This story was inspired by the contest. Since I’m a judge, this story is not qualified to participate.

Bro Faks
By Angela Rasch

Chapter One
Cafeteria Blues

Things need to change between Pete and me. I thought.

“Do you remember when I got that infection last fall, during football season?” I asked a barely aware Hannibal Schulz. The school allowed us twenty-five minutes to eat, hit the head, and then arrive in our classrooms before the next bell. Supposedly, the short lunchbreak was meant to cut down on drug trafficking. Mainly, rushing lunch creates gas in the fourth period.

Hannibal reluctantly put down his fork and looked up from the tuna surprise he had been inhaling. He was the first three-hundred-pound lineman in our high school’s history who had made first-team all-state. His halitosis had also been awarded dubious recognition as Worst in Conference in a poll taken of all the senior football players in the Mid-City League.

“Who can forget? That boil on your ass nearly kept you out of the playoffs. We would’ve been screwed without our QB. We never would’ve gone to U.S. Bank Stadium and won state, if you hadn’t had that pus ball lanced.”

“For almost two horseshit weeks, I had to sit on the freaking hemorrhoid donut pillow,” I complained.

“Bro, what made you think of that disgusting shit?” he asked while finishing off the third of six chocolate-covered Rice Krispies bars he’d piled on his lunch tray.

My parents named me Elijah – Elijah Faks – but everyone calls me “Bro.” “Tomorrow is our last day of school before our Christmas break,” I answered. “The next thing you know they’ll be yakking about a big ball dropping in Times Square and everyone will have made New Year’s resolutions.”

“Not everyone.” His gigantic left hand wrapped itself around a meat and cheese calzone that he apparently would devour in two bites. “Only assholes on YouTube and TikTok fuck with that crap. Why waste your time?” His right hand was franticly scrolling, keeping him current on the pairings for the upcoming bowl games.

The screen on Hannibal’s phone looks like it lost a WWF cage match with a cement mixer. I shrugged. “I do it every year. It’s important to make changes and improve yourself. Last year, I set a goal to lift weights at least four days a week. That really helped. Coach said I added almost eight yards to the maximum distance I could throw an accurate pass. When we got into a third and long, Coach would have me throw a down and out to a tight end.”

“Too bad you couldn’t have done something to increase your speed. It was really close between you and Pete Hare for MVP. A little faster and you might’ve been picked.”

“Precisely,” I growled. “There should be a weight limit for football. He’s barely a buck twenty in his pads. How can anyone sixty pounds lighter than me be a better player? I’m quicker than he is. . .quicker than anyone else on the team. And, I’m craftier. That Pete Hare has become a boil on my ass, just like that furuncle I had last fall.”

“Pete’s okay,” Hannibal allowed. “Coach only played him on five or six key downs a game, and yet he scored the key touchdowns that made the difference in the playoff games. He’s definitely on the LGBT spectrum, but he hasn’t declared, and it don’t matter to me. That stuff only matters to a few losers.”

“Hmmmmm. You might have something there. Pete’s been pissing on my parade. I would have been captain of the tennis team last spring -- if he hadn’t beaten me out by a single vote.”

“We have a tennis team?” Hannibal questioned.

“Uh-huh, butthead! We have a team, and we won the conference. No one knows about us because the conference and state tournaments always happen after the school year ends. That makes us sort of a stealth sport.”

Hannibal downed half a liter of Coke in one astounding pull – followed by a fifteen-second belch. “Better than sex,” he claimed.

“You wouldn’t think so, if you used two hands for sex, like you normally do for eating.”

He grinned, which was good.

He could easily end me.

“I don’t get it,” Hannibal said. “You two should be tight. You and Pete have a lot in common. You’re both super-agile. Both of you are six months older than anyone else in our class.”

“We’re the only ones who are eighteen. That doesn’t mean diddly. We can vote but we can’t legally drink! My dad held me back. He wanted me to have an advantage in sports. Pete’s parents are so laid back they forgot to enroll him in kindergarten when they should have.”

Hannibal laughed, while pantomiming taking a big hit on a joint. “His Mom is the only hippie I’ve ever met. Now that I think about it, Pete and you are the class brainiacs,” he continued.

Pete and I have 4.2 GPAs, which is at the top of our class. One of us will be valedictorian.

“It’s a dead heat as to which one of you is the most popular in our class.”

If it wasn’t for Pete I’d have a kickass app to send to those college entrants pricks. “I really truly hate that guy,” I admitted. “My New Year’s Resolution is to do something so the school sees him for who he really is.”

