Here comes the sun.

It had been five days since Henry had been offered a paid education at the Baltimore School of Fashion and Design, and he couldn't get it off of his mind. With each passing day, he had become more and more anxious to get out of Washington Heights. He'd had enough of the rain, enough of the dirt, enough of the creepy, sketchy happenings of the neighborhood. He wanted a job - a real job. Henry hadn't had a job since high school. When his grandmother died and left him a considerable sum of money, Henry hadn't needed a job - so he hadn't bothered to find one. He spent most of his time thinking about Dorothy. Besides, who would ever want a gay cross-dresser to work for him?

But now, Henry realized, he had a chance. He could be in charge of his own career, design clothes, and still keep Dorothy under wraps. So he'd sent in the application to the school, and now he was playing the waiting game.

Dawn had just broken over Washington Heights, and strangly, the sun was actually visible. In fact, there wasn't a cloud in the sky! Henry seized the opportunity to go out. He didn't know what he would do, or where he would go, but he was so nervous about his application that he hadn't been able to sleep, and he had to get moving.

So Henry walked down the eleven flights of stairs and out the front door of the building. He turned and walked down the street towards the bakery, eager for a fresh bagel and a cup of tea. In his blinding happiness, Henry hadn't noticed the flashing emergency lights on the other side of the building.

Henry walked into the bakery and waited behind a lady in a business suit, who was almost yelling her order. "One blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese. Pronto." She reeked of urine, but Henry was polite and didn't make a face. As the woman turned sharply, spinning on the heel of her pump (which made her about four inches taller than Henry), she looked down at Henry and gave him a cold stare. "What are you looking at?" Henry looked down as the woman brushed passed him. She was obviously in a bad mood - maybe because she smelled like pee.

Henry ordered his bagel and tea, sat down on a bench outside, and ate it slowly. When he finished, he strolled back towards Washington Heights.

Then he noticed the lights that he'd been oblivious to earlier. There were red lights, blue lights, white lights, spinning around and bouncing off the buildings. As he rounded the corner, he saw a group of people gathered by a big tree. Henry wasn't a nosey person, but he was curious, and approached the huddled group of people.

He didn't need to ask anybody what had happened, for what he saw and what he heard gave him a clear picture of what happened. "Poor soul..." "I can't believe he lived up there..." "He was just a boy..." "...he doesn't have parents..." The crowd murmured, looking at the ground under the tree.

On the ground was a little boy, no more than 10. He had been crushed by a tree branch. Henry could barely see anything, but he didn't want to see any more, so he walked away. He was in shock. Why, on a day so emotionally miserable, was the sun shining so brightly?

Henry walked back into the gloomy building of Washington Heights. He'd forgotten to get yesterday's mail - Dorothy had been too busy getting primped up to go out - so he headed towards the mailboxes. He sulkingly retrieved his mail and walked up the eleven flights to his apartment. It was only 8 a.m., but Henry felt tired. He couldn't stop thinking about the boy.

It wasn't until Henry threw the mail casually across the kitchen counter that he noticed it. The envelope flew out of some coupon book and came to a standstill facing him. It was addressed to Henry DuPont. It had an official red crest on it. When Henry looked closer, the crest read, "Baltimore School of Fashion and Design." And there, underneath the stamp on the bottom right corner of the envelope were the words, "Congratulations on your acceptance!"

It was a sunny day in Washington Heights. It was the first time something truly tragic had happened to someone in a long time. It was also the first time that, for Henry, something truly magical had happened. He was going to fashion school. He was going to Baltimore.

He was leaving Washington Heights.

A smiling opportunity.

The teapot had been singing for nearly a minute before Henry took it off the heat. He poured the steaming water over the honey lemon tea bag sitting at the bottom of his plastic mug and took a sip. The water burned his tongue; he cringed.

He strolled from the cramped kitchen into the living room, where he gazed out his sliding doors onto the streets below. It was raining again. Henry turned and walked around his meager apartment, looking for something to do. He had no TV. He had no computer. He had no friends. His only entertainment was the seven books he kept on his bedside table and a set of crossword puzzles. Henry kept himself busy most days, dreaming up Dorothy's next adventure or observing people from his teeny balcony. But it was days like today when Henry wished he had some purpose in his life.

