Note to readers. Don't read if you don't like poor grammar, this is rough.
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?
Edited by Amanda Lynn.
For everything that happened, I have to blame my dad. He insisted on naming his son (that’s me) Solomon. Guess what young parents call their cute little son Solomon? Yes, you’re right – Sally. Couldn’t it be like Roger or Jeff? Add to this dad’s genes that he transmitted to me. Like five feet six inches at sixteen. While my four years younger sis Dea was sprouting to five-ten at twelve.
The summer vacation’s nearing its end, there’re some events planned in the town like a Back-to-school dance party.
Dea is like, “Oh, I want!”
And dad is like, “Why not. Go, girl!”
She’s twelve. She just looks like seventeen.
“Dea’s too young!” mom says. But, it’s too late because Dea has dad’s ok.
“She’s too young,” I scream and Dea mocks, “Sally envies me,” while dad says, “Don’t be a smarty pants, Sally.”
I’m not! But she’s too young anyway. One hasn’t to be Solomon to know she has nothing to wear.
So, our whole family has to go to the mall. Why the whole family you would ask? Because it seems it’s back to school time and I need clothes too.
Dad goes because mom says so. Maybe he’ll keep his mouth shut next time.
We finally get to the mall, mom and Dea go to some girls’ shop.
Dad keeps me company. In twenty minutes I have everything I need and it’s all loaded in the car. We end up at the same girls’ store where mom and Dea are now.
“Looking for something special, sir?” a young girl the same age I am approaches us. Her handwritten name tag says “Laura”, I think I have algebra and history classes with her, I’m not popular or rather I’m invisible in school so she doesn’t recognize me.
“My daughter needs a dress for a dance party,” dad says.
Laura looks at me and measures me with her eyes.
“Cute hair and those highlights…” she says staring at my hair.
I had a buzz cut something like six months ago, because my Grandmother said my hair was beautiful. Now my hair is almost two inches – too short to brush and too long to spike. So it’s just like a mop. I was repainting Dea’s room and some lavender paint got on my head. When I washed out my hair the paint had dyed some lavender streaks in it.
“This way,” Laura ushers us to one of the numerous racks with dresses.
“Those will fit your age, what are you, twelve,?” she adds.
I puff out my chest and reply “I’m sixteen,” and then add, “It’s for my sis.” I motion to the far lingerie section where I see mom and Dea rummaging through bras.
“Maybe you’ll find something for yourself too?” Laura offers. Why don’t we look?
“Why not?” dad says and Laura leaves.
“She thinks I’m a girl,” I say, “and I have classes with her.”
“If she doesn’t recognize you here, she won’t recognize you at school,” dad answers.
“Look through these,” dad offers. “Maybe you’ll find something suitable for Dea. Otherwise, we’ll spend hours and hours here.”
I start reluctantly browsing through dresses. I know mom and dad will never buy what Dea likes. Because she likes everything mini micro barely covering her underwear.
I notice then dad’s not here. I see him at checkpoint talking to some people with cameras. One guy then is taking pictures of Dea with mom. A lady approaches me.
“Do what are you doing and don’t pay attention to me,” she says.
Dad comes back also and I say, “Those will not work for Dea. She towers four inches over me.”
“Look for style.” dad says.
“It could be a simple sundress,” I offer, “like this one.”
The dress is white with a flowery print. It has some under layers so it isn’t see-through despite the material being light. The skirt part has several layers that make the waist look narrower and the hips wider.
I pull the dress up in front of me for dad to look at it.
“That is definitely your color,” I hear Laura say from behind me.
“Try it on” she motions to changing room.
“It’s not for me,” I say.
“Please,” she begs and I see tears glisten in her eyes.
“Why?” I ask.
“The boss says I’m useless,” she says. “Please!”
“Just try it,” dad says.
I go to the changing room and change. It has a zipper in the back so I use the lace from my trainers to zip the dress up. I step outside for dad to look.
“She’s right,” dad says, “it’s definitely your color.”