Hannibal shook his head. “Whatever. Everyone pretty much already knows Pete. I’m going to see if they have any more bear claws.”

I nodded to his back as he surrounded the pastry bar and glared at anyone else who was looking for another sugar treat.

My mind was already deep into plotting.

There are just enough pricks in school to make my plan work. Pete will be toast.

Chapter Two
Setting a Trap

I have to be careful, or Pete will smell a rat!

“Pete,” I said cheerfully. I’d timed my greeting to catch him as he passed the student council’s fundraising table. He always makes time for me with that stupid grin on his face.

The student council was doing a how-many-beans-in-the-jar contest. Anyone could pay a dollar and then guess the total number of beans. The winner would get a year of free “ultimate” car washes at Mary Wilson’s dad’s gas station. She was student council president and obviously the apple of her “daddy’s” eye. She also wanted me to ask her to prom, so she had whispered, “1,487 beans.” in my ear while nibbling on my lobe last Friday, during free period. They would announce the winner today, after fourth period.

“Pete,” I repeated. “How about you and I have a friendly little wager on the bean contest.”

He smiled broadly, but then eyed me suspiciously. “What kind of wager?”

“The winner will be whoever of the two of us picks closer to the actual number of beans,” I proffered.

“Sounds like fun. I always have fun when you and I do things together. How much money do you want to bet?”

“Money’s boring. Let’s make it more interesting.” I have to be careful not to sound too eager. “Let me think. . .. Hmmmm. I got it. You have to wash your tennis clothes, right?”

He nodded ruefully. “Usually, I love helping Mom around the house. I don’t know what it is on this one thing with her. She refuses to wash my tennis things. She thinks tennis is an elitist sport.”

“Uh-huh, that’s crazy. How about -- if I lose, I’ll wash your tennis clothes once a week, for the whole season. I wash most of my clothes. Mom’s getting me ready for college.”

“That would be awesome,” he laughed. “But what if I lose?”

“What do you think?” I asked, setting my snare.

“Heck. I don’t have any idea,” he said. His tiny nose twitched as he thought.

“How about. . .?” I asked slowly. “How about you have to do whatever I ask you to do for a full twenty-four hour day?”

“I trust you, but. . ..” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know? It can’t be anything dangerous, or illegal. I’m not going to break any laws or school rules. And, it can’t be anything unhealthy. It can’t cost me anything. I don’t have much money.”

I have $682 in my savings account I’ve saved from my summer landscaping job. I’m willing to spend it all to achieve my goal. “Okay,” I said. “We have a bet. I accept your terms.”

He giggled lightly. “Okay.” He studied the bean jar for a minute. “I’m going to guess 1,379.”

It was my turn to laugh. “And I’m going to guess 1,425.”

Of course, when they announce the winner and the actual bean count, Mary Wilson’s tip paid off and Pete Hare had lost.

Chapter Three
Salon Day

I picked up Pete early Saturday morning during the first week in January, for my day of telling him what to do. . .and Pete doing it. By the end of the day the anti-woke crowd will have a new favorite target.

I’d brought a winter coat, hat, and gloves that I borrowed from my sister’s closet. She and Pete were about the same size.

His eyes grew to be enormous when I told him he would be wearing the light blue puffer parka, with the white knit stocking cap and gloves. After some hesitancy he put them on.

They fit perfectly. Because of the coat’s design he appears to have a feminine waist and a broader butt.

After a short drive we arrived at our destination. The sign outside of the salon said, “Your life isn’t perfect, but your hair can be.”

“What are we doing here?” Pete asked.

“Here’s the deal, Pete.” I prepared myself to lie. “I have a bet with a bunch of guys on the football team. I’m betting that you’ll back out of our bet. If you refuse to do what I say, I’ll win nearly $700.”

“Did the players on the football team put up all that money because they think I’ll do the right thing?” he asked, with just that hint of pride I’d hoped to hear.

I nodded and grinned slyly. “According to the terms of our bet -- what I ask you to do can’t be illegal, against school rules, unhealthy, or cost you any money. Otherwise, anything goes.”

“Boy. . .. That’s really something. I didn’t know my friends would stand so tall for me.”

“We’re wasting time,” I said impatiently. “You have a salon appointment with someone named ‘Doris’ to give you the works. I told her that you’ll play a girl in a theatre production at our all-boy school. I said you’re going to be Belle in Beauty and the Beast. You’ll go along with being made to look like a girl and keep your mouth shut about our bet. You’ll stick to the cover story.”

