful Typewriter Girl."

"Bridget? You want me to do a girl’s part?" I asked.

"Yes and no," she explained. "Actually, Bridget’s really a guy detective in disguise. She’s kind of a mystery woman. At the end of the play she whips off the wig and has all the evidence to arrest the bad guys who are embezzling the heroine’s family fortune. It’s really a fun part—if you can do an Irish accent," she teased.

"Wouldn’t I be lying if I toldja I couldn’t now, Mrs. Henry?" I responded in my best leprechaun brogue. I had a lot of questions, but I agreed to come to auditions to read for the part, if it was okay with mom. Mom agreed, of course, and the next day she had an idea of her own. Since I would be new to the community theatre group, why shouldn’t I go to the tryout as Fiona, and see if I could get the group into believing that I was really a girl trying out for a part? Then at the end of the reading, I could whip my wig off and surprise everybody that I wasn’t a girl, just like the character in the play. The idea was scary and intriguing at the same time. Finally, I agreed to mom’s idea, since Mrs. Henry had told me that she didn’t think anybody else from school would come to the tryouts. Of course, I called Mrs. Henry, to make sure that she was cool with it, and she thought it would be great preparation for the part, as well as a good joke on everybody. She said that at her auditions, she had people read for several parts, and she would have me read for other women’s parts instead of other men’s parts, just to go along with the gag.

On the day of rehearsals, I began preparing by painting my fingernails and toenails flamingo pink. While my nails were drying, mom glued some false eyelashes on my eyelids. She had trimmed the lashes down so they weren’t fake-looking, but it was still weird to see their shadows at the edge of my field of vision. Of course, she added eyeliner and then a soft green eye shadow merging into gray. Stroke by stroke, she carefully drew my brows, so they gently arched up from my brow line. Because of my light, smooth complexion, I didn’t need foundation makeup, just a little highlighting of my cheekbones and some frosted pink lipstick. (Of course, on stage I need foundation, even when playing a boy’s part, because my complexion is too pale under lights.) Mom helped me with my padded bra, and then carefully lifted my shirt over my head, a white knit polo with a teal collar and the words "Le Chic Beauty School" printed in teal in the upper left corner—that’s from mom’s alma mater. Then came the black, shoulder-length wig, curled under at the ends, with bangs in front. The style looked a little old for me, but along with the makeup it helped create the impression that I was a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, rather than a fourteen-year-old boy. I smiled at the sophisticated young woman in the mirror, my best Fiona yet, even with the informal shirt. I kissed mom on the cheek and went back to my room, to take off my jeans and sneakers, and replace them with a pair of teal walking shorts, and sandals with a low heel and transparent plastic webbing. "Break a leg," mom said, smiling.

Mrs. Henry picked me up. "It’s so good to meet you, Fiona," she said as I stepped into her Mazda. I reviewed with her my cover story. She chuckled and agreed again to make the gag work. "By the way. In this setting, we’re all adults, and you can call me Karla, like everybody else," she said. "But don’t try it at school next year, or you’ll be in big trouble, understand?" Her voice was stern, but her eyes twinkled.

"Sure, Karla," I responded, grinning broadly.

The building where Twin Cities Community Theatre meets is an old restored opera house in our neighboring town. It’s small and dingy, but it’s neat—like stepping back in time a hundred years. That’s why it’s a great place for melodramas. A bunch of people were already gathered in the first two rows of seats—"I see all the usual suspects are here," Mrs. Henry—Karla—announced loudly as she went down the aisle. Indeed, they were all veterans of the group, except for me. Mr. Brown, who ran a small grocery store; the Campbells, a husband-and-wife teaching team in an elementary school; Oscar Swenson (sometimes called Oscar Meyer, because people told him he was full of bologna), a cheerful man in his seventies, who was one of the founding players of the group, forty years ago; Marc Luvain, a tall and skinny mechanic who had a pitted face, large nose, bushy eyebrows, and who usually played a very scary villain; and a few other folks that I recognized by sight but not by name, were the heart of the group.

"And one unusual suspect. Who is this lovely young lady?" Oscar Swenson asked with a sweeping bow. I smiled and nodded, as I saw Marc Luvain rise and bow, with an evil leer on his face.

"This is Fiona O’Conner," Mrs. Henry explained. "She’s Linda O’Conner’s niece from Coronado City—you know Linda, she operates "Linda’s Cut Above" salon. Fiona’s a beauty school intern spending some time in her shop working as a receptionist and clean-up person before classes began. She did a lot of acting in high school over in the city, and saw our audition notice and called me."

The people smiled and waved, making little comments. Brandy Campbell, the teacher, said, "I hope you don’t expect too much of us, dear. We’re not all that good. But we do have a lot of fun."

Mrs. Henry said "I agree with you on having fun, but don’t sell our group short, Brandy. For this small a community, we have one of the best groups in the state."

"Hear, hear!" Oscar commented.

"This may be new only to you, Fiona, but we all need to hear it. Melodramas are lots of fun for performer and audience alike, because they are so—well, melodramatic. They are overwritten and overacted. But the key to good melodrama—which is what we do—is not to be campy. Be flamboyant, but not fakey. Take your parts seriously, even when the audience is howling with laughter. Don’t mock your characters, but be as sincere as you possibly can—unless you’re the villain," Mrs. Henry said, glaring at Luvain, "in which case you are as insincere as you can possibly be, but be sincere about your insincerity. Now. Bertha the Beautiful Typewriter Girl isn’t a true melodrama, but a spoof of the genre. Even so, play it straight. It’s about beautiful Bertha and her noble mother, who are trying to make ends meet while the man of the family is out of the country. Meanwhile, the evil banker and his accomplice are trying to embezzle the family fortune. Now Bertha has a love interest—a young hero type—but he isn’t actually the hero who confounds the villain. Instead, we have a mystery character who you will meet later. Of course, if you’ve read your scripts, you know all that by now. So let’s begin. Brandy, please turn to page 4 and read Bertha’s speech." At school, we just read for parts from our desks in a classroom. Here, Mrs. Henry had the house lights lowered and the stage lights on, so she could get a feel for us on the stage, and to keep distraction to a minimum.

