For a Girl, J.T. D'Arelli [reading fiction txt] 📗

interest in a young woman's clothes was how to get them off her. Now, I could hardly wait for the little thrill that came with wearing pretty panties and cute skirts. Unreal. I was turning into a true girly-girl!

It was an uneventful day — the big moment would come this afternoon — at the track meet. This time, the stakes were higher. Our local athletic district was separated into two divisions. Today's meet was the Western Division championship — the first rung on the ladder to the big competitions. Those who finished in the top four would go on to the next level — the District title. The top performers there would qualify for the Sectional meet — all of central New York. And finally — the winners at the Sectional race would advance to the New York State Championships — where I'd finished third last year. As a boy.

Now I was trying to win it all as a girl. Miss one rung on that ladder, though, and I'd be out. There were no second chances. Survival of the fastest. I sat next to Becky and Hal on the bus ride over to Wyndam — where the district race would take place today. We chatted lively at first, but the closer we got to the school, the more the butterflies kicked in. The whole team grew quiet as we began to focus on the competition ahead.

We arrived at Wyndam, where a dozen schools had already set up their 'camps'. The smell of witch-hazel liniment was in the air as we unloaded all the equipment — batons, vaulting poles, discuses (discii?), etc. Wyndam had a lovely track — set in a natural bowl, which cut down on the wind. It was surrounded by pine trees and a bubbling stream. The well- rolled cinder surface was flawlessly marked into lanes by the white lime. The tension was palpable.

I reveled in the atmosphere — this was what I lived for. Girl or boy, I didn't care.

But as our team approached the track, something unusual happened. Melody McCarthy, the Oxton star miler I'd beaten a few days ago approached us, along with her coach. Two district officials accompanied them. More ominously, there was a county sheriff's deputy — in full uniform — walking toward us as well. Our team met them, puzzled.

"Coach Bradford?" one of the officials said.

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid I have to serve you with a court order. There's been a legal motion against a member of your team."

"What's this about?" my coach asked.

"The county judge has issued an injunction — prohibiting Stephanie Lind from competing in the girls' mile today."

"What the he..." Coach Bradford's faced darkened.

The Oxton coach spoke first, his tone dripping with venom. "It means the hermaphroditic freak that you're trying to pass off as a girl isn't going to be running today. Unless 'she' wants to take on the boys." Behind him, Melody was smirking broadly.

There were gasps all around me as my heart plunged downward.

"You have to be kidding," Coach Bradford responded. "The state recognizes her as a female — look at her driver's license, for God's sake. Heck, just look at HER!" He gestured at me and everyone's eyes seemed to fixate on my breasts and hips — and the smooth crotch that proved my femininity. I blushed — and felt a strong desire to cover up.

But my skimpy racing briefs weren't going to get the job done this time. The official spoke. "I'm sorry, Coach — but the injunction is in order and the deputy is here to enforce it. The district's hands are tied — Stephanie cannot compete until the status of her... gender has been settled in court."

I was standing there, frozen in shock — while Coach Bradford protested. "This makes no sense — what reason would you have for stopping her?"

Oxton's coach replied. "I'll grant this kid may look like a female." He ran his eyes lewdly over my half-naked body. "But 'she' was a boy just last week. 'She' has no business taking away opportunities for real girls like Melody. If you want 'her' to compete, you're going to have to prove 'her' former masculinity doesn't give her any unfair advantage. And while you're at it, Coach Bradford, you can apologize to my athlete for the humiliation you put her through — running a fake girl against her."

Coach Bradford was livid. "How about I apologize for what I'm going to put YOU through? Let's start with that brick wall over there!"

In five years, I'd never seen him like this. He stepped up to the Oxton coach — whose mocking attitude evaporated as he took in the size of my coach. One of the brawny Oxton shot-putters tried to head Coach Bradford off — but Mark Williams (BMW), bigger than any of them, moved to block the Oxton kid.

It was getting very ugly, very fast. Fortunately, the deputy quickly calmed everyone down.

The district official spoke again. "Between you and me, Coach Bradford, I sympathize. But Oxton has the law on their side. You're going to have to settle this in court. Until then, Stephanie has to stay on the sidelines."

I was finally able to speak. "But if I don't race today, I'm out for the season!"

"That should give you plenty of time to practice stuffing that bra better," Melody snickered at me.

"You're just jealous 'cause she's faster than you are," Becky snapped back.

"And a helluva lot sexier," Hal chimed in.

"Damn straight," Becky echoed. "She's twice the woman you'll ever be, you pathetic bitch!"

The riot nearly started all over again — but the deputy restored order once more. He was certainly earning his pay today. Coach Bradford studied the injunction, but shook his head sadly.

"I don't see any way to avoid this, Stephanie. We'll have to sit this one out."