“It’s on sale,” Laura offers, “only fourteen ninety nine today!”
“Someone looks gorgeous,” I hear mom say. I turn around and see mom and Dea here.
“We’ll take it,” dad says.
“Sally’s got a dress,” Dea states the obvious. “I’m first in the line to borrow it.”
“You’ll get another one,” mom says. I hope she’s addressing Dea.
I go and change back into my shorts and tee.
Laura takes MY dress to the checkpoint.
Dad and I watch mom and Dea rummaging through dresses.
“There are some cute tees and blouses on sale,” Laura nods for dad and I to follow her.
“C’mon,” dad says. “It won’t hurt, will it?”
Well, it won’t, physically.
“We’ll just make this girl happy,” he says.
“They accept returns,” he adds.
I find the tee. It’s dark lavender. It has no sleeves, the neck opening is wider than usual, its front is kind of loose and the material is in some folds. Those folds hide what is or isn’t present here on the chest. This thing is on sale too. And sure enough, dad takes it.
Mom and Dea are still busy. Dad and I are now looking for a skirt to go with the new tee, Laura calls it a blouse, I find one. It’s black and it has a modest mid-thigh length. It’s elastic-like with Lycra or something and it makes my butt look round. I tuck my thingy down and back and the overall view isn’t bad.
“That awful, you have VPL!” Laura exclaims.
“What’s that VPL?” dad asks.
“Visible panty line,” Laura explains.
I’m really kinda embarrassed and my face is red.
“Come with me,” she offers. We go to the lingerie section and she offers me three-pack of briefs without a bottom. They have a narrow string in the back.
“Change your panties into the thong,” she ushers me to changing room. I wear briefs and not panties but I don’t say it. I change and there is no VPL anymore.
We come back to dad. Laura offers to take tags to checkout and for me to stay in the skirt and blouse.
Dad’s no help here. He’s just squinting at me with his head cocked. I try to find a reason to change back.
“I have no pockets here to put my wallet in,” I complain.
“There’re some cute purses on sale,” Laura offers and dad just nods his head yes.
A couple of minutes later I have my wallet in my new purse and put the purse over my shoulder. All the tags are cut and ring up at the cashier and my shorts and tee are put in a bag. This purse is black. It goes with the skirt. I’ve got white one too, that goes with the dress.
The next step is shoes. Nothing fancy just some flats with a miniature bow. I get two pairs of them – white and black.
Mom and Dea are still busy and dad has nothing to do so Laura uses the moment to offer some jewelry. Nothing fancy. Plain silver. On sale. Necklace with my zodiac sign pendant. Some dangly bracelets. Some rings.
“Still something’s missing,” dad thinks aloud. “Do you have a bra under this wrinkled thing?”
“DAAAD!!! I have nothing to put in the bra,” I complain.
“Don’t make your daddy angry when he’s in the spending mood,” Laura puts her two cents in.
She ushered me back to the lingerie section. I’m changing into this mysterious thing as Laura pokes in and gives me two blob-like things.
“Put those in,” she says.
Now I have a bra on and it’s no longer empty. The blouse looks much better with boobs. We go back to dad and he approves my new look.
Dea finally has a dress and we are ready to go.
Dad takes all bags to the car while mom leads Dea and I to the food court.
Those people with cameras follow us and take shots here and there.
Dad is back with us. He and mom have coffee while Dea and I get smoothies.
“What’s this taking pictures thing?” asks Dea.
“They say for some kind of teen magazine,” dad says.
I start to panic, “With me as a girl?”
“It’s too late I guess,” mom says, “and you look good.”
“Very good,” dad confirms.
“Grandma says Sally’s too pretty to be a boy,” Dea chirps in.
No one asks my opinion. In three days it’s time for the dance party and Dea gets ready. I have to chaperone her. She says she wants her new sis instead of her bro.
Mom is like, “no obligations, just give it a try.”