Henry sipped his tea cautiously, not wanting to scald his tongue any more, contemplating what to do.

Then he decided, quite abruptly, to go to the grocery store. Maybe he'd find something interesting. He made a list of items – Henry never went to the grocery without a list – and put on his bright yellow raincoat and golashes. Then he headed out.

Inside the grocery story, he began to make his rehearsed rounds – from the produce section through the aisles, and then over to the dairy section. There, he saw quite a sight.

First, he saw a man bending over the milk cartons, his butt crack peeping over the edge of his pants. Henry's eyes drifted to the rather large woman standing next to him. She was dressed in a hideous white dress with pink and green hearts and was quite agitated, it seemed, with the man. "How could I ever have thought we were meant to be if you go off with your dime store floozys? I am a real woman..." Henry walked away. He didn't much care about her problems.

After paying for his groceries, Henry headed back towards Washington Heights. The clouds were threatening rain again. All of a sudden, Henry heard a sound. It was a song, getting closer and closer until it seemed to be right behind his shoulder. He looked onto the road just in time to see a little ice cream truck pass by. He was amazed – he hadn't seen one of those since he was a kid. And what in the world was an ice cream truck doing driving around Baltimore in the fall? There was some strange stuff going on in this place, Henry thought. The more he saw of it, the more he wanted to get out.

Then he saw the lady. She looked like a business lady, dressed up in a nice black skirt suit. She wore makeup and pumps and pantyhose and was standing in the middle of a sidewalk in Washington Heights. As Henry approached her, she approached him. She was holding a small stack of pamphlets and wore a peppy grin. "Hello!" She stuck out her hand. "I'm Lauren Flinn, from the Baltimore School of Fashion and Design. Here's a brochure –" she held one out for Henry to take – "that outlines our classes. Right now we're offering scholarships to anyone who agrees to attend full time for two years..." The woman flipped the brochure over in Henry's hands, pointing with her French-manicured nails to the things she was talking about. But Henry had stopped listening. His mind was spinning.

He loved fashion. Dorothy loved fashion. He wanted to leave Washington Heights, and this woman – this gorgeous, sweet, misplaced woman – was offering him a paid education at a fashion school. Henry almost pinched himself to make sure that this was really happening.

"...and classes for the spring semester begin in January." The woman stopped talking and looked up at Henry, smiling. "Can I have your name and phone number to contact you?"

And so Henry gave the woman his name – Henry, of course, not Dorothy – and told her he would really like to be considered for the scholarship. The woman smiled at him, shook his hand, and told him he'd be hearing from her soon. She turned on her heel and walked down the sidewalk.

Just as he reached the apartment building, it began to rain again, but even the bleak weather couldn't bring Henry down from his high. He could go to fashion school! He could become successful and have friends and go to parties! He could find a boyfriend! And the best part about it all was that going to fashion school meant leaving Washington Heights. What a novel thought.

Fire engine red

It had been a great day of shopping. Dorothy was thrilled. Just as she'd been about to give up on Last Resort Thrift Store and go home, she'd seen it – that little bright red number at the bottom of one of the countless bins. Captivated, Dorothy had fished it out and tried it on. It fit perfectly. What luck! It was a fire-engine red, patent faux-leather strapless dress, lined at the top and bottom with a tiger-pattered fabric. The top fit nicely around Dorothy's small, sand-filled, barely A-cup bra (Henry never wanted to look unnatural, because he was a very small man), and the bottom came up mid-thigh. The dress was skin tight, and oh so hot! After admiring herself in the mirror for almost 20 minutes, Dorothy had made her way to the checkout line to purchase her fabulous new find. As she waited patiently behind a rather large woman who seemed to be buying the store's entire supply of undergarments, another item caught her eye. There, behind the cashier on one of the grungy display shelves, sat the best pair of patent white go-go boots Dorothy had ever laid eyes on. The platform heels had to be about three inches high, and the boots looked like they rose almost to the knee. Dorothy asked to see them, tried them on, and – oh! What luck! They fit like a charm. Who knew that the Last Resort Thrift Shop would have such nifty stuff? 

