Am I Man or A Girl?

Chapter 6 - Lawrence Transformation

On a whim, I made an eventual left to cut through the housing track and get over to the school. No plan occurred to me about what I would do when I got there. It was the summer, which used to mean something. Now there was probably all sorts of intercession, training, and development stuff. No one would be left, except for custodians tending to the campus and it felt unlikely they would stay this late. Still, I turned down one of the familiar roads and followed it all the way to the last school that my mom ever taught at, at least so far as I remembered.

Sprinklers cloaked the immaculately-green grass in gossamer sheets of water despite the thunderstorm not so long ago. A handful of cars and trucks actually rested beneath the towers of solar panels shrouding the parking lot. It looked locked up with the entranceway barred and the side gate similarly sealed.

Aside from the addition of pre-fabricated buildings in a sandier shade than the rest, it didn’t appear all that different. Idling by the gate, my eyes caught a striding figure pushing a heavy cart. Because of mom‘s picture earlier, I immediately recognized it was Miss Lawrence. Somehow.

Pulling into a nearby parking spot, I quickly hopped out and was stopped short with the realization that I had no clue what I was going to say to her. Sure, my mom ran into her, but the circumstances felt so utterly ridiculous that I would stop by here right as she was doing something to say hello when we hadn’t talked for decades. And, I had no clue if she would even recognize me.

Before I could retreat though, she caught sight of me, raised an arm above her head, and vigorously waved at me while asking, “Oh my gosh! Maggie? Is that you?”

I didn’t have many words that I could lasso together into a proper sentence, so I just spread out my arms at my side and responded, “Hi there!”

She slowed her weighty cart to a crawl as it awkwardly shifted towards a dip in the blacktop. I hustled over and braced it in the other direction. She puffed a long breath and gave me a tired thanks. Sweat glossed the back of her neck and shadowed the collar of her blue shirt.

Obviously, she looked nothing like she did in the second grade. However, I still recognized a little of her facial features. Maybe. Mostly I was going off what mom showed me earlier. She directed me to lead the cart while she did most of the pushing. Her car was the sky blue pickup truck in the corner. The buzzsaw rattling of the cart burned along my finger that had the hangnail I nervously ripped open earlier. I wasn’t sure what happened to the bandage.

With the tailgate down, it didn’t take too long to empty the cart of old boxes, paper, supplies, and assorted posters. Camille Lawrence breathlessly thanked me as she rolled the empty cart back towards the gate. A few minutes later, she was done in her classroom and locking up the fence. She had a few inches on me now, not that I minded. She slung a purse over her shoulder which looked like the mother of all bagpipes, only with a series of belts poking out.

Before I could figure out what to say, she reached her arms out and gave me a quick hug. “Hi! My gosh! I just saw your mom and now you! Small world, huh?” Despite our combining gloss of sweat, she smelled earthy but pleasant. Her full and bouncy blonde hair looked a little wilted by the lingering humidity but her expression made up for it.

I managed, “Yeah, crazy huh? Well, mom came to visit and she told me how you were doing and I happened to drive by the area while I was thinking about it and saw you were working late. Glad I could help a little bit, hopefully.”

She nodded vigorously. “You were a lifesaver! I couldn’t find anyone and I’m so tired and I didn’t want to make another trek. Thank you so much!” She lingered close, looking down kindly with a warm expression. I couldn’t believe that someone I knew as a little kid was standing before me as a full adult, an honest-to-goodness adult.

The closest analogy for me was when I spent way too much time on my degree and my community classes included meeting the toddler daughter of a professor with a clever literary name. Cut to when I was working on my post-graduate degree and I had my final test. While I was waiting to consult with him, a strikingly-mature young woman with an oddly familiar face waited beside his door. When I asked if she was waiting in line to present her thesis, I felt floored when she revealed the professor was her dad. Of course, by now she not only probably presented her thesis to him, but was likely teaching at some prestigious institution.

Life sometimes hits you like that. You look away from one corner of the world for what feels like an instant, and suddenly everything is different. You wake up to a new face. Your parents show up. Stores spring up overnight. And untold numbers of young people you once knew are transformed in ways you never imagined. How did Camille become a teacher who looked like she could easily be a mom too? It boggles my mind.

I managed to set my shock aside with just a quick quip about being surprised that we met up, to which she agreed with a chuckle. With just a few seconds and a breath, I collected my bearings and asked about her day. Mom had glossed over some of the finer points.

Camille relayed she’d been hired on at the end of last semester provisionally and was working towards her permanent credential at the college with online courses. She just received her room assignment for the new year in August. Even though the start of classes was under a month away, because of “hybrid learning“, they already had her corresponding with some of her students and setting up her room in a way that met with the developing guidelines that the district found themselves shambling towards in lieu of an actual strategy. She framed it more charitably, but I understood.