So auditions were on. Another lady—Liz someone—read Bertha’s speech too, and then Mrs. Henry said, "Now, Fiona, how about you?" I went up to the stage and overacted my little heart out, fluttering my fake eyelashes. Funny—I got more applause than the others. Maybe it was just because I was new. Then she had me read Bertha’s mother’s part, then another woman’s, and finally Bridget O’Casey. Again, more applause. I would need to remember to applaud the others. As I climbed down the steps at the edge of the stage, I noticed somebody new sitting in the dark—a tall, large guy. When I got closer, I winced. It was Kyle Baker, who had played my dad in a school production last Fall—and who had seen me in a dress when I filled in for Karlene Rogers during rehearsals. Would he recognize me? I sat down besides Mrs. Henry and noticed that she looked a little uncomfortable, too. She must not have expected Kyle. After the other women (did I just say other women?) read the different parts solo, she asked Oscar, Marc Luvain, Kyle, and some other men to read the male parts—the hero, the villain and his accomplice, and some bit parts as well. Mrs. Henry called a break, and brought up the house lights. She announced that after the break, we would read parts with one another in different combinations, so she could see how we played off of one another. Then she more formally introduced Kyle, saying how pleased she was that he had come. As the actors drifted away, she introduced me as Fiona to Kyle.

"I’m glad to meet you, Fiona," Kyle said with a wry little grin. "There’s a pop machine in the lobby. I’ll buy you a Coke." What could I do but smile and follow him out. He led me over to the balcony steps so we could be away from the others. I sat on a step as he looked down on me. "I will owe you a big apology later if I’m wrong, but if I pulled your hair, wouldn’t it come off in my hand, Phil?" I drooped my head, closed my eyes and nodded. "So what’s going on?" he asked.

"Well, dressing as a girl today is my mom’s idea," I copped out. "Mrs. Henry wants me to play Bridget in the play—except at the end, Bridget is really Standish Stuyvesant, the detective, who foils the plot. So mom thought it would be fun to try out as a girl, and Mrs. Henry and I agreed to it. It was just a gag. For today only. I was going to take off my wig when we got to that part of the script."

"You don’t need to make excuses, Phil—Fiona. You’re one hell of a little actor, but the way you filled in for Karlene and the way you look right now, the way you moved on stage, I think there’s something more than acting here." Kyle’s eyes looked squarely into mine, seeking an answer.

"I’m not gay, if that’s what you mean, Kyle. Most girls don’t want to date bald little guys, so I don’t have much of a romantic life, but it’s girls I’m attracted to. But sometimes it’s fun to pretend you’re somebody else, especially when that somebody else looks normal and doesn’t get stared at like a freak show."

Kyle shook his head slowly. "I have to admit that you don’t look like a freak show now. You’re really attractive. But you really do seem to be into this girl thing more than you let on."

Kyle had just graduated, but he had brothers, sisters, and friends who were still in high school. "Please," I asked. "This was just for a gag. Don’t blab it around that I was doing this, or I’ll be like a total freak show. Please?"

Kyle frowned. He was basically a nice guy. "You were only going to pretend to be a girl today, right?" he asked.

"Right. Just today. And later, just on the stage."

"And nobody else except Mrs. Henry knows about you, right?"

"Nobody."

"It seems a waste to stop doing something you do so well. I’ll tell you what. I like the idea of fooling all these adult actors, too. Why don’t you keep on being Fiona during the rest of the rehearsals, too? We would just be in on the joke together."

"You want me to stay as Fiona? You won’t tell?"

"I won’t tell. It’s just a kick for me to see you this way. I don’t know why. Let’s see how far we can ride this, okay?"

Did he mean that he wouldn’t tell only if I kept on being Fiona, or that he wouldn’t tell regardless of whether or not I did? I was afraid to ask. I just nodded, and said, "If it’s okay with mom and Mrs. Henry, I guess." He grinned and lightly punched my arm.

"So how did you figure out it was me?" I asked.

"I was suspicious when you were up on stage, just because some of your moves were similar to what you did when you filled in for Karlene. Then when you came down, I smiled at you, you looked kind of nervous, and then smiled back. You have this little chip on your left canine tooth that I noticed back when we were doing the school play, and I didn’t figure that you and your cousin would look so much alike and have the same tooth chipped, either." Kyle grinned smugly.

"So—going to dental school, Kyle? Or detective school? Chipped tooth. Jeesh. Thanks for the Coke, by the way."

By then, our director was herding us back into the theatre. As we walked up the aisle, she looked at me with concern. "I really didn’t know Kyle was coming. Did things go okay with you and him?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, more or less. He recognized me, but he said that he wouldn’t tell. He sort of liked me being Fiona, and asked if I could go on acting like her during the rest of the rehearsals. So he didn’t want me to take off my wig today. I told him that I’d think about staying in this role, but I’d have to clear it with you and mom first. "

"How do you feel about that? I don’t want you to feel that you have to do what he says. Kyle means well, usually, but that kind of thing could backfire." She was thumbing through her script, taped into a director’s notebook, as she got ready to begin.

I admitted, "I don’t know how I feel about it. It’s kind of fun, but it’s scary, too. Let’s just leave it that I’ll stay as Fiona today, so I have time to think about it."

Soon, we were into the second half of the audition. Karla Henry stood and explained. "The role of Bridget is key to the play. The character is really a man disguised as a woman, as those of you who read the script may know. Most of the time, the actor who plays that part is also a man disguised as a woman, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Young Fiona here has such a wonderful Irish accent, that I’m tempted to let her have the part, and find some way to fool the audience into thinking she’s a man at the end of the play."

"I was thinking she’d make a good Bertha, too," Oscar commented. "But whatever part you give her, she’s a jewel."

Brandy added, "I came to this rehearsal assuming that I’d have the ingenue part, but I have to admit that Fiona brings some freshness to the role, and she would do a wonderful job. But whatever you think best, Karla."