And Dea is like, “yes, yes, yes, pleeeease…”
I think why not. ‘Cause with all adults around maybe, I’ll be safe. Then I can’t say I don’t like my new look. I go in my new skirt and blouse.
We get to the party and kids are chaperoned by their moms mostly but there’re some teenagers too. Moms sit in a bunch and chat. I sit near that bunch. I’m bored five minutes into the party already.
“Hi,” a boy is standing here. I know him. We have biology and Spanish classes together. His name… His name is Oscar.
“Hi,” I reply, “Oscar if I’m not mistaken.”
“Oh… Yeah, I remember you too,” he says. “Sally? We have some classes together. You try to look like a boy at school.”
I don’t try to look like one, but I don’t say this to Oscar. I like the time I spend with him. I’m not bored anymore. The party is for kids and it ends at nine. The last dance is announced and Oscar is like, “will you go with me to the junior dance party next Friday.”
It makes something stir inside me and I’m like, “Oh, yeah,” and I feel my cheeks blush.
Then the dance is over, we exchange phone numbers and then mom comes to pick us up.
“Sally’s got a date, Sally’s got a date,” Dea is chanting in the car and mom turns to me, “so, do I know HIM?”
We get home and I can’t wait for Friday to come. Mom brushes my hair. That is she brushes what hair I have. It’s now two inches long and mom makes a kind of organized mess that is called a Pixie cut. Then she plucks my eyebrows, polishes my nails, then she puts on eyeliner and Mascara.
Mom says I look pretty. I’m presented to dad.
“Do I have a say here?” dad asks.
“NO!” mom shouts, “you had your say already and now we have a her instead of a him. If you say another word, she’ll be pregnant in a heartbeat.”
“You’re right,” dad says, “Sally’s too young to be pregnant.”
Note to readers. Don't read if you don't like poor grammar, this is rough.
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?
Edited by Amanda Lynn.
I’m back in school and I’m trying to repair that damage my dad did. Mom and my sis, Dea has been backing him up, too.
The whole family’s like “Why not?” I chaperoned Dea as her sis at the kids’ dance party and was invited by Oscar to the junior dance!
So, like I said, I’m back to school and I’m confused cuz I don’t know who I am anymore. Oscar knows me as a girl. But I am a boy. My ID says so.
I wear to school the same things I wore last year, and those are jeans and a tee. Shorts are not allowed. Dresses and skirts are allowed but only Cheerleaders wear skirts. And so do fashion chicks. I’m neither. So I wear jeans and a tee. Like all the other boys and girls.
Most girls have their hair long, but I don’t. Their jeans are skin tight, but mine are loose. Their tees are skin tight and cropped, but mine are loose and long. My tees are oversized cuz I’m waiting for a growth spurt to start any moment now. It doesn’t start. Oh, well, I’m wearing jeans. In my shorts, I look like I’m wearing a dress in an oversized tee.
I’m at school, and I expect Oscar to approach me but he’s busy with his pals. They are all busy with their faces glued to their smartphones, like the rest of the student body.
I don’t have a smartphone. Well, I have it but it’s in my backpack because I don’t have any friends to communicate with.
The bell rings and we are ushered in to the assembly. This school board lady talks about their goals blah-blah-blah, then our goals blah-blah-blah, and returning to Christian values blah-blah-blah. Then principal talks about returning to Christian values. At last the president of the student body talks also, blah-blah-blah. We all are bored to death and ready to commit a mass-suicide.
The bell rings and we go to our homerooms. The kids are the same as the year before. The teacher does some little talk, a couple of new students are introduced and we are dismissed to our classes.
Everything goes as the year before. I’m the invisible loner like a few other kids. We don’t form a clique cuz cliques attract attention.
Days go by filled with some boring classes with no one paying too much attention to me, when one day the math teacher motions for me to come to his desk.
“Principal wants to see you,” Mr. Pearson says and handles me a hall-pass.
The principal isn’t a buddy students want to communicate with. The Councilors are the ones that usually communicate with the students and sometimes VP. The principal is like a last resort.
