Tom/Kiara: Freaky Friday

After my January summit with "Lisa Brown," I went back to my life as Kiara. I could already feel things changing. I left the door open for her to return to the life she left behind -- I really want her to -- but her attitude makes me think there's a strong chance she won't, that she's got this idea that she can make it big in that life, and there's no going back.

With that knowledge, suddenly this weird, blurry life I've been sleepwalking through started to come into focus as I was forced to confront the idea that... this may be it for me. This may be the rest of my life. This body, these clothes, this place, this child. I had to start looking at all of it as if it belonged to me, because it might.

I don't think I have a problem with being a woman. I'd rather be a man, but I'm not mad about it. If anything, I'm more mad I'm not mad. I want to see being a girl-woman-person as being torture, something to escape at all costs, not something I'm making my peace with. Not a passive fact of life. I'm quite literally in the wrong body -- not to mention the wrong age and the wrong race -- but 23 hours a day it feels normal. My body does what a woman's does, and that's different from what it used to, but it's all... fine. I don't have to be girly, womanly or ladylike -- I can throw on sweats and a soft bra and whatever and nobody is going to chastise me for not having my hair be perfect or not wearing a skirt and high heels and stockings. This isn't Mad Men. So that's an arrangement that's fine for me.

It's the age, the mommy, and the North Carolina of it all that weighs on me. Plotting my escape and wondering whether Sierra belongs with me, or if leaving her with Grandma and Mama Kelly is going to screw her up royally.

(You: 'If you're just going to leave the baby with the family members why stay as Kiara?' Me: 'Because putting a stranger in the mix still seems worse!')

Okay, I've potentially got a new life and I've got to figure out who to be. That's clearly not going to be a Japanese-American male journalist. Hell, looking at the landscape it won't likely be anything with words. How the hell are you supposed to make a life for yourself these days?

Whatever. That's long-term, Future-Tom/Kiara stuff. Today I have a bunch of homework.

Which is what brought me to a coffee shop on Friday the 13th (March version.) I was supposed to be meeting with some of my classmates to go over some readings, but for a variety of reasons they didn't show and I was left to leaf through my textbook alone.

I don't necessarily mind -- I'm a pretty solitary dude when I'm myself -- but it sucked to put some faith in people and be let down.

So there's me and my little coffee and my huge textbook, highlighting what I could, continually glancing at the door in case anyone did show up. I try to stay focussed, but I can't help people-watching. The mom who lets her twelve-year-old get a "fro-cho," the thirty-somethings on their first date, the high schoolers on their way out to a party (Thankfully, none of them acknowledge me, because I didn't know if maybe they would know Kiara.) And the guy in the corner just reading his book.

Eventually my little coffee felt a lot bigger in my bladder. Being alone in the place, I had to put all my stuff in my bag before using the restroom.

When I came out and sat back down, the reading guy had shuffled to the next table over from me.

"Homework?" he asked.

"No, actually," I said, "I'm getting ready for a date. I just like to be super-prepared."

"What is that, calculus? Are you dating Will Hunting?"

"It makes for really great conversation," I said.

I cursed myself. Was I flirting? I didn't want to be flirting. I didn't want to be flirted with. But I also kind of did. I was annoyed that this guy had insinuated himself into my night but I was also -- in a flicker of thought I've been trying to untangle ever since that night -- glad. As I've said, because of my general air of "Do Not Engage," people don't seem to see me as a female at all, which means I don't get flirted with. That means it was rare enough to be... not unwelcome.

I looked over at him. Older than Kiara, not older than Tom. Decent presentation, nothing that screams "beware of this jerk," but, I realize, I have no idea what signs those are. He just... looked like a guy.

I can't explain it. But I couldn't explain it when I hooked up with Lizzie DiFaccio at the sophomore mixer when I was 19, either. It wasn't attraction so much of lack-of-aversion. He kind of looked like a younger Glen Powell, without the weird upper lip thing going on, and a worse hairline.

He had broken the ice and I had gone alone with it. Rebuffing him would take effort I didn't feel like expending. So I ideated, how to play this situation. How I wanted to play it. For the first time in a long while I felt like I was being looked at not like a kid or a teen mom, but as a grown person.