“You have dinner yet? There’s a new taco place towards Sunrock at the edge of the Valley. Cheap beer, great food. Like half of it’s a deli with amazing stuff and the other half is the restaurant.”

Holy crap, she was old enough to drink. Also, was she asking me out?

No… No way. Although… No. That would be silly. I mean, she was the grown-up version of a random kid who kissed me on the cheek when I was a teenager because… Well, how I saw it, she probably felt sorry for my pathetic face. But apparently she also had some sort of precocious crush on me. No…maybe? Not that it meant anything.

Weird how six years apart then meant so much more than it did now. My mom was… is… probably still is, five years my father‘s senior. So it wasn’t insane, in fact maybe that was what inspired her to even mention Camille. No… Hold back. Don’t go from zero to light-speed with a single question.

“No dinner yet. Sounds like a cool place. Lead the way.” Before I could really get into asking her how I would follow, she unlocked her car and fished a phone, not too different than mine, out of the center compartment. With a quick tap of her fingers, she brought up the location. I didn’t recognize the address.

I brought my phone over and she quickly sent it over according to whatever phone magic made that work. Not only was it set as a route and destination on the map but it also paired with hers in case either of us got lost. As an extra measure, she asked, “You mind if I add your number and email for contact stuff?…” Her gaze actually fluttered about before dipping down to her phone.

Heaven knows how my expression looked at that moment, but I did my best to keep on as much of a poker face as possible. Mainly because I didn’t want things to feel weird for her with my silly expressions. I probably turned into a grinning idiot because I didn’t know the nuances of my new face yet. At least my blood-flowing bits had retreated to barely a tree stump beneath the ice wall of my skirt.

After adding numbers and emails, we hopped into our respective vehicles and I followed her out to the left through a quiet neighborhood and onto the avenue that wrapped around the side of Walmart. This area still had the sense of the wild west, with large, empty spaces and little businesses that looked like pockets of greenery clinging to life in the hostile desert. I remembered the story that an entire ecosystem existed in the middle of nowhere because a water tower was placed and it had a leak in the side the dribbled out a tiny bit of water. It was one of those tales my mother told where I couldn’t be certain of the veracity, but I liked to believe in it.

We passed the regional swap meet on the right side before coming to a cramped gas station that I refused to return to because its uneven driveways had blown more than one tire on my car. Rows of farming, horse feed, and related stores lined the intersection as we continued forward past a mining operation that looped into Sunrock.

Over the wide swath of micro, desert communities, lived something like 10,000 people. Downtown Sunrock was closer to a tenth of that. It wasn’t too bad, the two-story grange was impressive. Mom always took me to the farmers' markets out here, there was a nice wind toys store, and then there was a trinket shop with plenty of random food to satiate travelers on their way to Las Vegas.

The county library, just past another business that sold horse and farm equipment, always felt special, even though it was the smallest in the entire region. One of the librarians was a deaf lady. At least, I wouldn’t be self-conscious about my voice around her. Hopefully.

After a few more blocks, we made a left before a bank and then a quick right that led into a cozy and well-fenced neighborhood. At the corner, was our destination. It looked like a proper restaurant with a pleasant, adobe style that matched the ground. A concrete slab traced around the front with just a half dozen spots. Extra parking was in a dusty lot to the side.

Camille led the way. Pungent boxes rose into lumpy towers along the wall. The reddish-brown tiles for the floor reminded me of something from my youth I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t too long before someone wandered out and said, “Welcome, ladies. Where you like to sit?”

Camille quickly picked out a two-seater with a comfortable amount of room for each of us. I had anticipated I might be called lady, but at a place like this I expected them to drop “senoras” or “señoritas”. He was an older guy with lightly-curly dark hair that hadn’t been touched by gray yet. When I was a kid, my parents and I went to one of the classic Mexican restaurants in the middle of town, they had the sort of greeting that this guy reminded me of. A first-generation patriarch who prided himself on adding a special touch to the business.

As Camille ordered a watermelon margarita along with a glass of water, my brain went back to college. The most drinks I ever had was nine. And it was almost as expensive as an entire physical, new video game, which immediately put me off the prospect of heavy drinking for life. Granted, there were plenty of ways to get drunk for cheap, but they all tasted bad to me.

It wasn’t too hot in the restaurant, but I still felt a little sweaty around my neck. I asked for a lime margarita and a water too.

After a long sip through the red straw sticking out of her margarita, Camille flashed a quick smile and asked me, “So, what are you up to lately?”

Usually, in these rare situations, I died a little inside trying to get my social enthusiasm up to snuff. When a question landed against me, I first braced myself and felt the rush of being a small animal before an immense car about to blind and crush me.

