"La," a note to follow "So."

Dianne had been working at my Mall of Georgia store about a month when I had my first real chat with her. Though all the management had warned us that she may try to cause some trouble because she was a transsexual with a rumored "lawyer on retainer," she'd seemed like a nice enough sort, but I didn't want to get myself in any trouble.

When the bookseller formerly known as Brian first transferred from the Gwinnett store, the store managers pulled me aside specifically, saying not to talk to her in the way I usually talk to everyone on staff. They feared I might be "blunt."

"Be careful what you say," Michael the manager told me about a million times. Others, who'd worked with pre-op Brian, were warned of the same thing. There was a lot of whispering.

But she didn't seem all that dangerous. When she arrived, Dianne was 40-ish, quiet, a fan of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER, a good worker who maybe tried a bit too hard. Occasionally, she would go into corners, partly to rest and partly to see if people were talking about her. She would hum to herself a lot. I thought we were getting some sort of high drama drag-queen bitch, from the way the rumors were going. Instead, we got someone who looked like a smart, meek librarian.

After a month, I'd grown comfortable working with her, occasionally chatting.

But our first real conversation was a hoot.

She was closing the cafe, humming something like "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring." So I looked Dianne in the eyes, asked her if I'd guessed the right tune. And I started singing along.

And one of the cafe workers, who didn't know how to talk to Dianne either, said, "Oh God, Benjie's singing!"

"I can sing," I said to the worker.

"Sure ...," he said in a patronizing tone.

"No really," I said. "I can sing. I can sing really well."

"Whatever, Benjie," the worker said.

"My mom taught me to sing when I was a toddler, and I've always sang," I said. "Um, when I was five, I was in the Atlanta Boy Choir."

Dianne, who had been quiet during the exchange, looked at me and said, "So was I!"

I wanted to laugh. I didn't. I just kept on talking about the conductor, asking her questions about when she was a member of the troupe.

"How long were you in it?" I asked her. "Did you train under Fletcher Wolfe, too?"

She answered those, so I asked her more.

And that night, on our way through the parking lot, Dianne and I sang "Do Re Mi," a song we both learned from the same teacher.