It wasn't unappealing.

"Hey, listen," I said, "Give me an hour with this book, and then we can talk, okay?"

He smirked, and accepted my terms, pointedly putting a timer on his phone.

Once the term was up, I closed my book. "Ground rules," I said, "Don't ask me for any personal information. No last name, age, address, Instagram handle. If you're good, you'll get my phone number."

"Uh, okay," he said, confused but open.

I held up my phone and took a picture of him.

"Woah, what was that?"

"I just sent your picture to my mom. If I go missing, she'll know who to look for."

"Damn, you're not kidding around," he said, half amused. "Can I at least get a first name?"

I inhaled sharply and thought. God, why was it still so hard to do this? I almost tripped over it. "Ki-iara. Ahem. Kiara."

"Okay, Kiara," he said, "I'm Donovan." I almost snorted. That wasn't a name you hear often.

"Well, since so many things are off-limits, what can we talk about?"

"Calculus," I shrugged. "Trends in calculus."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about that."

"Good, I like to have all the power in a conversation," I said. (Ooh, flirty Tom/Kiara is feisty. I like her.)

I asked if he was new in town because he didn't have the same accent as everyone else, and he confirmed he was from out of state but "Won't say where, because that's personal info." Touche. We talked about the book he was reading, I talked about how I spend much of my time, tactfully omitting that it's largely spent reading nursery rhymes.

We had a surprisingly good conversation, considering the guardrails I had put up. He seemed to get a kick out of it, like I was a puzzle he could figure out. I caught his eyes occasionally drifting down my baggy gray sweatshirt, which featured the logo of the local community college (I think one of Jen's exes left it at the house.) I wanted to tell him Don't worry, they're a good size, if a bit saggy, but in the name of good taste I pretended I didn't notice. 

At 9, the place was closing up.

He asked, "Do you... want to go to a bar or something?" I had left my fake ID at home -- I should know better than to leave home without it but in fairness I really did not intend to meet anyone or go anywhere besides the coffee shop.

So I said probably the stupidest thing any man-trapped-in-a-girl's-body has ever said and asked if he had anything to drink at his place.

He kind of sucked in his breath. "Well, there's a lot of people there... it's kind of a bro-y house,"

"I don't mind," I said, "You're going to let them cockblock you?" Now I was being bold, invoking the C-word. What the hell was my endgame?

"No, I..." he sighed, "I mean, I just want to warn you."

"I'll be fine," I said.

The whole drive over, I stared out the window and thought this is stupid, I'm going to get murdered or worse. I'm an idiot, what am I doing?

We get there, and well, at least it's in the nice part of town. It's a little one-floor place. He leads me in and, yep: sparsely decorated, functional furniture, messy kitchenette... and some dudes in gaming chairs who are barely fazed by our presence. I pause in case he wants to introduce me, but instead he just gestures toward the back bedroom.

By now, I'm starting to come to my senses. What am I doing here? What's my endgame, my exit strategy? 

We sit on his bed, which is in the corner of the room against the wall, because of course it is, all guys do that. He asks if I want to watch something, and at this point I'm kind of over needing a pretext, so I just say no and put my hand on his thigh.

He leans in for a kiss, and, well... it's a kiss. I'm kissing a man. I'm nervous and uncomfortable and... and thrown by how okay with it I am, especially judging by the pulsing between my legs. Shit, I think, there's no denying this. Kiara's body wants this, and I kind of just want her to take the wheel, so to speak.

So we make out for a while, and I'm kind of aware that he's got a hard-on in his jeans, and eventually he gathers the courage to wind his hand up my sweater -- pausing just long enough for me to voice any objections if I have any. I don't, and he proceeds.

And it feels good. Not necessarily the fondling itself, which was a little weird at times like "Oh, I have something to touch there, and it feels not-bad," but -- and here's where I curse Marc for putting this thought into my head with all his posts -- the connection. The being wanted, the being touched. That, I liked. His hands went other places too, and so did mine. He had an okay body for a guy.

Then he started to toy with the waistband of my pants -- which are really not what one would have worn on an intentional date -- and I just reared back. Totally instinctual, saying "Oh, time out."

"Oh, sorry," he said.