"Before we begin working in pairs, Kyle, would you read Bridget’s part?" asked our director. Kyle choked and coughed a bit, but nodded and stumbled onto the stage. With his height, broad shoulders, and craggy face, he hardly looked the part, and I started giggling. He raised his eyebrows at me, harrumphed, and flounced around reading his lines. If his physique didn’t fit the part, his accent was worse.

By the end of the audition, the director announced the cast. Old Oscar would be the villain, playing against type, because he looked like a respectable banker. Marc would be his assistant/accomplice. Brandy was Bertha, the director would play her mom, Kyle the hero, and—surprise, surprise--I would be Bridget.

After the audition, lots of the troupe members gathered around to congratulate Kyle and me, and to welcome us to the group. Brandy Campbell gave me a big hug, and said, "Fiona, I know your aunt really well. I know that Linda will be so proud of you getting the part—and you almost got mine, too! Didn’t Karla say that you were being an intern in her shop? Maybe you could do my hair."

"Uh, well, it’s not full time, and I’m not actually allowed to work on people yet—mostly I’ll just answer the phone and sweep hair up off the floor, stuff like that."

"That’s still cool, we’ll get to talk anyway when I come in for an appointment. Maybe we could run lines while your aunt sets my hair. Or just chat, girl talk, and all that."

So—if I did stay as Fiona, I’d have to put in some time in mom’s shop. Oh, well, I could check the appointment book and just go in one day, I guess. But more likely I’ll just come as myself next rehearsal, we’ll all get a laugh out of it, and I’ll be Fiona only during the play.

Kyle then offered to take me home, saying that it was less out of the way for him than for Mrs. Henry. Kyle opened the door for me to the front seat of his ten-year-old Plymouth, which made me feel kind of weird, but must have looked like a perfectly normal gentlemanly action to everybody else. We drove with the windows part-way down, and I felt the slipstream tugging a little at my wig. When I reached up to make sure that it was straight and tight, I noticed the color from streetlights glinting on my nails, and the shadows of my lashes slightly diffusing the light around the edges of my vision. Kyle glanced over at me and said, "You look great tonight, Fiona."

I gulped. "Don’t get all weird on me, Kev."

He glanced over again. "Me? All weird? I’m not the one with makeup and a cute little outfit. Seriously, though, Phil, or Fiona, whatever you want me to call you, I won’t intentionally do anything to hurt you, or to let your secret out. Please trust me."

I looked down and nodded. We had stopped at a stoplight, one of four in this town, and a convertible full of teens pulled up in the lane next to us. I couldn’t believe it! Kyle honked, waved, and called hello. I sunk down into the seat. "What do you think you are doing?" I whispered between clenched teeth. By this time, the light had changed and the other car had turned left.

"Saying hi to some friends is all," Kyle said. "Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to know." Of course, I worried. It’s not that Kyle’s idea didn’t intrigue me—it would be fun to fool everybody during the rehearsals. It was fun to be pretty Fiona instead of weird-looking Phil, to be looked at with admiration instead of pity. When we got to our town, I was surprised when Kev pulled into his own driveway rather than driving me onto my house. My surprise must have shown on my face. "Don’t worry." Kyle seemed to say that a lot. "I’ll run you home. I just need to tell mom and dad that I’m back in town, and that I’ll be right back." As he jogged to the porch, I sat in the car. A bright yard light made me pretty visible. Kyle didn’t go in, but opened the door, and talked with his mother in the doorway. She smiled and waved at me. Once he got into the car, he asked if I wanted to stop at the drive-thru for a sandwich or something. I declined the invitation, and we were soon at my house. "Think it over, okay?" he asked.

"Think what over?"

"About staying in character as Fiona through all the rehearsals. I really wish you would."

"Why? Why’s it such a deal with you?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought it would be a lot of fun to be inside the joke, that’s all."

"Good night, Kyle."

I washed off my makeup as I got ready for bed, but left the brows and lashes on, at mom’s suggestion. She was thrilled that I had gotten the part, and laughed when I told her that I came near being chosen as the heroine. "Wouldn’t it be funny if they discovered that they had a bald boy Bertha?" she asked.

Over breakfast the next morning, I told her more about it, and about Kyle’s suggestion that I stay in character as Fiona. I also mentioned that Brandy Campbell had hoped to see Fiona at the beauty parlor some day.

"So what do you think, mom? Could I pull it off? Or should I try?"

"Phil, you’re so natural as Fiona that you probably could pull it off. A part of me would love to help you, too. It would be a big hassle changing you into Fiona every rehearsal evening, though, especially with the eyelashes. It would probably be easier for you to stay as Fiona every day, to actually help me in the beauty shop, and to tell people that Phil went to stay with a relative in the city or something. But still, it would be taking a risk. After you came back to being Phil, people would think all kinds of strange things about you."

"Mom, I could try being Fiona for six weeks, but you’re right. Once I took the wig off, people would ask why I chose to do it. It’s a lot of work just for a gag."

My mom stared at me awhile, and finally said, "You could actually stay in character as Fiona by having a short pixie-style wig on under the Bridget wig that you take off. Or maybe even three layers—Bridget, a guy’s wig, and a girl’s wig underneath. It would be fun to fool everybody, like you said, but I’m still not sure that it’s worth the risk. Kyle figured you out last night. Somebody—anybody—else might, and then everybody would know. This is a small town, and gossip is our biggest industry. But I’m curious. Why do you think Kyle is so crazy about the idea of you doing this? He seems like a nice boy, but can you really trust him?"

"I’ve been wondering the same thing. I even asked him, but he didn’t give me a straight answer. Maybe I’d better try to find out." So I called Kyle, and said that I needed to talk to him.

"Do you need to talk to me, or does Fiona," he asked. I told him that I did. "I’d rather talk to Fiona, if you don’t mind," he asked. Why was he so fixated on Fiona? It was driving me crazy.

"Okay, I’ll dress up as Fiona today. But we need to talk. Come pick me up after lunch."

