During the next two years—until I was thirteen, things went pretty well. I kept going to school, of course, and taking more lessons. By now, I was told, I was becoming quite good at the piano. Anyway at the same time, Grandma and I grew more close. I mean, we each one were the only family the other had any more, so it was all very natural. She was always giving me presents and new clothes and everything.

Sometimes I used to go in the spare bedroom and look at the paper in the little box on the dresser. That's where Grandma kept the birth certificate. I used to look at it sometimes and get a real funny feeling. I guessed that I'd always wanted to be a girl anyway-and here was a piece of paper telling me I was. And I really was at that...

But when I was thirteen, I got this skin problem. I'd been growing of course, just like anybody, but Grandma would sometimes look at me really funny, you know, and then she would hint about something strange happening and I really didn't know what it was. Something about a delayed "menarche” whatever that was. I heard her talking to the doctor one day about it, over the telephone. Well, anyway, the doc- tor wanted to examine me--and I knew right then that I was going to be in trouble very soon.

Well, I was right too. The doctor that examined me took just one look at me, asked two questions and went back out. About thirty sec- onds later, Grandma came steaming through the door. Boston or no Boston, she was going to see this for herself! Well, between the two of them shouting at me, I couldn't explain it very well, but eventually I did. Then the doctor started talking about a psychiatric consultation and then Grandma got mad at him and we left then. She didn't say a word to me all the way home, just kept looking at me. A couple of times I thought I saw her lip tremble like she wanted to cry, but couldn't. When we got home, she sent me to my room and told me to stay there until she sent for me. Well, I did cry, when I got there. I mean, I wasn't so much embarrassed or ashamed of myself-like the doctor kept telling me I should be. But I was awfully sorry about dis- appointing Grandma that way. She so much wanted to raise up a granddaughter, instead of a grandson. That made me awfully sad too, for it meant I wouldn't be able to wear all the nice clothes she had got- ten for me, and the thought of getting my hair cut off was almost too much to think about. One thing I knew—I didn't want to go back to being a boy again—even if I could remember how to—it had been so long.

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