And so Dorothy had bought her dress and her boots. Even though she felt the $15 was a little too much to spend, she knew she'd get her money's worth out of it.

By the time she left the thrift store, it was almost five thirty. Dusk was closing in on the town, and the infrequent but sharp, biting gusts from earlier had been replaced by an all-around dreary coldness. Dorothy was painfully hungry, but as much as she wanted to get back to her apartment and put on that new dress, she needed something to eat. She made her way right down Bucher Drive to Diner Royale, walked in, and took a seat in an unoccupied booth. 

She was greeted by a peppy, "Hello! Can I getcha somethin' to drink?" Dorothy looked up to see a young girl with a big black spot on her upper cheek. The girl was standing there smiling, holding a pen and paper, ready to take Dorothy's order. The name on the name tag read, "Mandi Mac." Dorothy sometimes saw her in the diner, and, oddly enough, every time she saw her, the girl was sporting a different bruise. 

Dorothy ordered a water, a cup of soup, and a garden salad. Since she was, after all, a woman, she wanted to eat something she considered womanly. As she waited on her food to arrive, she looked out the window. She saw a few cars pass, followed by a black van. Moments later, a police car and fire truck shot by the window, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The fire engine made her think of her new red dress, and she became even more excited to wear it. As she continued to gaze out the window, it began sleeting. Dorothy could tell it was sleet – she'd lived up here almost five years now, and sleet was no stranger to Baltimore.  

Mandi Mac brought Dorothy's meal, and Dorothy ate quickly. She'd skipped lunch. When she finished, she paid her $5 bill and left, heading past The Wrath towards Washington Heights. The sleet had stopped, thankfully. As she approached the building's door, she heard a rumble and looked up just in time to see the black van she'd seen back at the Diner ago whizzing down Baker street. 

The sunhat and the coat

It had been several days since Henry had seen the pink umbrella and the lady with the fabulous outfit, and he couldn't get his mind off it. He wanted to get Dorothy a new outfit to wear - something as wonderful as the unforgettable flamboyant costume. There was only one problem: the clothing store wasn't open at night, when Dorothy always appeared. It was only open during the day, and Henry would look like a fool trying to buy women's clothes. He'd faced this dilemma a few times before, and he decided to risk it - Dorothy would emerge during the day.

So Henry got ready to go out. First, he picked out the outfit. Then he carefully did his makeup - eyelashes and all - before carefully adjusting the wig on his head. He dressed himself and made sure the accessories matched everything. Since it was daytime, he added a floppy sunhat and a pair of groovy shades to complete the look. When he finished preparing himself, he looked in the mirror. He knew that no one would recognize the relationship between him and Dorothy, who today donned a calf-length autumn orange skirt, a brown blouse and a brown sweater, brown pumps, and a matching orange, brown and green headband.

On her way out the door, Dorothy grabbed an off-white scarf to tie around her neck. As soon as she walked outside, though, she wished she'd worn a coat. She was greeted by a sharp gust of wind that nearly picked her up off of the ground. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the wind stopped, and all was calm. Dorothy turned and headed down the street towards the clothing shop. As she walked brisquely, placing one foot in front of the other, another gust of wind came up behind her and blew her sunhat right off the top of her head. It tumbled down the sidewalk towards the bus stop.

Dorothy took off running after her hat. She ran in a ladylike fashion, keeping her strides short and placing a hand on her chest as she ran. She approached the bus stop, where the hat had come to rest, and saw a man sitting there. He had a stack of newspapers and a little cup next to him. As she bent to pick up her hat, the man said, "Would you like a paper for a nickel?" Normally, Dorothy didn't randomly buy things from people on the street. But something about the man's appearance made her feel sorry for him, and she felt inclined to oblige him. Opening her clutch, she fished out a dime - she had no nickels - and placed it in his cup. "Keep the paper," she said, in a perfectly feminine voice. Then, sunhat in hand, she turned and walked away.

As she approached the clothing store, she couldn't help thinking about the man she'd just encountered. "I should have brought him shopping with me," she thought. "He needed a new coat. The one he had on was just too big!"

The fabulous pink umbrella.