I told mom, and she dug out a pair of my sister’s yellow shorts and a white-and-yellow striped tee. My leather sandals were pretty generic, so I could wear them and stay in character, and my painted toenails showed through the open toes. I worked on my makeup under mom’s tutelage—not too much, since it was daytime. My wig still looked a little grownup, but mom worked in a few tiny braids near the front and clipped them with tiny pink plastic bow-shaped hair clips.

About one-thirty, Kyle picked me up. "I’ve got to swing by home first," he said. "I accidentally left a cooler there with some soda pop and stuff." Again, we pulled into his driveway. "Why don’t you come in and say hi to my mom? I told her about you—about Fiona, I mean. She saw you in the car last night, and said that she’d love to meet you."

"Kevin, we’re not a couple I’m not a girl. This isn’t a date. Please remember that."

"It’s not that big a thing. I was just trying to be polite, that’s all, since she asked." I reluctantly agreed.

So there I was, smiling, and talking in my Irish girl voice to Kyle’s mom. "Oh, I get it," she said. "You’re that poor Phil O’Conner’s cousin!" That just about set me off. It also just about convinced me that no matter what I did to prove myself, I’d always be that poor Phil O’Conner in this town. It also just about convinced me to become Fiona to stop the slobbering pity from drowning me. But, actor that I am, I just smiled pleasantly and told Mrs. Baker that it was so nice to meet her.

"So, we have the day to ourselves. Where should we go?" Kyle asked. I didn’t care, as long as it was private. "What about Crown Point," he asked. That was a small park on a rock outcropping atop a line of hills a few miles west of town. On a clear day, you could see the mountains, about sixty miles west. Sure. Why not?

"Kyle," I asked as we drove out of town, "my mom and I talked. If I were to stay as Fiona during the rehearsals, I’d have to stay as Fiona during the play, too, even at the end. Otherwise, people would figure out who I really was, and not only would I be the little bald kid, I’d be the little sissy who likes to dress up as a girl. It isn’t worth it."

"It would be worth it if you got away with it," he said. "That’s a great idea, to stay as Fiona."

"You’re not listening. It’s a bad idea—B-A-D, bad. In the sense of stupid." We talked about it some more. Finally, we got to Crown Point, sat out in the sun on a picnic table, and popped open some colas. "Why, Kyle, why do you want me to do this?"

"I know it’s a risk for you Fiona—Phil. And like I said, I wouldn’t do anything to make it riskier, or anything to hurt you. I’d stand up for you if you did get caught. So maybe it’s a stupid idea, like you said. It just seemed like fun, that’s all."

"Kyle, that chipped tooth that helped you recognize me? I got it in a fight with a guy that was almost as big as you. He had to get dental work done. I may be half your size, but I’m mean as hell, and I promise you that once I got started on you, you would feel very sorry. Now tell me the damn truth!"

Kyle sighed. "Okay. Why don’t you begin by asking me if I have a girlfriend?"

"A girlfriend? I can’t be your girlfriend, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m a boy. But okay, do you have a girlfriend?"

"No. Kelli Wynn and I broke up. I sort of thought that if other people saw me running around with a cute girl, it might make her jealous."

"Kelli and you are both going away to college next year in different directions. You were never that close, anyway. That doesn’t wash, Kyle. The truth, please."

"Okay, I’ll tell you, and if you tell anybody it would hurt me more than you would get hurt by dressing as Fiona. I’m gay. Girls don’t turn me on."

I gulped, astonished. "But I turn you on? I’m not gay, Kyle. You’re nice, but you don’t turn me on. I like girls, even though right now I look like one. Look. I don’t care if you’re gay or not. This baldness business has sort of given me a soft spot for persecuted minorities. But what does it have to do with you wanting me to be Fiona?"

"My dad’s a great big homophobic bastard, Phil. He’s always going on saying rotten, snide things about gay people. Right now, I’ve gotten his reluctant permission to go to the state university this fall. If he even thought I leaned toward being gay, he would have me off to this little fundamentalist Bible college where they would try to tell me I was going to hell if I didn’t become straight. I’d go crazy. I’d die. If I acted interested in some girl, if word got around that I was going with somebody, it would just help so much. But if I just acted interested, then that would just hurt the girl, like I hurt Kelli. With you and me, it could be just an act. You’re pretty, Fiona. I wouldn’t ask you to act like you’re madly in love with me, or even kiss me, but just me being seen with you will help raise my stock a lot." He was right about his dad. Large, like Kyle, Mr. Baker was also a surly bigot.

"So that’s why you wanted me to meet your mother, and why you stopped by your house on the way to mine last night. You were using me, so your family would think I was your new romantic interest. Great. You don’t want to hurt a girl’s feelings, but you embarrass me and put me to all kinds of risk. Look, Kyle. You’ll be going off to college this fall. You’ll be out of the picture, safe. If people think that you’re dating Fiona and then they find that Fiona is Phil, it’s Phil that has to live here another year. It’s Phil that people will think is queer. It’s bad enough being pitied because of the way I look. Having everybody think I’m gay, I couldn’t handle that."

Kyle had his head down. "I’m not sure that I could handle it, either. That’s the problem. I may be going off to college, but if people here find out about me, I could never come back to see mom, my brothers and sisters, my friends. Phil, forget I even asked. It wasn’t right for me to put you on the spot to solve my problems. It’s just that—well, you look so fine. And you’re fun to be with, especially as Fiona. If I was attracted to girls, and you were a girl, you would be the one that I would want to date. I guess that’s what made me think up this whole thing."

"I don't know, Kyle, I just don't know. I didn't want to do it because I didn't know if I could trust you. Now you've trusted me with something big and dangerous. I won't let anyone know about you--like I said, us persecuted minorities have to stick together. But, I well, I just need to think about it, I guess." The summer sun was still fairly high in the sky, and I hadn't put any sunscreen on my light skin. "Let's head on back."