"Yeah, just... not ready for that yet," I said. Truth was, if you had asked me a half-hour earlier back at the coffee shop, I probably would have said yes, I can go all the way, but as he had predicted, the house kind of was a turn-off, although it may have just been the feeling of really physically being present that reminded me I was in deep.

"Okay, good to know where the limit is," he said gamely, then went back to kissing my neck and stroking my hair.

"Well, that's my limit," I said, "What about yours?"

"Mine?" he asked, muffled by my shoulder.

"Yeah..." I said, "I mean, I could..."

"Could what?"

I reached down for the fly of his jeans. I don't know where my head was at, except obviously all these months of Kiara hormones have been steering me toward this kind of behavior. I open his jeans and his erect cock pops out at me.

Funny looking thing from this angle. We-e-eirdly big, but maybe it's because my hand is small.

He gives me a look like, "Are you sure?" Maybe he said it out loud, I don't remember.

But yeah, I was sure. I started rubbing and touching and... putting my mouth on it. Stuff I liked girls to do when I was with them, when I was a guy. Trying to find my own limits on that... and to my surprise, I didn't have one.

I played with him, I played with myself, I had him play with me a little bit, and then he... finished.

And it was all right, a little surprising. Some of it got in my hair, which was annoying.

After that happened, I felt Tom get back into the driver's seat. I felt my face get hot with shame and confusion.

He clearly couldn't read it on me, because he asked, "So, did I rate getting your number?"

I blew out a tense exhale.

"You give me your number," I said, "And I'll figure it out."

I called a ride and went home, and have spent the days since with my finger hovering over his name in my contacts.

I don't need someone right now, but it's nice to know I could have it if I wanted it.

***

I wrote the above a few weeks back, but I didn't post it at the time because it felt distinctly TMI. It's one thing for Marc to post about his ongoing relationship with a fellow transformee he has a history with, but another for me to cross that boundary with a guy I just met.

Anyway, every day that goes by I feel that pull a little more strongly, but if there's still even half a chance I'm going back to the Inn I should probably stay on mission.

-T/K

Jordan: Better Not Regret This!

It's kind of silly to wait for Dominic to be asleep before posting this, but I kind of don't want him looking over my shoulder more than usual, silly as that seems.

Tonight...  Last night?  When's it flip between feeling like today and feeling like tomorrow? So, technically last night was the wrap party for Dominic's latest movie.  It's kind of a big deal for him, not a big part and he actually fucking dies, but he's got a couple good fight scenes and maybe more dialogue than a few of his parts put together, and it seems like it will get people to consider him for bigger things.  A lot of people initially joked about me being his date to a wrap party because my job is just starting, because there are a bunch of wires to digitally remove and half a car chase to render.  But, it turned out there was a point to it! 

Just as the evening was starting to get to the point where people start to leave, Dominic stood up, started talking about how everybody on the set had been really kind to a guy like him still finding his feet, raising his glass before mentioning me, and how I not only made extra sure that he looked good in post, but opened my apartment to him when he was injured, even though I clearly liked my space, looking out for him and encouraging him all through rehab.  It felt good, but I figured everybody already knew all that shit, and was quite taken aback when he said he never wanted to go without that again, got down on one knee, and pulled out a ring, asking if I'd marry him.

I don't want to repeat too much of what Krystle has said about how absolutely surreal this feels, but it took me a second to respond.  It's not just the tiny kernel deep inside me that thinks that I'm a straight man and another one asking this of me is just gross, it's...  Look, I was not always a great guy.  Annette and Krystle will sugar coat it with things that are technically true but not nearly as positively-motivated as they make it sound, but even after being with Dominic for a couple years, I tend to think people hang around for access to the great tits I inherited and because I encourage getting manhandled a bit, though I stop short of liking it rough.  The idea that a potential movie star wants to tie himself to someone who is Jordan Chang inside is insane.

So I said yes, obviously.  Everybody cheered, he put a ring on my finger, and we kissed like there was nobody else around.  Then they told him to to take me home and...  Well, Cantonese can be a really filthy language.

