As I walked out of the gym I saw Reed sitting on a bench pulling off his cleats and talking to a couple of the other guys. The two older girls from our volleyball practice were sitting on the grass in front of them.
I was just out of their view, but I heard the tall girl with the short shorts start. “Was her name seriously Nolan? That’s a dude name. Do you think she’s a dude?”
I heard the girls giggle. In a way, I expected that. I’m a girl named Nolan. I spent years defending that, and most of the kids in my class were used to it. In fact, people thought my name was sorta cool by now. What I didn’t expect was the next sound. I heard a boy’s voice pipe in with a “dang, that ain’t right.”
I stood still and leaned on the wall for a minute to see if I could tell who was talking. It was Reed. He was pulling a pair of sunglasses out of a cloth pouch and putting them on. Then he looked over at one of the guys sitting next to him and continued. “He, I mean she totally dresses like a dude, though. Maybe she had a sex change.”
“Booooom!” Sean, his weight-lifting partner, shouted, as they smashed fists and stood up, throwing their bags over their shoulders. The older girls were in fits laughing at my expense.
I pushed down the urge to cry.
I waited for the girls to leave so I could walk unnoticed to the Oldsmobile. Then came the sucker punch. As they walked back into the building just around the corner from me I heard them continue.
“I think I know her, you know?” said the other girl, who I’m still on the fence about. “I think her mom works at our office.”
I do know her, I realize. Her family runs an accounting office that serves most of the small cities south of Phoenix. It has several branches, but the main one was in Tucson, and my mom would work there a few times each month answering phones and assisting clients. Tatum Hernandez. A junior. Beautiful. She was always nice to me when I came to work with my mom. I have a brief moment of hope at this thought. Surely, she’ll defend me.
“You know it’s not her fault she’s so poor. It’s sad, really. I think she has to wear her brother’s old clothes. I mean, looking like that? She’ll never have a boyfriend. I would make her my project if she weren’t so embarrassing. She lives in a trailer.”
Silence. And just before the door closed I heard Tatum give me one final wound. “We should tell people she’s a boy. They’d totally believe it, classic prank!” she roared, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.
Tatum is not a friend.
-------
Staring at the racks of soccer shorts and team logo T-shirts, I felt my mom put her hands on my shoulders.
“OK, kiddo. What do you say we go for a bit of variety this year,” she says. “Maybe even branch out into some colors?”
What I say next blows her mind.
“Actually, I was thinking of trying on some of the skirts. I think I need to dress more grown up, don’t you think?”
My mom, who has begged me to wear dresses and skirts every school year since I can remember, looks at me with equal parts elation and worry. Elation seems to win, however, because before I know it we’re fully enveloped by the junior girl’s section and I have a pile of ruffled, colorful garments on the floor of a dressing room.
I leave with eight or nine full outfits. Some of them shorts, but not from the boy’s section. As we’re checking out, I feel a pang in my gut from the guilt of giving in to peer pressure. I’m disappointed in myself. But I still wouldn’t change a thing.
2. First Day
I usually arrive first for the first day of school. My dad does deliveries for Marches Grocery in the city and starts his day at 7 a.m. The warehouse is in Coolidge, a good hub for the produce that comes in through Mexico and Southern California. My dad handles the specialty runs, which are basically special orders from the chains in the Phoenix area that are running low on certain items. Every day my dad loads a big truck based on requested inventory and drives into town from store to store, almost like Santa Claus. This, of course, is another reason we make so few trips into the city as a family. A few thousand miles a week and the last thing my father wants to do is follow his own daily tracks up the interstate.
Given my anxiety about starting high school, I’m okay with getting up early. In fact, I tried to talk my brother, Mike, into driving me when he left the house at 6. Mike’s eight years older than me, and he just started working at the nearby junior college. He’s an assistant in the kinesiology lab, which is a fancy way of saying P.E. Mike also managed to land a job as an offensive coordinator for the college’s football team. He played there when he went to the school and was always a favorite among the coaches. My parents were just thrilled he found a way to make a living. I think they were also looking forward to his moving out soon.