Part of it was the absurdity that another person would lay their attention before me because they were interested in talking to me. Call it the trauma of decades of small social cuts. Where and when it started seemed impossible to precisely place. But the worst of it came in junior high when I evolved into the camera person of life. I would watch others do things. I would partake in the cinema of the Monday and mundane. A lewd joke shared in the locker room, others dicking around. Almost like I was a spy, or a character in a disguise or a costume, that no one recognized.

When people acknowledged me, it was like the fourth wall was broken and all the internal fears bubbled forth. I wasn’t a part of this story. I was simply the Watcher. And no one noticed me. Small classes were more stressful because I had to actively participate and, oftentimes, when it was just me or another person involved in the class, it felt playfully subversive, like I was playing a role that wasn’t mine.

I never quite felt myself. But here I was. Dressed in a way that felt comforting. My face smoothed away from the rough template. A presence that reflected the way I truly felt within my shell. The only missing marks couldn’t be seen and, of what could be heard, it seemed clear that Camille didn’t mind.

Here I was, truly and completely on stage before another person who wanted to see my performance. Line? Where was I up to?

I stalled first with a sip. The cold and citrus alcohol numbness took the edge off little sources of pain I’d collected throughout my afternoon. “Clothes shopping and I went to a bookstore that I didn’t know was open on the east side of Brookville Valley. Otherwise, tutoring and summer classes through my computer. And otherwise to that, writing here and there.”

Camille arched her relatively-dark eyebrows as she took another sip of her margarita. “Should I really be that surprised you’re a teacher?”

I smiled slightly too much to her response, but quickly responded, “I figured my mother would’ve told you all about that.”

She smiled back just as much as she said, “Mrs. Jones… who I have so much trouble thinking of anything but Mrs. Jones...”

I hopped in, “Same here.”

A giggle kept her from following up her thought until she’d taken a breath, “Oh my gosh. Really?”

She had me there. It was more of a sentiment but I framed it as, “Being the… the kid of a teacher is kind of weird.”

The guy who welcomed us came back with a pair of little black saucers full of thick red and green salsas and a steaming basket of tortilla chips. Camille invited me to partake first. I opted to pick from the green salsa for dipping because the red had a scattering of onions, of which I was mildly allergic to before today and which I didn’t want to test out if that was still a thing. My fridge and the meal that mom prepared both lacked onions, so no clues there.

Before she started on her chip, Camille responded, “I can imagine. I have an aunt who is a psychology professor up in Bakersfield. But Mrs. Jones really only told me that you lived nearby and you’d be happy to see me again.”

And mom told me, or suggested, that Camille would be someone who “complemented“ me and “understood“. It was entirely presumptuous of her to suggest that I’d be happy to see Camille again. Not that she was wrong, but the little girl who existed as a hazy figure in my memories and the grown woman slowly sipping her margarita across from me might as well have been two different people.

With a deep breath, I held onto a friendly smile as I responded, “It’s nice to see you. It’s surprising to see you, but sometimes it’s a small world.”

Was that the wrong thing to say? It was a small distinction between nice and happy. Was that even all that different? I mean it was a little bit weird all around. Everything about this day was weird but full of possibilities.

We received menus after that and I just casually glanced up to see how she was doing. It was hard to read her face but she wore calm like a comfortable blanket. Turning her menu to face me, she suggested a few things. Some were unfamiliar to me, like “Molcajete”.

I went with the quick advice she gave me to get the taco sampler of six tacos, one of each variety including the “tongue” meat. I asked them to make it without their creamy sauce or onions, focusing instead on guacamole, celery, tomato, and cilantro. It was apparently a large platter with extra tortillas, rice, and beans on the side.

I dipped another chip and drank plenty of cold water. Camille stirred a slushy part of her margarita and remarked, “It was cool to see your mom because I don’t really know a lot of people around here anymore. My dad and stepmom moved to Florida. My mom moved up to Oregon a few years ago but I was never really super close to her. I have two younger sisters, but they’re still in college out of state. You’re an only child, right?”

I wasn’t quite sure where to put my arms but I kind of stretched them half on the table and half against the wall so that I didn’t unbalance anything. I confirmed with a nod. Granted, I didn’t know before the day was out if I might suddenly have a sibling. But, so far as I knew, this was still the case.

“I only went as far as Northridge for teaching. Then, I came back here because it was cheaper and it was easy to find a place to stay for a while. But it’s lonely. The other teachers have been so awesome and welcoming, but it’s just really cool to run into familiar people. You know?”

I smiled and gave her a quick, “Oh, yeah. Really cool.” My answer only went that far even though I considered who I might run into that I already knew. I had roommates and they always treated me fairly. Maybe there were some folks from college who I would’ve liked to see me like this, but really I didn’t care one way or another what they thought. On the one hand, it would’ve been good to just show up like this and have them realize the difference from all the subtle assumptions they made before. But I doubted it would be satisfying. They would just be making all new assumptions. Or there would be apathy.