“No,” Pete said quietly with stark terror registering on his face, “anything but that. Don’t make me look feminine,” he pleaded.

“Great,” I chuckled. “Just sign this affidavit that you refused to do what I said and I’m $700 richer.” He won’t find out there’s no such bet, until it’s too late for him.

He shuddered. “Oh…okay. I guess. It doesn’t seem right, but. . ..”

I had to semi-drag him into the beauty shop. Drag! How appropriate!

Doris turned out to be a member of community theatre troupe. “I love it when boys step up to do girls’ roles,” she gushed. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be beautiful. That’s what “Belle” means. . .beautiful. It’s a good thing you’re so tiny and adorable.”

Adorable! Pete must be in hell.

Pete’s legs were actually trembling as she led him away.

My exceptional hearing allowed me to eavesdrop.

“You’re going to look so darling,” Doris bubbled. “Your hair is already almost the color of Disney’s Belle. It already is almost long enough. We’ll just put a rinse in it to highlight the feminine color and add extensions. I noticed that your ears are pierced. That will be handy for the dangly earrings in the waltz scene. I’m so jealous of you getting to wear that luscious gown and tiara. We’ll add some acrylic nails. When’s the performance?”

“Tonight -- and tomorrow night,” Pete answered, playing his part.

“Well, Belle,” Doris chirped. “I’ll do your make-up so that it will last for several days. It’ll be best if we remove all your unfortunate body hair -- so you can get into character. Your long hair will look nice with a little wave.” She continued to tell Pete all the wonderful things she would do as she took “her” into the back room. She had Pete’s hand and appeared to be half tugging him behind her.

Once I could no longer make out what she or Pete were saying, I let out a loud, satisfying laugh. I sat and read health and fitness magazines with a sneer.

Two hours later, Pete came out.

I was only sure it was Pete because of the high school sweatshirt he was wearing. Otherwise, he had become Belle, as promised. I managed to keep a straight face even though I was cracking up on the inside. Once those haters see him looking drop dead beautiful, he’ll be done at our high school.

Pete looked at me from under heavily-coated eyelashes. He held up a small white bag. “She made me take all the cosmetics she used on me. I hope you’re happy.”

Chapter Four
Stepping Out with My Baby

I smiled. I’ll be totally pleased with myself when we’re done. “That was only step one. . . ‘Belle.’”

“Pete,” he insisted. “I’m Pete.”

“Okay,” I allowed, “I’ll call you ‘Pete’ -- but it might be uncomfortable for you if I call you ‘Pete,’ when I take you to Victoria’s Secret to buy underwear.”

He blushed so furiously that I was pretty sure I could see it through his make-up.

He looks ready to make a run for it. But where would he go? He doesn’t have money for an Uber. That reminds me, I need to have him pick out a purse to carry.

“Please, Faks. I don’t need any new underwear. I’m good.”

I shook my head. “You need a bra -- with panties to match.”

“Not a bra!” He closed his eyes, while apparently imagining the terror of wearing that “girls only” apparel.

He looks hopping mad. “Wonderful! All you have to do is refuse what I tell you to do, and I’ll win my money." Actually – when he stares up at me with those incredible eyes, I’m tempted to do whatever ‘she’ wants.

He’s going to cry!

Belle composed herself. “No. I’m not going to let all the guys down,” she vowed.

I took a few pictures with my phone. “I need to validate that you started to do I said, to win my bet when you chicken out.” I’m going to post them on TikTok.

I had called ahead and arranged to have our “actor” measured for a bra and panties.

“Cindy” helped us. She assured Belle that about five percent of Victoria’s customers had a similar secret.

Belle wore the rose-colored panties and matching padded 32a bra out of the store. The small new mounds on her chest tipped the scale to GIRL.

To make the occasion more memorable I bought her a bottle of Pure Seduction and misted the air around her. Again, I had to struggle to keep from breaking out giggling.

That perfume is crazy sexy. I surreptitiously adjusted my junk to keep the excitement below my belt from showing.

The next stop was a tattoo shop. “She needs a tramp stamp,” I explained to the ink artist.

“A recent discovery has lead researchers to believe that ancient Egyptian women were adorned with lower back tattoos to protect themselves and others during childbirth,” the artist told us.

“If I pay for a tramp stamp for you, you’re not going to get pregnant. . .are you?” I teased Belle.