I’m in the office’ waiting area. The secretary is typing something into her pc.
“Sally?” she asks turning her stare to me.
I nod my head “Yes”. Usually, the staff calls us by our last names with the preceding title. Teachers are more familiar with us calling us by first and last name. Like Solomon Borlaw in my case. It’s Sally Borlaw recently for some unknown reason.
“Mr. Burchard is waiting for you,” she says.
I rap at the door and wait till I hear “Enter!”
I enter the office and say “Hello”.
“Ok, I’ll get right to the point,” the principal starts. “Have you read the student guide book?” he asks.
“Yes, I have.”
“Sure you have,” Mr. Burchard states. “They're only a few dress-code rules and you managed to break one of them.”
I look down at myself and I don’t see anything out of place. Shirt, jeans, trainers – everything clean and trim.
“Are you wearing a bra?” he asks out of the blue.
“No, I’m not,” I try to stay calm. “Why would I?”
“WHY-WOULD-YOU?” The principal is raising his voice and he almost screams the last word.
I’m not used to anyone screaming at me. His rage makes tears well in my eyes.
“School board indicates returning to Christian values and there we have IT – our student comes COMMANDO to our school.”
My lower lip quivers but I manage to say, “I don’t have…”
“Don’t say you don’t have,” he snaps.
He throws the colorful glossy magazine in my direction.
He leans over the table and grabs the magazine and opens it. At centerfold there is a title “Tomboy defeated” and there are images of me in a dress and another in lavender tee and black skirt. That black skirt looks good on me while my ass in it looks something round and…
“You lied to school and registered yourself as a boy,” he says a little more calmly now, “while your mother states in this paper you’re her tomboy daughter. That’s the first major offense. All girls have to wear bras. And you wear one in those pictures but you don’t wear one to school. That’s the second major offense.”
Well… He’s right in that bra’s strap is visible under the shirt and the dress in pics with me but there…
“We have two major offenses here not only in one day but committed constantly in last week,” the principal says. “According to school board instructions I have no other choice… I have to paddle you.”
He extracts an enormous paddle from under his desk. It’s gigantic and heavy. Maybe two feet long. With three holes drilled in it.
“I need you in my office, Ms. Kent,” he says into his phone and the secretary enters the office.
“You’ll be an official witness of student discipline,” the principal says to her.
“Bend over the desk,” he instructs me.
There is a sound like “whoosh-crAck” and sharp pain shots in my butt.
“One,” I hear secretary count. Tears start rolling down my cheek. I bite my lower lip and try not to scream.
Then there is another “whoosh-crAck”…
“Two,” the secretary counts and then “whoosh-crAck” again and she says, “three.”
Tears are flowing and I am bawling. Secretary takes me in her arms and consoles me.
I calm down and the principal says, “I’m against cp but the new School Board’s instructions are very clear and there is not much I can do about it. You may be proud that you are the first student paddled in twenty-six years in this school. I understand if you hate it but you are kind of famous here.”
The secretary leads me back to the waiting area and I wait for her to fill out some forms while I’m rubbing my burning ass.
She handles me a pink slip of paper and another hall-pass, “Go to the nurse’s office. She has to sign your punishment slip. Then come back to the office.”
I go down the corridors to the nurse's office. The classes are still on and the corridor is empty.
I hand the slip to the nurse and expect to take it back and return it to the office immediately.
“Paddled? Oh…!”
She looks me up and down.
“What for?” she asks mischievously.
“Dress-code violation,” I reply. I don’t want to discuss what happened and HOW it happened and WHY. I say that’s what’s written on the slip in the field “Reason”.
“It’s high time,” she says. “Those tomboys are completely insolent nowadays.”
She takes the same glossy magazine from her drawer and opens it where my pics are.
“It’s definitely your color,” she states with her finger indicating my pic in the dress.
“Back to the business, dear,” the nurse says. “I have to inspect the damage. Come nearer and turn around.”
She keeps my shirt raised.
“Lower your pants.”