Kyle dropped me off at the beauty shop--at least he didn't try anything cute by swinging by his house again. "Hi, Aunt Linda," I said to my mom, as she was working on a sixty-something lady's hair.

"Hi, Fiona," she said smiling. "Alice, this is Fiona O'Conner, my niece from Coronado City. She's visiting us for awhile. Fiona, Alice Murdock is one of my long-time customers, and bakes the best sugar cookies." I remember mom bringing home the cookies--they weren't all that good, but let's be diplomatic. "Fiona, I know you're not on duty, so to speak, but if you're waiting for a ride home, would you pick up a broom and sweep the floor please?" Although the shop was now nearly empty, mom must have been busy earlier because she usually sweeps between every customer. I knew this was her associate's day off. Sweeping up hair--black, brown, gray, bleached, long, short, curly, straight--seemed an ironic job for a boy who didn't have any. But for the moment I was Fiona, with a lovely straight black bob, curled in at the ends, so I smiled sweetly and started shoving broom.

Mrs. Murdock asked mom how her son was doing. "Fine," mom said. I wish. Part of me wanted to stay the way I was just now--a young woman who received admiring glances, not curious or hostile on pitying ones. But part of me knew that it would be dangerous, at best.

On the way home, I tried to describe my feelings to mom. I didn't tell her about Kyle's situation, but just said that I knew he didn't mean any harm to me by encouraging me to stay as Fiona. Mom said, "I'll back you whichever you decide, dear. If you do it, you may have a great experience, or a terrible one. If you don't, you'll always wonder what would have happened. But since your first rehearsal is tomorrow evening, I assume that you'll just stay as Fiona until then." We didn't talk about it much at home, as we ate supper and sat around watching the tube. We were both thinking, though. At one point, mom said, "If you stay as Fiona for that long, you really should get your ears pierced. Almost all girls your age do anymore."

I couldn't resist. "And when I'm Phil, I could wear hoop earrings, glue on cotton eyebrows, and be the world's smallest, skinniest Mr. Clean." I slept restlessly that night, trying to think of all the implications of what I was thinking about doing. When I woke up, I slipped on a pale green jumpsuit, plopped the wig on my head, and went down for breakfast. "Mom, I have a question--a big one. If I go around in girl's clothes, does that make me gay or anything?"

"It doesn't mean you're gay, Phil. A lot of men like to wear women's clothes, and most of them are heterosexual. Being gay means that you're sexually attracted to people of your own gender."

Later that day, I called Kyle. "Kyle, I haven’t made up my mind yet, even though I’m sitting here in a lime green jump suit with flowers on the bib. But there’s one thing I need to ask you. I really don’t need to go out on dates with you, do I? Like, you’re only trying to impress your parents that you have a girl friend? Because I don’t want the world to think we have a thing going. In other words, if I stay as Fiona for the time we’re working on the play, you can tell your folks what you want, and I might make an appearance or something, but that’s it, okay? No dates, no kisses, no nothing. When will I decide? I’ll let you know tonight at play practice. Yeah, you can drive me."

So that afternoon, I answered the phone and swept the floor at the beauty parlor, and when mom didn’t have customers, we talked about possible ways to make the Fiona masquerade work. "What about the hair thing?" I asked. "I have to go from being a believable woman to being a believable man at the end of the play, but I need people to believe that behind it all, I’m a woman playing a man playing a woman. See? Now I’m confused."

Mom went back to her idea about a triple-layered wig. Since I didn’t have natural hair to contend with, I would have room for all the layers, if it were done right. I would wear a gray old-lady’s wig as Bridget. Under it, maybe we could use the wig that mom had trimmed for me when I first lost my hair. Actually, she thought out loud, maybe she and the director could cut off the top and replace it with skin-colored latex, to make it look like the scalp of a man with male pattern baldness. But what about underneath? There wouldn’t be room under all that for the girl’s wig I was now wearing. "Well, maybe there is," mom suggested. "The weekend before production week, I have a state beautician’s convention in Coronado City. I didn’t want to leave you here all alone, but you could come with me as my daughter, and you could be my model in a haircutting demonstration. You know how you said that wig looked a bit mature for someone your age? What if I cut my daughter’s hair into a shorter, funkier style—one that, by the way, would just happen to fit under your guy’s wig?" A weekend in a motel, eating out, it had possibilities. "So what about those earlobes?" mother asked with a grin. I agreed, and soon I had a small shiny gold stud in each ear. I would be Fiona for the next five weeks.

Mom supervised as I put on my own makeup. As I carefully applied lines of different shades of gray to my lids, I spoke honestly to mom. "I’m not just doing this for Kevin. I’m not just doing it to keep people from staring at my bald head. It sounds goofy, but when I dress up as Fiona, I feel different. I like being her. I mean, look at me. I’m pretty, and that should bother me, but it doesn’t." I chose a cranberry-colored blush and lipstick, and applied them. "I mean, I don’t know if I would want to be a girl all the time, or for the rest of my life, but somehow I just feel better about myself this way."

Mom put her hands gently on my shoulders. "Honey, I don’t know what it means, either, or how this will shape your life, if it does at all. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by encouraging you with it. But life has been so tough on you that if this makes you happy, I want you to go for it. And you do make a beautiful daughter, by the way."

Mom walked over to her office area, and came back with a small package. "I ordered something for you from my beauty supplier. I was just going to hold onto it if you decided not to live for awhile as Fiona, but it will help keep people from making the connection between you and Phil." I was curious as she pulled a small plastic box from the package. Inside were two little black fuzzy strips. "A wig manufacturer had these available—they’re kind of rare."

I gingerly picked one up. "Very skinny caterpillars? Eyebrows?"

Mom laughed. "Right the second time. These are the biggest they make them, so they wouldn’t be too useful to you when you’re Phil—they’re too feminine. But no matter how carefully I draw eyebrows on you, somebody’s going to notice that they’re not real. These can fool people." First, she wiped off my drawn-on brows, then she opened a tiny tube of glue from the package, and asked me to hold really still. "They have to be even," she said, fastening them to my face, "or they would look mighty strange." When I looked in the mirror, I was amazed at the difference they made. Even though I didn’t yet have my wig on, I still looked very feminine with my thin, arched brows, mascara-laden lashes, makeup, and delicate gold studs in my lobes. Adding the wig was the icing on the cake.