Our silence was filled by mariachi music piped in from above, along with distant sounds of steam and metal clanging. We remained the only patrons. I did my best not to drink my margarita too fast while calculating in my head how long I’d have to wait, especially with my reduced body mass. The meal would help but it would likely be around an hour, if not two. Hopefully Camille was mindful of that.

She created something like a slushy, red riverbank parted by her straw. “Soo…yeah. It’s cool. What’s your idea of a fun weekend?“

I drew in a slow breath. “It depends. Sometimes, it’s just spending some time alone or going out for a treat. Certain people I knew would join in stuff and invite me along. I liked it, but I have a certain threshold for large groups.”

She nodded and inquired, “So, kind of like this?” Well, it wasn’t the weekend yet. But I agreed. My problem was I often didn’t drive conversations. I didn’t have the oomph for it. Listener and watcher. But with the way this day had reshuffled my life, that didn’t mean that I had to be that way forever.

I elaborated, “I’m not super social, but I want others to feel welcomed, even though it’s not the kind of thing I’m good at. I’m trying my best, especially when I have to lead tutoring classes. Full, physical contact teaching is exhausting.”

She giggled at that analogy, I hoped. “Same here hee hee. My mentor classes totally destroyed my throat and like I was wearing light heels for two weeks and even when I switched to flats, it was like being sent through a tumble dryer. Actual blisters. Eventually, I found these shoes that looked spiky but the inside, it’s so soft. That helped but it’s going to be rough again.”

Camille did a lot of gesturing, setting a hand on her throat and then dipping her hands low to evoke her shoes and then spinning her hand for the dryer analogy before resting them on the table to finish. I often took after whoever I chatted with, especially when I was nervous. But I did my best not to exactly follow her patterns, because I worried she might take it as mocking. Still, that meant using my hands a little bit more than normal and that meant I had to be very conscious of where I was putting them, lest I smack the table or my drink and either cause a bruise or a spill.

Not that thinking about it would prevent me from doing it, rather my brain often had an intuition about this sort of thing and was basically prognosticating the next few minutes. It happened more often than I wanted.

I complimented her on her clothes and she returned the favor, asking specifics that fled from my thoughts. She soon added the discount stores I visited to a note on her phone. Despite the topics, it didn’t really come up that any of this was odd. Not that I wanted her to bring up the issue, but it rested at the back of my mind whether she considered me a boy, a girl, or something else.

When I briefly mentioned that I bought some swimwear, she gently pressed her hands on the table and announced, “I was thinking about heading to that recently remodeled water park on 40th this weekend. Wanna go together? That could be fun and a good way to just relax before next week can get up to steam.”

This was easily the best way to talk to me, to be in pursuit. I took a deep breath and grabbed ahold of the answer, “Okay. Yeah, that sounds fun. I haven’t been for a while. Although, I still have a huge beach towel that I like from there.”

I added about its ocean-blue tone and the fact it was almost six feet long, spread wide, and made for a comfortable cushion. A pair of huge plates with billowing smoke and so many tacos arrived and consumed much of the real estate on our table with the drinks pushed to the side. Camille wiggled her eyebrows and invited me to dig in.

The plates had a normal-looking shrimp taco but with fat, swollen shrimp that spilled out of the soft shell. The guacamole was chunky, and the sauce reminded me of sour cream with lime. There were well over a dozen cut limes spreading their sharp aromas. Aside from shrimp, Camille pointed out the beef tongue, the tripe, the pork, the chicken, and the regular steak. It was a little bit more than I was expecting.

I tried the tongue first and it tasted like what you would expect. It seemed rather fatty, but I didn’t mind. I would have to take care of this new body, but still I could splurge every so often. To compensate, I immediately went for the shrimp. Which, I reminded myself, was also a fatty food. Oh well…

The tortillas, with a bit of rice and beans, also tasted fantastic. It wasn’t long before Camille made as much progress and asked me what I thought. Noting the generous portions and flavor was easy. What I didn’t expect was feeling full after a small dent in my Margarita, the chips on the side, and my massive plate. Leftovers from mom plus leftovers from here would surely keep me sated for several days.

At least I managed to finish off a third taco, the tripe, to leave behind the most common ones. I’d had menudo before, and the restaurant boldly advertised their all-you-can-eat version on Saturday and Sunday, so the texture wasn’t a surprise even though it did feel cooked differently. Not bad though.

The margarita, and everything else, was starting to put some pressure on the stump behind the ice wall. At least, it hadn’t tried to push through. But I felt vividly reminded of its presence behind the veneer.