We were on the sidewalk with me getting my phone out to call a rideshare so we could go home and do that thing, when I realized we were unusually alone for this city, and on neutral ground, so to speak ("our" apartment is still kind of "my" apartment, after all).  I took a deep breath, said there were things about me that I could only have him believe now, starting with how I wasn't the original Lee Yuan-Wei.  Then we got into Jordan Chang, and the Inn, Ravi, Annette, Benny, and finally Missy Lee.  He laughed, of course, and I said he didn't have to believe me, but I was going to call the Changs in New York before Wang Chen-Ai in London, and wasn't it weird that she couldn't speak Cantonese or that I was so close to these New Yorkers even though I went to college in Boston?  The timelines didn't add up for me to be Max's ex-girlfriend, even though that's the explanation we usually used to explain how I knew my family.  Me being born a Chinese-American guy explains a lot about me, doesn't it? 

"So, you're really a man?"  He had that look somewhere between disbelief and queasiness.

"No, I was a man.  Now I'm a woman, and have been for years."  I shrugged as questions appeared on his face.  "I know, that's not how it usually works, most trans folks talk about always knowing who they really are and doing what they can to align their body with it.  Trust me, I've read everything about the biological basis of gender identity and sexual orientation that someone who got a B-minus in high school Bio can understand, and there just hasn't been a lot of research on people who have their bodies changed by a cursed inn!"

I probably sounded too flippant to be serious, or maybe he just figured this sounded like the sort of weird fantasy I'd be into.  "So I'm marrying a cursed American man."  He sounded more like he was playing along than absorbing something shocking. 

"Well, that just kind of how people refer to it; I personally don't believe in magic and curses and shit like that."

"Then how...?"

I shrugged.  "Dunno.  I used to be big into simulation theory, figuring that the computer program for which we're all NPCs had some sort of exploit or bug that redirected the pointers to the data for our physicality, but that's kind of just describing how magic works in the simulation.  These days I kind of figure there's some sort of machine under the Inn that releases a bunch of nanobots meant to alter time travelers or aliens so they could fit in among the locals, but if I read a book like that, I'd say it was full of holes.  It just kind of doesn't matter.  What's important is that I like who I am and don't want to hide any of it from you."

I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and he didn't pull away or seem noticeably less into it than usual.  We'd both had enough to drink that he didn't second-guess himself when I stripped down to my undies and led him to the bedroom.  Maybe he finds this kind of exciting and flattering, knowing that he's so desirable that he figured I must be overriding my instincts to fuck him like this; I gather a lot of straight partners sort of use that as justification once they know the truth.  I wore him the fuck out, though, which made it easier to call Mom & Dad and "Doris" (the English name that the current Chen-Ai decided on) and not have them ask him to get on the phone and talk about who I "really" am enough to give him doubts. 

And then I came in here to write this.  There's a whole bunch of other people to call - Annette, Krystle, Kareena, Romain and René - but I kind of had to get this out, maybe exorcise my worries that he'll have second thoughts after he sleeps on it, or he'll try and poke holes in the story (I do sort of have a lot of lore for someone who lives pretty simply these days).  Heck, maybe I'll think I'm nuts once I've sobered up.  But for now, I'm pretty excited! 

-Jordo

Isaac/Ainsley: Get a life!

As if two wasn't enough. One and a half? I'm not gonna go even lower and say one and a quarter, my self-esteem isn't that bad. I don't think I'm fully living Ainsley's life either but that number's gone up over time. Wouldn't call that part a one, though. Maybe I've got more than two if you count my increasingly tenuous claim on whatever that maniac is getting up to in Charlottesville.

I've been going to a bar, lately. I realize what that sounds like after what I just said but I swear, it's not like that. I have to drive there and back anyway.

I felt like I had to get out somewhere, anywhere, just to prove to myself I'm capable of doing something of my own initiative. I wanted to pick somewhere Ainsley likely hadn't been before, and the kind of place Isaac wouldn't go to either (he's not drinking age yet). Also didn't want to run into Heather there, even though I ended up going with a spot she'd probably like.

It's called The Lounge. It's forty or fifty minutes away from the apartment, which, while annoying, serves the dual purpose of assuring me that nobody connected to any version of Ainsley or Sara will show up and guilt-tripping me into actually going inside. "You drove that long and you really think you're allowed to bail now? Come on." The place is more of a music venue with a bar attached, which is one reason I've never gone on a Friday or Saturday night, but the artists on weeknights are small-time enough that the back of the bar doesn't get too crowded those days.