At home, I called some of my friends and told them that I had just been offered a summer job out of town, and that I would be leaving before dawn tomorrow morning.

Then it was time to get dressed for the first rehearsal. I already had on panties, so I put on my bra, stuffed with old pantyhose. Mom pulled out something that looked like a skirt, but actually had legs—she said that it used to be called a skort. This one had a green pattern on a white background. "This will be good for the kind of moving around you do at a rehearsal—it’s loose and comfortable like a skirt, but guys can’t check out your underwear. Speaking of which, we will have to go shopping to update your collection. There’s much prettier, nicer stuff out there," mom explained. A white polo shirt with a green collar worked well with the skort, and mom was right—it was a comfortable outfit. After I finished dressing, we ate grilled cheese and I had just finished helping with the dishes when Kyle drove up. Mom chuckled, "If being a girl makes you this helpful, I would have put you in a dress years ago," she teased. I kissed her on the cheek and left, script in hand.

"You look great, as usual, Fiona," Kyle smiled at me as I sat down and buckled in. I could see that he was dying to ask me about my decision.

"If we’re going to be a number, you can call me Fee—that’s my nickname," I smiled flirtatiously. He mouthed the word yes and raised his fist in triumph. "But don’t get too happy. Since I’m the one at most risk, and I’m the one who has to play the role, I’m going to control the process. We’re going to go slow." Then I grinned. "We wouldn’t want people to think I was easy, would we now?" He agreed that I could set the pace.

The rehearsal was fun. It was the first time that we all read the play aloud start-to-finish, so we stumbled around quite a bit, laughed at our own lines, and became familiar with those old-time people that we were supposed to be. When neither of us were on stage, Kyle and I sat together, but the one time he tried to touch my hand, I swatted it away and glared a killer look. At the end of the play, I pretended to whip off a wig and lowered my voice to say, "I’m Standish Stuyvesant, detective!" and foiled the plans of the villains. My character was actually a relative of the family being victimized by the bad guys, and I had come back to town in my disguise as an Irish fishwife.

After we were done, Brandy Campbell asked me, "Fiona, you were wonderful, but how is somebody as cute as you going to convince people that you’re a guy when it comes to the end of the play? You’re really all-girl." All I could do was smile and say that I might have a few surprises up my sleeve. The truth I would keep under my hat—or wig.

My days fell into a routine after that. I was Fiona 24-7. Usually I would dress informally, in pastel shorts and tees—although it was warm enough for tank tops, my dubious bust line kept me from being interested. Some days, I would stay home playing on my computer, and other days—usually when her associate wasn’t there, since she knew me well enough to see through my camouflage—I went to the shop and served as receptionist and clean-up girl. Mom instructed me on how to do shampoos, and how to hand her rollers, pins, and chemicals when she was doing perms. I teased her that it made me feel like an operating room nurse. Mom offered to give me a set of acrylic nails, but I told her no—I couldn’t have long nails or painted nails for the play, for in that time period only "bad girls" had such things. We made a point for me to come to the shop when Brandy Campbell came for her appointment.

"Fiona! My fellow thespian!" Brandy called out as she came through the door. I saw this strange look on Mrs. Crocker’s face as she sat under the dryer. I blushed deeply.

I walked over to the older lady and turned down the dryer. "Uh, Mrs. Crocker," I told her, "I don’t know what you think you heard, but thespian—that’s with a th—is just another word for actor. Brandy and I are in the community theatre together. I know that you can’t hear really well under the dryer, and you looked just a bit startled." I gave her a big smile. She smiled back, and blushed, too.

Soon I was shampooing Brandy Campbell’s hair for a set and style. Her eyes were closed, and she looked the picture of total relaxation as I moved my fingers through her hair. I found myself glancing down her front, then mom stepped into my field of vision, frowning and waggling her fingers. So I refocused my attention on the wet hair. As I handed mom rollers later to set Brandy’s hair, we all talked about the play. Mom would style her hair the day of opening night, into curls and ringlets, and use a fall to make her hair look longer and more period-appropriate.

"Your niece is a wonderful actress, Linda," Brandy told mom, "And she’s so much fun. She and Kyle bring new life to our group. Your son is quite a good actor, too—I saw him in several school productions. It’s too bad that he can’t be in Bertha with us. Maybe we can get him next time. Will he be able to come back for the show?" Mom explained that he wouldn’t be back until a week or two after Frontier Days.

"Do you and your cousin get along okay? I bet you two tease each other mercilessly," Brandy grinned.

I smiled back. "You’re right on both counts."

"So he’d give you a hard time about you and Kyle."

Mom looked quizzically, and I spluttered. "There’s nothing going on with me and Kyle. We’re friends, and I guess we hang together some since we’re the youngest in the theatre group. But that’s all." I felt my color rising in my cheeks.

Brandy laughed. "I’m sorry, Fiona—"

"You can call me Fee."

"Fee, then. I didn’t mean to say that there was, but I remember when I was a teenager that every time I went out the door on a date, my kid brother would hum the Wedding March. So I guessed that Phil would give you a hard time."

"You’re probably right," I allowed. Even though I knew the answer, I asked "Did you have Phil as a student?"

"No, I’m in a different school than the one he attended. But he’s one of those kids that I always heard good things about, except for the tough period of adjustment that he had."

"When his hair fell out?" I asked, running my fingertips through my wig.

"Yes. That’s a hard thing for a kid’s self-esteem—for anybody’s, for that matter. But I admire the way that he’s dealt with it." She turned her attention back to mom. "I think that you being there for him, Linda, made a big difference." Mom just smiled and thanked her, and didn’t say much.

"Yeah, Aunt Linda is pretty cool," I added.