I unbuckle my jeans and lower them.
“Panties too.”
I pull my briefs down a little.
Maybe I should have pulled them even lower and show her that I’m a boy. But I’m embarrassed already. I have had enough shame for one day. It’s all mom’s fault, not mine.
The bell rings and I hear the noise of students filling the hallways.
“You have one cute butt,” she says, “I don’t understand why are you hiding behind those drab rags.”
There is a rap at the door and it opens without the nurse’s answer. I turn my head backward and there is girl’s head in the door crack.
“May I?” the head asks.
“Come in Becky,” the nurse says. “The same irregular periods?”
The girl enters and she is blushing as red as a ripe tomato.
“Don’t worry sweetie, only us girls here,” the nurse says and handles the girl sanitary pads.
“What happened to Sally?” girl asks.
My pants are still lowered with my paddled butt exposed. I’m afraid to move and cause pants drop to the floor. I feel alien and I don’t want to be here. I’m blushing like crazy.
“Tomboy has got prosecuted for tomboyishness at last, in this school,” the nurse explains.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for you, Sally,” Becky murmurs.
She hesitates about hugging me. Then she hurries out. The bell rings again and the noise in the hallways dies.
The nurse examines the marks on my bum. She touches my butt with her finger.
“Oh, I feel the heat still,” she says. “There is no damage to the vital functions though. Just a healthy rosy color. I expect your daddy will spank you when he gets home.”
“WHAT?”
“In my days…”
I remember her celebrating sixty years the last winter. Then her days were some fifty years ago.
“In my days,” she says with some longing in her voice. “The student bringing home the pink punishment slip could expect a thorough strapping from their father.”
“What? Why?”
“Never mind,” she says and handles me the signed slip. “It’s a different time now. O tempora, o mores!”
I’m back to the office with the signed slip and my mom here. Mom signs the slip and then signs the journal. She takes my hand in hers and leads me to the parking lot.
“How do you feel?” she asks me when we are already in the car.
“It hurts,” I say.
“That’s good. I hope you have learned your lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“Don’t forget to put your bra on.”
“Why would I? Has everybody gone crazy today? I AM A BOY, MOM!”
“I know. You’re my son for sixteen years. The never happy sulking boy all those sixteen years. Yes, I remember. Sixteen years is like a sentence for homicide. Until ten days ago, once you were my daughter, there was happiness in your eyes. The spark I have never seen before. You weren’t acting.”
“Well… Uh-huh…” what can I say here? She’s right about the happiness though.
“How? Well… My ID and… If I’m a girl I don’t want this here,” I look down to my groin.
Mom follows my stare.
“With all modern techniques and a little money we may hide what you don’t want to see. No worries, no surgery here. Other specialists will help with your feelings. If you still have the will to do so – and your ID too.”
I hug mom and tears are rolling down my cheeks again.
“I love you, mom.”
“I love you too sweetie.”
Note to readers. Don't read if you don't like poor grammar, this is rough.
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?
Edited by Amanda Lynn.
Thank God, I have my family. Mom is my mother and dad is my father. Then I have a sister, Dea. She’s four years younger than I am and four inches taller than I am.
A few weeks ago the whole family had been shopping for a new dress for Dea. There were people with cameras who were taking pictures of some event, but they took pics of me instead of Dea, while mom’s talking about her. So everyone thinks that I’m mom’s tomboyish daughter emerging her cocoon.
To tell you the truth, I’m not that much against being mom’s daughter. I like the time others think I’m a girl up to the paddling for not wearing the bra to school. I now wear it.
Mom has arranged things for me to look and feel and accept the girl I apparently am.
But back to my sis. Meet a tall precocious girl with a kid’s brain – that’s Dea. Add to this attention deficit syndrome and you get a picture. The picture of me chaperoning Dea everywhere she needs and doing whatever she needs.
I do her homework with her. I learn her rhymes and read her books. She wants to be a dancer so we dance together. She wants to be a singer so we sing together. We stretch together. We play accordion together.