It's also a convenient distraction, even though whether I actually like the band any given night is a crapshoot. The music gives me something to think about other than the situation I've put myself in to avoid thinking about things: being a woman alone at a bar. I don't think the combination of Ainsley's preppier looks and my general vibe are in line with what the vaguely punk-y regulars here are looking for, and I dress pretty conservatively when I go here. But, not doing anything besides sipping on my one see-I'm-not-a-freeloader cocktail and checking my phone makes me come across as easy pickings, I suppose. Nothing actually bad has come close to happening, it's just that whenever some guy grabs the seat next to mine I'm almost intrigued and even weirdly flattered, and then within two seconds I immediately regret not instantly telling him off. Even the ones who aren't weird about it. Being in these conversations is just too stressful, and things pretty quickly get awkward enough that either they leave or I do.

What I wasn't expecting was how often women approach me to ask if I'm doing okay. It happens whether I'm in the middle of being picked up or not; a couple times a woman came up to me as I was staring at the drink selection and told me I could meet her in the bathroom if there was anything I needed to talk about. Are my vibes that fucked!? Twice, some guy was trying to talk to me and then a woman walked up and started acting as if she knew me, which obviously makes me freak out even more since I have to figure out if this is some friend of Ainsley's I've never met before, and then she just thinks I'm too oblivious to get what I'm trying to do, and it's... It's a mess to get out of. Twice! These were completely different women! I've only been going here for a few weeks!

Going to The Lounge isn't all like that, of course. I usually don't regret going. The bartenders make small talk with me, and in that profession you have to get good enough to have an at least okay conversation with pretty much anyone. Sometimes I'll get roped into conversation by a livelier group that happens to be sitting nearby that night, or I'll overhear a topic I actually know how to talk about. Last time I went a group of girls Ainsley's age came up and asked for my thoughts, as an impartial observer, on a dispute over pet care duties one of them had with her roommate. Conversations like that are easy mode compared to keeping up with Ainsley's friends, but I left the bar that evening feeling like those girls didn't like my answer anyway.

I find myself asking "What would Ainsley do?" a lot when I'm here. But that shouldn't be relevant, right? I'm somewhere she's never been, she wouldn't even want to go to, and at which she has no relationships or reputation to worry about. The whole point of going here is to escape Ainsley, to do something on my own terms, to live life for now while I don't know which body I'll have in several months. But Ainsley is the obvious point of comparison for everything I do, as I'm reminded every time I look down at myself or catch a glimpse of my reflection. And I can't escape the thought that even in a totally new situation for her she'd just be better at this. If she ever went to bars by herself (which I doubt), she wouldn't draw concern and pity in every direction from total strangers, I bet. It's one thing to get those reactions from the people who know Ainsley best, but to see it from random observers just sets me off.in a way I don't know how to describe.

I think she'd be happier than me. I wish I knew why.

Rusty/Monica: Was the Inn our last family vacation?

It probably would have been anyway, considering the way that a couple kids not much younger than I really am were staring at their phones and rolling their eyes when their parents were trying to point things out while I was waiting for Katey on Tuesday, their southern accents making them as tourists.  I don't think Katey/Kutter and I were like that much, but maybe Dad sees it differently. 

We were shopping because Katey and Omar are heading to Cabo San Lucas for a week and Katey wanted a few sexier swimsuits and outfits.  She's been upgrading her wardrobe ever since her promotion, but a lot of it has been stuff for work or more casual, and she said she wants to look like a sexy woman instead of a sexy girl.  It felt kind of funny to be shopping for that after work, in our blouses, pencil skirts, and heels, but I get it; I kind of feel like I'm cosplaying a real estate agent sometimes, and a lot of her co-workers aren't quite so worried about the impression they give, because we kind of overshoot the mark. 

For a while, she didn't really seem to know exactly what she was looking for, which was why it was kind of funny to see her come out of a changing room in a red dress, grinning.  "I like this one!  It makes me look like I have tits!"

"What are you talking about?  You've got really nice, perky breasts!"