Just then Kyle walked through the door, looking awkward at being in such feminine territory. "Hi, Mrs. O’Connor," he said. "Hi, Mrs. Campbell. Hi, Fiona."

I glared at him and walked over to him, aware that Brandy was grinning at us. "Unless you’re here for a perm or to have your nails done, just turn around and leave," I hissed, waggling my fingers toward the door.

"Sorry, Fee," he mumbled. "Mom wanted to invite you for supper tonight—she makes stuffed pork chops really good and that’s what she’s having—but we couldn’t get you at home. Since I had to run into the store for milk and stuff, she asked me to stop and see if you were here, so she’d know if you were coming."

I sighed and turned to mom. "Kyle’s mom asked me for supper. We’re busy tonight, aren’t we, Aunt Linda?" Hint. Hint.

"Nothing we can’t do tomorrow night, Fiona. Go ahead." Thanks, mom. When I told the lug, he grinned enormously and told me when we would be by to pick me up. Of course, Brandy smirked a lot about my early disclaimers.

After work, I changed into a burgundy skirt and white short-sleeved blouse with frills down the button line that mom had ordered for me through the Sears catalog. Of course, that meant panty hose and heels. Kyle grinned appreciatively when he saw me, and I chewed him out again for embarrassing me at the shop. He meekly apologized.

Mrs. Baker was a good cook, and the chops were great. Before dinner, I volunteered to help her set stuff out, and during dinner I noticed that this was a family where the women served and the men didn’t lift a finger to help. There was some light conversation about the play, the weather, and town gossip, but Mr. Baker just looked surly and stuffed food in his mouth. I could tell that he was embarrassing his wife and children, and that this happened frequently. Everybody was afraid to tell him off, I guess. I was helping clear off the table when he motioned for me to come into the living room.

"Uh, Finora," he started, chin down, looking past his lowered brows.

"Fiona, sir," I corrected.

"You seem like a nice girl and all that." I thanked him with a fake smile. "And I’m glad that Kyle is seeing someone again."

"Uh, we’re really not seeing each other, sir."

"Well, he talks about you a lot. Seems to think a lot of you." Good grief. Was he going to ask me my intentions? "Anyway, before it gets too far, I need to ask you something. Are you Catholic?"

"Yes, sir. I’m Roman Catholic."

"Well, I’m sort of agin that, popery and statues and all, and I don’t want you to get pregnant and then have to marry my son and make him a mackerel snapper too. You’re a nice girl and all that, but I don’t want to have my son go to hell. Sorry to be blunt. That’s just how I am." Yeah. Blunt. Hateful. Bigoted.

If my eyes were lasers, I would have bored two large holes through his head. "Mr. Baker. Kyle is a very nice young man, which must come from his mother’s side of the family, and I like him and respect him. But I am not seriously dating Kyle, nor do I intend to. I do not intend to have sex with him, or get pregnant, or marry him, or send him to hell. You, however, can go—" I paused, clenching my lips. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Baker. Believe me." Kyle was standing in the doorway, looking frightened and embarrassed. "Kyle, would you tell your mother again how nice she was for having me over, and give me a ride home? Now?" I stormed out the front door. In the car, I said, "Kyle, how can a nice guy like you have such a jerk for a father?"

"You’re right, Fiona. He is a jerk. You wouldn’t believe the hard time he gave me for wearing makeup when I do plays. And for everything else. I’m really sorry if he embarrassed you and made you upset. I was hoping that this wouldn’t happen. Really, I was."

"Well, one good thing," I replied. "He thinks we’re serious. That should take some of the heat off of you." I grinned. "And he really won’t have to worry about me becoming pregnant."

The life of an actress continued—at least the life of an amateur actress, or at least the life of a boy acting like an actress. Rehearsals were always fun, sometimes exhausting. For the next couple of weeks, I rode with Mrs. Henry and tried to keep some distance from Kyle. We had agreed that he should sulk some, and act angry toward his father for embarrassing me and driving me off. Not that it took much acting. Mrs. Baker had called me to apologize, and broke down crying. I was very gentle with her, because I was so sorry for her having to live with such a mean-spirited, bigoted person.

Mom registered us at the hotel in Coronado City for the beauticians’ convention. On the way in, we stopped at the mall and we purchased some new clothes for Fiona’s wardrobe. The hottest item was a gorgeous long red dress with a high brocaded collar, and matching heels to go with it. I would look great at it at the convention banquet, and at the cast party after the last performance of Bertha. On a more practical (and less sexy) note, I got a one-piece bathing suit so that I could use the motel pool, and some breast forms that would better help me stuff a bra (or the swimsuit). Mom was at the convention a lot of the time, so I spent a lot of time at the pool, having guys flirt with me. One day, I took a city bus into town to visit the state university, and walked around campus. It was a cool place, and I really wanted to go there. I smiled when I saw kids who had shaved their heads. Around here, I’d just blend in with the crowd. The beautician’s convention had an exhibit hall, where I was able to pick up free samples of makeup and jewelry.

On Saturday, mom was one of five beauticians on a stage who had been selected to demonstrate new hair styles and techniques. Maybe eighty or a hundred of their colleagues gathered in the room to observe and take notes.

"Good afternoon," mom said into the microphone. She waved for me to enter from the wings. Once again, I wore the burgundy skirt and white blouse. "This is my volunteer, actually my niece, Fiona O’Conner." Polite applause. "She has the lovely hair and complexion of the Black Irish, as you can tell." Although stage lights were on us, the auditorium was light enough that I could see people smiling and nodding. "Fiona has a fairly conservative but attractive hairstyle, but she wants something a bit shorter, a bit more dramatic. Partly because she is dramatic, and wants a shorter style for a play that she will perform in over the next two weekends. Also, she’s young and wants to experiment. So let’s begin." She went on to describe what she was doing as she pinned up the hair on top of my head and clippered the sides, though using long plastic guards. Too short, and the webbing from the wig base would show through. She used scissors on the top, carefully layering it, and painted color solution onto carefully selected locks, wrapping them in foil. Other pairs on stage took the main attention of the group as mom continued to putter with my fake locks. We all went offstage and had boxed lunches to eat while the audience all went out to storm the hotel dining room and adjacent restaurants. I asked mom again to make sure that nobody else from our twin cities was attending the convention. Then I asked mom if I could have the microphone briefly at the end of our presentation. "Why?" she asked.