Henry woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. He hated headaches. As he stumbled out of bed towards the bathroom, he thought back to the night before: had he had too much to drink? No, he'd left the bar before he'd finished his first cosmo. It'd been that country boy's fault. Leroy Pickler didn't belong up here, Henry thought. Who the hell listens to country music in the middle of Maryland? Not him, you'd be sure.

Henry hadn't stayed out late last night. After he left The Bar, he headed to Diner Royale before sitting himself on the park bench next to the synagogue and surveying the sights. Becoming Dorothy thrilled him. He loved the makeup, the clothes, the hair, the shoes, the act. And best of all, no one knew that he wasn't legit. No one knew that Henry was also Dorothy – who could ever guess? They were polar opposites of each other; despite the obvious differences, Dorothy was an extrovert. She enjoyed going out, drinking, socializing, shopping. Henry, on the other hand, would never carry on a long conversation. He went out as himself only a few times a week, including his weekly Monday night trip to Ming Ming's for a solo dinner. The rest of the time he left Washington Heights apartments, he was Dorothy. And he never tried to pick up any other guys – he wasn't like that. He just dressed up for the thrill of it.

His head throbbing, Henry opened the medicine cabinet and took out the bottle of Ibuprofen. He popped two of them, swallowed, turned on the sink, filled his cupped hands with water, and drank from them. He made his way back into his bedroom, wondering what had given him such a monumental headache.

Then he saw the rain. It was pouring down, dripping from the ledge above his window, smacking against the glass. He walked over to the window and looked down over the town. On days like this, Washington Heights looked gloomier than ever. He saw a couple umbrellas here and there, making their way down either Baker or Bucher street. The umbrellas were all black except for one – a bright pink one that stood out fascinatingly among the bleakness of the town. Henry watched the pink umbrella intently – what a fantastic color! He'd have to get a new dress like that, he decided. Some ways up the street, the pink umbrella stopped in front of Diner Royale, and a figure dressed in a frilly pink and white showgirl-like dress emerged from underneath before stepping into the diner. Henry couldn't see much of the lady, but he knew that Dorothy would just have to meet her – and, of course, find out where she'd purchased that fabulous ensemble. It was time for a new wardrobe.

A night on the town.

It was pitch black outside by the time Henry was ready to leave. He had finished assembling himself. Tonight, he was wearing a knee-length wool skirt, light orange with off-white polka-dots all over it. He wore a modest off-white blouse, under which he'd donned his bra, a Wonderbra that had enough air and liquid inside it to create a substantial chest from nothing. Since the nights had become cooler, he decided to wear off-white tights over his freshly-shaved legs. Instead of a jacket, he'd gathered an orange shawl around his shoulders to keep himself warm. He wore pearl posts in his ears and a pearl necklace around his neck, which matched the off-white of the shirt and polka-dots. To top it all off, he put on his new brown leather boots with the one-inch block heel. As always, he had pinned his light brunette wig securely into place. Wouldn't want to lose that, after all.

Picking up his brown purse, he looked out the peephole of his door to make sure no one was around. He opened the door and stepped out.

He was no longer Henry. In fact, her name was Dorothy.

Dorothy began the descent down the grungy stairs and after eleven flights, walked out onto the street. She was greeted by a harsh rush of cold air that make her hair blow and her shawl whip in the wind. Dorothy turned and walked down the street. It was barely a block to The Bar, but by the time she got there, she was frozen stiff. She was immediately greeted by the loud shrieking of a microphone. She whipped her head over towards the front of the bar – there wasn't much of a stage, just a space – and saw a young boy in a cowboy hat sitting down in a chair with a guitar. She walked over to an empty seat at the bar and sat down. The bartender recognized her. "Good evening, Miss Dorothy," he said. "I supposed you'll be having the usual cosmopolitan tonight?" Dorothy replied, and the bartender started mixing her drink. The bartender had no idea who Dorothy was – for all he knew, she was the nice lady he saw a few nights a week. And he never saw her during the day.