As we walked away, Coach Bradford called out to Melody's coach. In a tone worthy of Schwarzenegger, he said: "She'll be back."

I was surrounded by sympathetic teammates — and I was very grateful for their support. But I shooed them away and told them to get warmed up. They had races to run and I didn't want my disaster to impact anyone else.

Alone, feeling glummer than I could ever have imagined, I headed for the bleachers. Tears formed in my eyes. Again! I'd had my hopes dashed, then resurrected, then dashed again!

I was crying openly now. I didn't know how much more of this I could take. Every damn time I tried to make peace with what had been done to me, I suffered another setback. I was just a normal boy with a special talent and all I ever wanted to do was make the most of it. Then I was turned into a girl against my will. I'd worked to accept my new body, my new life. The strange new clothes, the complex social structure, the intricate nature of my feminine sexuality. I'd tried to cope with my reduced athletic ability — not to get too hung up on the 'not bad for a girl' theme.

But all that was gone now. My season was over. No scholarships to carry me into college. My mother was right — I should have had a back-up plan. Now, I saw myself graduating in a few weeks, with no real prospects. Just a country girl. I thought of the Charlie Daniel's song:

Rich man goes off to college

and a poor man goes to work.

Poor girl wants to get married

and a rich girl wants to flirt.

I shuddered at a vision of myself shopping for gingham tablecloths at the local Wal-Mart, while my farmer husband awaited me in the pickup to take us square dancing. I'd reminisce about our honeymoon at Niagara Falls. I'd have three kids by the age of twenty-one and spend my precious free time baking pies for the 'girls' at the coffee klatch — where we'd trade recipes and compare crop yields.

Maybe I'd join the military — at least that would get me the hell out of this place.

But then I wondered what would happen if the military decided I wasn't a real girl either? There were no separate dorms for GB kids.

More despair. Maybe I was doomed never to fit in anywhere. Shades of Cher — I felt like a halfbreed.

During the meet, I cheered on my teammates. It wasn't easy — the magic, the energy of the competition was gone. But I applauded and called out encouragement when I could — using that damn girly soprano I now had. In between events, some of the other kids visited me in the bleachers, while I dashed tears from my eyes and tried to put on a brave face.

Even though my heart was breaking.

The one good thing — Oxton's perfidy had really fired up our team. It was obvious from the start we were going to finish ahead of them in the overall scoring — both boys and girls. Mark Williams obliterated all comers in the shot and disc, Hal won the two-mile as well. I chuckled — their coach's strategy had backfired a bit.

In a perfect world, Becky would have beaten Melody in the girl's mile. But we live on Earth — Melody easily won the division title in 4:52. I noted with satisfaction her time was still slower than the one I turned in earlier this week. At least Becky lowered her personal best by another two seconds and finished second. I was very happy for her — she'd qualified for the district meet next Tuesday.

But although both the Milford boys and girls team had performed well, there was still a sense of loss as we boarded the bus for home. Usually, the ride back was a chance to chill — sing songs, tell jokes, etc. But my mood was subdued — although I was really trying to be upbeat.

Coach Bradford took a seat next to me.

"Stephanie, do you remember what I said to the Oxton coach?"

"Yeah — something about 'I'll be back'. But how can that be? Even if we get the injunction overturned by Monday — it's too late. I'm out for the season."

He smiled. "No, you're not. Or have you forgotten Nationals?"

My heart suddenly leapt. I HAD forgotten Nationals!

Let me explain. Track is unique among sports — for it crowns a national high-school champion. Sure, every state has tournaments for champions in basketball, football and so forth. But a 50-state tournament for a match play sport is impractical. There's no way to devise a NCAA-style 'March Madness' to settle the best high-school basketball team in the country, for example. The expense alone makes it impossible.

But track is different. Because it's based on individual events, it's possible to determine national champions in a single meet. Nike and Footlocker sponsor the National meet every year — moving the competition from state to state.

There were only three requirements. One, be 18 years old or less. Two, you had to be enrolled in an accredited high- school. And three, you had to meet the qualifying standard. In other words, each event, from 100 meters to the pole vault mandated a minimum performance that scooped up the 10 or so best athletes, boys and girls — from across the United States. The standards were set very high to ensure an elite competition — but if you qualified, it didn't matter what other races you missed.

Coach Bradford waited for me to get it. "Now you see, Stephanie. Last Tuesday, you ran a 4:49 in a sanctioned, certified meet. You may not be able to go to the New York State championship — but you most certainly meet the requirements for the National race. As I mentioned, you're ranked third in the country right now."

"But what about the injunction?"

"It won't apply — the National meet is beyond New York State's jurisdiction. And I'll have to check, but I believe Nike and Footlocker have not forbidden the inclusion of GB girls. Besides, once we get Jim Martin on board, we'll get that damn court order quashed."

"So there's still hope," I