Belle bit her lip anxiously, looking extremely fertile. “I. . .Is this necessary?”

I nodded. “Only if you don’t want your friends to lose.”

After agreeing to a small $45 pink, furry rabbit, “Belle” carefully lowered herself onto the table and eased down the backside of her pants and panties.

The tattoo was so cute I produced a $10 tip for the artist.

Our next stop was a dress shop. Belle turned out to be a size six and looked so girly shopping for it, we didn’t bother with the cover story.

We looked at six or seven dresses before the woman waiting on us brought out what she said was the perfect dress to match Belle’s make-up and cascading hair.

“This dress features this cute side tie accent at the waist,” the sales woman enthused. “The designer is Lilly Pulitzer Bryson. Notice its long sleeves. It can be either casual or formal depending on your accessories. This lemon-colored aesthetic animal print is extremely popular. It has a crew neckline with sheath fit and short-length silhouette. There’s just enough spandex in it to assure a flattering fit.”

I choked at the $149 price tag, but the saleswoman said we’d get twenty percent off, if we bought matching shoes.

Again, Belle protested. “I already have plenty of shoes.”

“But you don’t have any to match your eyes,” I said. Strangely, I want her dress and shoes to make her hazel eyes pop.

“Belle is the only Disney princess with hazel eyes,” the shop clerk said.

“We” decided she should wear the dress and the three-inch pointy heels out of the store. Pete didn’t seem to have any trouble walking in her size six heels despite all the begging she had done with her eyes that I please not buy them for her.

“Are we done?” Pete coaxed, after I’d paid for her outfit.

There isn’t much Pete left. During the day her body movements and her voice have adjusted to her appearance. She now sounds and looks . . . sexily-sophisticated. “I can’t leave you all dressed up with nowhere to go,” I said. “When I won all-conference honors for football, one of the prizes was a meal for two at The Lexington on Grand Avenue.”

An hour later, after much coaxing, we ate steak Diane with grilled asparagus. Belle had made a quiet protest saying, “All I need is a lettuce salad.”

But I knew what she really wanted.

I’ll give Pete credit, there have been a lot more smiles than I would have thought. With the wait staff fawning over her, she must feel safe.

When we got back to my car, Belle took my hand. “Please. Please. Let’s end this now. I know that any girl you spent that much money on -- would feel ‘obligated.’ Please don’t take me to the back of Como Park. I just couldn’t stand that.”

Como Park was the local lovers’ lane. More babies were conceived there in cars than in beds in any other part of the city.

I almost caved in to her demands. I’m not going to let her tell me what to do.

We hardly talked on the five-minute drive up Lexington Parkway to Midway Parkway and Como Park.

I had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel.

Belle sat rigidly and stared straight ahead.

I sighed as we pulled into a secluded parking spot. My arm went around her, and I stared into those stunning hazel eyes.

“For heaven’s sake, Faks,” she said. “Surely we don’t have to go this far for you to win a bet. Surely you remember that I’m. . ..” She never finished. Her arms suddenly circled my neck. Her kiss declared unconditional love with no expiration date.

After a chocolate-covered minute, she morphed into an animal in heat.

A half an hour later, after she had done things I had only read about, she turned to me. She had daintily swallowed everything she’d sucked out of me, fixed her lipstick, and now was grinning. “There was never any bet with the football team, was there?”

I begrudgingly shook my head.

“Mary Wilson told you how many beans were in that jar, didn’t she.”

I executed an embarrassed nod.

She poked me. “You’re such a big sweetie! I figured out right away what you were up to. You know that I’m too timid to come out on my own. You did all this to help me.”

“Uhmmm,” I lied. I’ll devote the rest of my life to being as good a person as she thinks I am.

“Mary’s a slut. That’s okay,” she cooed, showing signs of wanting to sexually attack me again. “There’s something you should know.” She giggled prettily. “I was born and raised in dresses. I’ve always known I’m a girl. Mom has been buying me female clothing since I was a baby. I spend a lot of time on weekends and vacations with Mom as her daughter. Born and raised as a girl.”

“Mary Wilson can suck it,” I promised. “You and I are going to prom, together.”

“Mary Wilson cannot ‘suck it.’ It’s mine. On Monday, I’m going to introduce everyone to Belle. Or, if you’d like, you can call me ‘Bunny.’”

She wiggled her nose and proceeded to again gnaw on what she had ten minutes previously named my “humongous carrot.”

The End

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