Before the bartender finished making the drink, the young boy on the stage started talking. "Excuse me, everyone – I'm Leroy Pickler, new in town, just got off the Greyhound bus yesterday, straight up from Paintlick, Kentucky. I'm tryin' to make my way best I can as a country singer, so if you'll be obliged to drop any tips right here in this bucket, I'd be real thankful." Leroy held up a dirty old paintbucket and placed it at his feet. When he looked up, he met eyes with Dorothy. He gave her a strange look before breaking eye contact and looking down at his guitar. "This song here's for my mama," he said. "I just know someday I'm gonna make her so proud."

Leroy began his song. It was a twangy country song, the kind like Dorothy's own mother used to listen to. Dorothy hated anything that reminded her of her mother. After the first song was over and he began the second one, Dorothy couldn't take it. She got up, threw a five dollar bill on the table and left her bright pink cosmopolitan sitting there, unfinished.

Meet Dorothy.

It was late in the afternoon, somewhere between four and five o'clock. The sun was slowly creeping towards the horizon, and the chilly wind of the autumn dusk whipped around Henry's face. He was sitting in one of those white plastic lawn chairs, which he'd leaned back against the sliding door, and he had his feet propped up on the balcony railing. The balcony was small. It was hardly wide enough to move around on, but he was glad he had one. He enjoyed the fresh air – although it smelled like a bad mixture of greasy Chinese food and old garbage, it was a welcome relief from the stuffy air inside the apartment.

As the shadows lengthened and the sun sunk lower and lower, Henry could feel the temperature dropping. The cool wind whipped across his face as he sat his chair down on all four legs and stood up. Oh, he was stiff. He hated his god forsaken mattress. In fact, he hated this god forsaken town. How he ended up here, he could barely fathom. But that was another story.

Henry opened the sliding door and went inside. The apartment was neat and tidy, just the way Henry liked it. He walked through the kitchen, which also served as a social room, dining room, and entrance to the apartment, and turned into the bathroom. It was dark in the windowless bathroom, and the light above the mirror dimly illuminated the small space. Next to the sink sat a set of drawers. Henry opened the top drawer and gazed at its contents. Red lipstick, fake eyelashes, eyeshadow, eyeliner, blusher, powder. A box of fake French-manicured fingernails. A bottle of cheap drugstore perfume. A pair of eyebrow tweezers and an eyelash curler.

He started with the eyes. First he drew the eyeliner on, just thick enough for it to be noticeable. Then he drew a thin line of eyelash glue around each eyelid before gingerly planting the eyelashes on, one by one. He had mastered this task, now, after quite some practice. He looked through his eyeshadow options, and chose a sparkle-y lavender one; he dusted his eyelids with it. Next, he picked up with powder. He brushed it all over his clean-shaven face before putting blusher on the apples of his cheeks. He was almost ready now.

He checked his eyebrows – had any stray hairs sprouted since the last time he'd plucked? Of course, he found a couple. He picked up the tweezers and plucked uncooperative hairs out, one by one. Setting the tweezers gingerly back in the drawer, Henry picked up the fake fingernails. He sat on the closed toilet seat and rested his fingers on his lap as he glued each fingernail to each finger. Like the eyelashes, he'd mastered this task; it took him only a matter of minutes.

Standing again, he picked up the red lipstick from the drawer. This was the one thing he absolutely hated, and he absolutely hated it because it reminded him of his mother. His mother, in turn, reminded him of his family. And Henry hated his family. They'd kicked him out when they'd learned he was gay – and his mother, who'd loved him so much up until that point, told him that she hoped she'd never see him again. Henry had been heartbroken.

He held the lipstick in his hands, running his fingers over the plastic green case. It was Clinique lipstick – the same kind his mother wore. As much as he hated his mother, he couldn't tear himself away from the lipstick. Plus, it was an essential factor in his makeup. He opened the tube and applied it carefully to his lips, smacking them together when he was finished.

Henry put the top back on the tube and put it into the drawer. Closing the drawer, he surveyed himself in the mirror. His face was ready. Now he just needed his hair and an outfit.

Then he would be ready. He would leave the apartment and hang around the Washington Heights neighborhood. No one would know it was him – he looked pretty legit. Plus, no one would recognize introverted, shy Henry's connection with a young, dolled-up night-dweller named Dorothy.