"C'mon, Rusty, you know 'perky' means 'small'!"  She took a look at her profile in the mirror.  "Don't get me wrong, I don't mind being able to go without a bra some days, but it seems like all of Omar's buddies have girlfriends with bodies like Emilia's, and you know everyone's going to be flashing cleavage all the time in Cabo!"  She gathered her hair up in her hand, trying to see how the dress would look with it up without actually making a bun.  "You don't get it, you can just be the fun and naive girl when hanging out with friends, but every time I go quiet because I just don't have college or some other experience to talk about, it makes me look, I don't know, insubstantial.  I know the way I dress doesn't change anything, but at least I don't double down on it."

"I suppose, although, don't you feel a bit weird going off to another country with someone?"

She shrugged.  "Not really.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I love you girls, but it feels really nice to be Omar's girlfriend first and foremost sometimes, you know?  Just having someone accept you at face value and love you for it."  She pulled me into the changing room, where she unceremoniously dropped the dress and started putting on a swimsuit.  "You know what's weird?  Emilia and Jonah.  Like, they'll be out on a date with us and I know they're having a good time, because Em really can't fake anything after a couple drinks, but then by the time we're on the subway their demeanor totally changes, and then we get home and Emilia's popping a Bud Light and falling asleep on the couch watching some basketball game.  Jonah's like that too, he's actually got a locked cabinet with romance novels, and, I mean, maybe I spend a lot of time with writers and editors, but the symbolism is kind of on the nose, right?"

"Hey, it works for them, right?"

She shrugged, and started trying on another swimsuit.  "Does it?  I mean, I kind of figure that you've got to figure out who you are now and commit to it.  Be the chick who likes sports, or the guy who reads Nora Roberts, or whatever.  Like, would they even be together under normal circumstances?"

After that, we were checking out and going to another store, so the subject kind of got dropped.  She's been posting a lot of beach pics since Thursday, though, and really seems to be having a great time with just herself and Omar.  Dad's making a good show of being cool with it, and she and Jonah are talking about maybe doing something like that once the academic year is over, although I can't tell whether they really want me along as a third wheel or not, even though they say so.  And if they do, does that mean that maybe Katey has a point about them not really being into each other as opposed to being the best people they can fake it with, or maybe even the best people they can convince themselves that they're faking it with? 

It might not matter; I'm not exactly established enough at the office to take two vacations this summer, and Monica's parents are talking about something in Europe in late June.  I gather it's something the whole extended family does every summer, even when Monica was in college, with me begging off last summer because things were kind of tight understandable but unusual. 

It's kind of tempting - I actually really like hanging out with Monica's cousins at holidays, and her family is actually really cool.  I like going back and forth with them on social media, and they've actually been a supportive of all the crazy ways I've upended this life and come out as ace and stuff over the past couple years.  It might actually be kind of fun to take a big vacation with them every year!  It's just the idea of doing it with them instead of Dad and Katey that's kind of weird. 

Well, not something I really have to worry about today, I guess.  

-Rusty Monica

Toby: Dunia Looks Fishy (I Guess)

Hey, does anyone know a lawyer with experience handling Inn-related situations (Marc)?  The guy that Dunia's father called seems capable enough and has me out of jail, but there are obviously some things we can't discuss with him.  He'd probably have a fit knowing that I'm posting on a public blog, but I don't really know what else to do, and I've got to guess we're not the first people to deal with this. 

It figures that this would happen a soon as we're kind of getting used to living our lives as Dunia and Alicia, though.  We just started working the Miami-DC route at the start of March, which looked like it would be pretty nice - it's the longest one we've had yet, so there aren't quite so many flights needed for a 40-hour week, and even though the schedule often sticks us with a two or three-hour layover, the other attendant's have pointed out that the airport is on a regular Metro line rather than so far away from the city center that you're fighting traffic on a bus (it'll be hilarious if I go back to South Dakota as someone who hates to drive, considering everything) and the food is supposedly fantastic, and all the museums at the Smithsonian are free, so you can kill time there pretty well.  I've gotten pretty used to the job and all the girl stuff, and my Spanish has gotten to the point of almost being understandable (it was actually one of my best classes in high school, but when you consider that I learned it from textbooks that assumed you'd be going to Spain, and practiced with the mostly-Mexican migrants who worked on farms, Dunia's Cuban-American family sounds almost completely different!) although kind of quietly, while Lambert has started flirting with the pilots now that he's mostly over his fear of flying, saying that Alicia is on the wrong side of 30 and he's trying to give the next Alicia a head start. 