"Just trust me," I said. She agreed. I changed clothes, into an edgier outfit of black with burgundy trim. Before we went back onstage, mom had taken the foil off from my hair, and we grinned at the burgundy streaks. Not too unusual in the city, they would turn heads in our little town. I attached a clip-on nose ring and two more clip-ons to my upper ears. Finally, back onstage, mom explained what she had done and how she had done it, and the group seemed to like my edgier but still feminine appearance. Mom asked me what I thought about the new look and handed me the mike.

"It’s just what I wanted, Aunt Linda. Thanks. And one thing that I wanted you all to know is how much of a help Aunt Linda has been to me over the past few years. The hair that she cut today won’t grow back. It’s a wig. I have alopecia universalis, and lost all my hair. My own parents have been very supportive, but it’s Aunt Linda’s beauty magic that have helped given me confidence, and helped make me feel attractive again. She’s worked miracles for me." People started clapping. I stood and hugged mom. The crowd was standing and applauding so I smiled, took off the wig, and bowed, my head shining in the spotlight. As we walked off, I placed the wig back onto my head, and reached over with a tissue to dab at mom’s eyes.

The players were amazed to see me with my funkier haircut, burgundy streaks and all. For Production Week and the performances, we used latex "skin" to cover the longer streaked hair on top of my head, and blended it in over my forehead with makeup. That way, I looked like a guy with premature pattern baldness. Over that, of course, until the closing scene, I wore a dark gray wig, pulled back into a stern bun.

So that's what I did. The cast was sharp, the audience was loud and appreciative, and a fantastic piano player with red garters on his shirtsleeves played ragtime accompaniment to our show. When we got to the point where I "went topless," to use Kyle's words, the audience gasped in amazement to see my short haircut and bald top. Then at the curtain call, they cheered and laughed again when I bowed as a male, stripped off the latex scalp, fluffed out my burgundy-frosted hair, and curtseyed.

My burgundy hair didn't go really all that great with the knockout red dress, but everybody still complimented me at the closing cast party, and invited me to move into town so I could stay on as a member of the troupe. Nobody but mom, Mrs. Henry, and Kyle knew that it was me under the red dress and wig. I sadly told people that I did have to leave soon to go back home to the city and start my classes at the beauty school. Late in the party, a worried-looking Kyle cornered me and led me to an unpopulated corner. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"What's always wrong? My dad," he muttered. "We had an argument yesterday, and I told him I was mad because he drove you off, and if I was any kind of man I would have gone after you anyway. I couldn't answer him. I just stormed out." Tears were forming in his eyes, and mine started to water, too. We whispered a bit longer, and finally I went over to tell mom that Kyle was upset, and could I ride home with him to make sure that he got home okay. She agreed. Then I asked her if she would park around the corner from the Baker house and wait for me. Puzzled, she agreed.

We sat close together, snuggling, in Kyle's Plymouth, parked near the end of the Baker's driveway. A yard light glowed between us and the house, but we were in semi-darkness as we got out of the car. We noticed various curtains moving upstairs and down as the Baker children and parents would peek out at us. I saw the large form of his father behind the lace of the curtain. "Okay, we did a good job of acting in the play, so let's do a good job now, just like we scripted it." We embraced, and I snuggled my head against his chest. "Okay, now the kiss," I whispered. "But remember--any significant lip contact and the slap will be more than realistic." Suddenly, he bent me backward, and our lips touched. Firmly. For an awful long time. Finally, I pushed away from his embrace, and slapped him a good one upside the face, certain that the red marks would be there when we went back. "Kyle Baker," I shouted. "You just had to let your hormones get away with you, didn't you? I told you that I wasn't ready to get serious, and I'm not! I'm going back to my aunt's house, you jerk!" I slipped off my heels and headed away, hearing various Baker children applaud and cheer from their bedroom windows.

"Wait! Wait, Fiona! Come back! I love you!" Kyle shouted, and ran around the corner after me. After we were out of sight, we collapsed into each other's arms, laughing. "You do pack a punch for such a little girl, don't you Fiona," he laughed.

"And you deserved every bit of it," I said. "We seem to have different definitions of significant lip contact." But mostly we just laughed, like good friends who had helped each other. Mom was parked around the corner, and we both climbed into her car. We dropped Kyle off at a hamburger joint, so he could kill some time before he went home to explain that he had walked me back. Not all acting is done on the stage, is it now?

Kyle was able to get away to the university, and to freedom. The next day, as Fiona, I wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a pink tee shirt advertising a beauty supply house, and rode over to the theatre with Mrs. Henry to help strike the sets. On the way back, Mrs. Henry asked, "Fiona, who will be coming back to high school this Fall? You or Phil?" She had a teasing tone to her voice, but I felt that she was serious.

"Phil, of course," I replied. "Tomorrow, Fiona is heading back to the city, and mom will bring Phil back to town with her."

"That's the way it has to be, I guess," she admitted. "And I look forward to Phil being in drama club again. But I'll miss you, Fiona."

I'd miss Fiona too--kinda, sorta. But I knew deep-down that she wasn't leaving for good.

 

A Note from Emmie: Although this story is fiction, I have played Bridget O'Casey and one other guy-in-a-dress role in community theatre. What fun, to be dressed and not worry about being caught or what other people think of you! So--if you have the acting itch, hie thee to a community theatre, and subtly suggest that they stage "Bertha the Beautiful Typewriter Girl" by Charles George. And maybe you can be the next Bridget! And if you just like to sit back and read sweet and sentimental TG stories, there's more adventures of Phil/Fiona to come. Hugs, Emmie

 

 

© 2001
The above work is copyrighted material. Anyone wishing to copy, archive, or re-post this story must contact the author for permission.