We go to the same self-defense classes because she needs protection. We learn to attack instead of escape and it proves to be effective for me with the bullies at school.
We go to school together and come back home too. That’s cuz the Elementary, Junior High, and my school shares the same campus.
Today we go to school together again. It’s Saturday and there are no classes so we wear what’s comfortable. We both wear shorts with tights underneath, cropped tees, and then hoodies.
It’s the end of September. To be more accurate it’s the last Saturday of September. At Junior High, it’s a day for tryouts., Girls day, For volleyball, soccer, cheerleader, track, and marching. My sis Dea wants to be in the marching band. She plays accordion but there are no accordion players in the band. She wants to be a dancer there. Like majorette but not majorette – the dancer.
She has some steps, moves, turns, and jumps to learn for tryouts. I learn them first and then I teach her what to do.
We are here at the school’s stadium some thirty minutes early, because kids are called alphabetically. Our surname is Borlaw and I don’t think that there are many girls in front of Dea. Because she has attention deficit syndrome, she needs to practice before she tries out so she can do everything she needs to.
We both do turns, steps, twists, and jumps. Meanwhile, kids start to gather. Coaches are here at last and Dea is called. She is the first one, then she is dismissed to wait till all the other girls have finished.
As I have said before it’s the end of September. It’s not cold but it’s kinda chilly. That’s why we wear tights under our shorts and why we have hoodies to keep Dea and me warm. To keep Dea’s mind occupied we do the same twists, jumps, and steps as before.
Only three girls of eleven are selected to the band, Dea’s one of them.
The two of us and the other two girls now stand at the coach's table and they give us slips for our parents to sign. Then the girls are measured for their uniforms. The schedule is every day after school, so I’ll wait for her in the study hall and do my homework. Not bad.
“What’s your name sweetie?” one of the coaches asked me.
“Sally, ma’am.”
“Are you in some way related to Dea?”
“She’s my sis, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you try? Your moves are even better than Dea’s.”
“I’m in high school, ma’am,” I reply motioning toward my school building.
“I don’t remember you,” coach number two says.
“We don’t have marching band, ma’am,” I say.
“We have pep squad,” she says.
Ok, that’s news to me. I don’t know what it is. I know squad. But what’s that “pep” thing is about.
“Don’t want to join us? Your moves are perfect,” the coach asks.
“I can’t.”
“Why?” they both ask.
There are those two coaches and all the other girls and a couple of adults with them.
“I don’t want to answer in public,” I reply, look around and I count almost ten heads here.
The kids are dismissed but we wait another fifteen minutes until there are only coaches left.
“Because of my sis Dea’s attention deficit syndrome, I have to stay with her all the time,” I explain to them.
Coaches look at each other and then number two says, “Pep squad practice is at the same time as of the marching band.”
“You’ll get some credit points,” number one adds.
“There are still some unanswered questions,” I state.
“And those are?” number one asks.
“I don’t know what this pep thing is,” I say.
“It’s like cheerleading but more like dance, more in the school and not the field,” number two replies.
“I need you to call my mom,” I add.
“Isn’t a signed slip enough?”
“I prefer you call her,” I insist and give them mom’s mobile number.
Mom says she’s ok with me in the pep squad when we come home. She says coach Grant knows I’m a t-girl.
So it’s Monday now and I’m wearing my new uniform. It’s like a cheerleader’s uniform but there are panties under the skirt, not running shorts and pantyhose. I don’t know how girls feel about it. For me, it is compressing and hot. The uniform is so constricting that I need almost ten minutes to take a leak.
Well… I’m in uniform cuz the squad is one girl short and homecoming week starts. We raise school spirits before classes and during recess.
So it’s Wednesday now and I’m used to the uniform and I am with the squad. We do toe-touch jumps together with cheerleaders when the alarm goes off.
I mean it’s an alarm and not a school bell. It’s nothing really special cuz we have several of them each year, alarms, I mean.
Some teacher says it’s a mass shooting.