Anyway, we were just getting off a pretty late flight when we were met at the gate by a couple guys in suits and sunglasses, who flashed badges to identify themselves as the FBI, saying they had a few questions. 

We actually didn't think it was Inn-related at first.  Part of the training materials was actually about working with the Feds, especially air marshals, and how to spot potential hijackers or possible human traffickers, and another part said to immediately call a union lawyer in a situation like this.  I guess flight attendants get talked into helping smugglers a lot, because we can get past security with just a quick baggage check, and the salary is low enough for it to be tempting.  But by the same token, cops often see young people who can be intimidated into saying we did something we didn't or held long enough to miss out next flight and disrupt a travel for a while bunch of people. 

And on top of that, while I admit that Ma raised me to cooperate with police whenever asked, Dunia and her fellow dark-skinned Latina friends disagree. 

So I clammed up until the union lawyer showed up, but he was only there long enough to tell me that since this wasn't work-related, he couldn't represent me, and advised me to find someone else.  They let me call Dunia's father, who I figured must have a lawyer to handle the business aspects of his garage, and an hour later he showed up, and that's when they finally asked me if I knew Toby Watson and Lambert Allen.

We kind of had a plan for this - back in September, I texted Ma about this exciting opportunity to join the crew of this research boat in the South Seas, where phone and internet service would be kind of spotty.  Since then, we've been following their progress on social media and occasionally reposting images with our own captions to keep the illusion up, answering our email, that sort of thing.  It was kind of thin, but we kind of figured our parents wouldn't look too closely, because Lambert occasionally does things like this on a whim and Ma talks about me getting out of our dying hometown, and this looked pretty good to her.

Apparently, we weren't tracking it too closely, because there was some sort of emergency a few days ago where the ship had to get towed to port, and when my mother got an alert about it, she immediately contacted them to find out if I was okay, only they'd never heard of me.  She got in touch with Lambert's dad, who was connected enough to get the FBI involved, and I guess my phone's GPS readings said it was near the Cortes house, and they had pictures from traffic cams showing "Alicia & Dunia" in Lambert's car, driving from Maine to Florida.  Once they discovered we had stayed in the Inn, and so had Alicia and Dunia, they smelled a rat.

My instinct was to try and come up with an explanation on the spot, which I guess would have been pretty dumb, as I figured Lambert must be in the same situation and there was no way our explanations would match, but the lawyer pointed out that if there was anything there, they would have come to the house with a search warrant, and asked how I should know where Alicia got the car.  Basically, he gave me every instruction he could to shut up, and I did, even as the agents said that they actually liked Alicia more for this, and if I would just tell them what she'd been up to, that would let them find Toby and Lambert faster and give everybody closure, and they'd remember who tried to help.

I guess that sort of stunned me into silence - does everybody, including Ma, think I'm dead?  I wanted to protest, say I wasn't, but I knew I couldn't explain how I knew that and being so sure would just look suspicious.  Of course, I must have looked suspicious anyway, because lying to the FBI and the lawyer Dunia's father sent down is not easy and I must have had every tell possible, but I guess that I was lucky that I froze in a "say nothing" way, instead of accidentally revealing too much.

They eventually let us go, and I kind of started getting paranoid about whether Lambert had clammed up the same way or if maybe he'd tried to throw suspicion away from himself/Alicia and onto me/Dunia.  Dunia's father was really scared when I got home, but also hopping mad that when some gringos went missing in Maine, they immediately looked for the nearest brown folks to blame.  I didn't mention the phone.  I should probably find a way to get rid of it, I guess, but now I'm kind of worried that if I step out the door with it, somebody will grab me to prove I have it.

So there it is:  I'm apparently a suspect in my own disappearance.  It feels like this must happen every winter, but I've got no idea what to do.  Anyone else been in this situation?

-Toby/Dunia