Another says it’s a drill.
The third says maybe it’s real but she can’t be sure.
If it’s a fire alarm, students go outside. If it’s a mass shooting, we go to shelters. There are two shelters – one for boys and another for girls. I usually go into the boys' shelter, but today I’m in a pep uniform and they shun me out.
I go to the girls' side but the gym teacher says I’m not a real girl and have to stay with boys. I turn back but the boys’ shelter and it is already closed.
I think, “What a heck? It’s a drill anyway.” And I go outside to the recess’ area.
So I’m minding my business and repeating Chattahoochee's steps there.
“Whatcha doing?” a voice asks from behind me.
It spooks me, I squeak, I turn around and there is a man in black. I mean the man in black not like men in black but like the man in special gear with a gun, in gloves, and some special goggles.
“Practicing,” I manage to reply.
“I mean why are you not in the shelter,” he asks.
“There is no place for me in any of them.”
He says a word I don’t dare to repeat here.
“It’s a drill anyway?” I say not sure it’s a drill.
“It’s real,” he says.
“Nobody’s here,” I say. It can’t be real without a shooter.
“Junior high,” the man motions his head in direction of Dea’s school.
“You sure?” I ask in awe. He nods his head yes.
The panic overwhelms me. Have I mentioned that my sis Dea has attention deficit syndrome? Someone has to take her by hand and lead her into the shelter. Otherwise, she will stay outside.
I don’t remember any good Samaritan in my previous school. Dea is for sure left outside and I have to protect her.
“You don’t,” the man says. I look at him. It dawn’s to me I’m thinking aloud.
“I’ll be back,” I say and run away. Not away but to the junior high.
Some boy is on my way and he intentionally trips me up. I fall to the ground. I jump up on my feet, I see my pantyhose is running, my face is bloody and my uniform is ripped.
I’m in a fury. I tackle that boy down, keep him pinned to the ground and smash his face with my fists.
The same man in black runs to us and peels me from that boy. Some other men take the boy away.
I’m not finished yet.
“Calm down,” the man says.
“You don’t know how hard it is to keep that pantyhose from not running all day!”
“Yeah… I don’t,” he admits.
“And my uniform and this blood and I still need to get to Dea…” I’m so agitated I’m sobbing.
“You don’t,” the man says.
I want to complain but other men in black gear approach us, they take us to their vans. There are police officers here and they want statements from me and I say I can’t.
They ask, “Why?”
“Cuz my sis Dea is in danger and my pantyhose’s running,” I explain.
“She’s not in danger anymore,” one officer says.
“Is she killed?” I shriek. They try to calm me and then one says like, “The shooter’s arrested. No casualties here.”
The incident is over and they take my statement not letting me change my pantyhose and wash my face. Then I’m in an ambulance, paramedics clean my face and put a band-aid on the wound. I still have a black eye.
I go back to my school. The teacher doesn’t allow me into the class and takes me to the office. Secretary calls my mom.
There is a reporter from the local paper but they tell me to wait for my mom. My mom arrives and she’s ok with me being interviewed by a reporter.
The reporter drops the bomb and says I’ve disarmed the shooter. Like that stupid boy is the shooter.
The reporter is like, “Oh I remember you from the teen magazine.”
“She’s a tomboy then,” my mom chirps in.
“I still recognize the true tomboy in you,” the reporter says and smirks at me.
“How so?” I wonder.
“Running pantyhose and black eye – the image of the true tomboy,” she said and I guess there’s some pride in her voice. She takes my picture on her camera.
Then I’m released and go home with my mom.
The next day I’m at school, I’m in pep uniform like a day before, I still have my black eye, but mom helps to conceal the blackness. I’m suddenly famous and I don’t know how to deal with being famous.
If Dea was in another kind of sport I would have never joined the pep squad. With all those consequences, like forced to go to the girls' shelter and not being allowed in there, then left outside and fighting that boy.
I’m used to staying under the radar, I’m like on display now, And I don’t like it.