I wasn’t just one of the guys anymore.

The parking lot was nearly full at the Pizza Barn, meaning most of our teammates were already inside. Coach Wilson would have the back room all set up for us with pizzas, chicken, pitchers of soda, and movies—the last item supplied by Leland Frick, our team cinematographer.

Lee would have footage for us to watch: some of the game last night and some from colleges and pros that showed something that Coach wanted us to learn. Frick was a tall, weedy, uncoordinated, glasses-wearing geek but he was part of why we were going to the play-offs again this year.

We really did appreciate him and to prove it, we gave him just as much grief as the we did all the players who suited up and played on the field. “Four-eyes” and “Nerd” were some of the nicknames he got called. It evened out: Jake was “Magilla” and I was “Nubbin”. Lee was a Lion and would get a letter for it, same as the rest of the team. Friendly Pride, rah.

The money for these parties came from fundraisers by the school alumni association, and contributions by parents of team members, mostly. It was considered fun, team-building activity, and Pizza Barn, for their part, provided free sodas and breadsticks.

I usually enjoyed these meetings, but with what had happened to me, I felt fraudulent and out of place, as if everyone in the room could look at me and know I didn’t belong. That’s ridiculous, I told myself. You don’t look any different with your clothes on. But I was acutely aware of my missing parts.

“Coach is going to want us up front,” Jake said beside me.

I blushed because I had been thinking about being naked. I resisted more cringing as I followed him toward the long table set crossways to the others. This back room was packed with nearly forty players, coaches, and assistants like Lee, who was setting up his projector on the smaller table in the middle of the room.

Coach Wilson beamed at us, gesturing that we join him in the front of the room, just like Jake had suggested he would. I took a firm grasp on my nerves and made my way through the noise and confusion to sit on the end of the outer bench while Jake sat opposite me, next to our coach.

We collected a lot of congratulations on our way since Jake had something to do with every point scored and I had carried the ball over the goal line four times. But something else impressed itself on me amid the backslaps and “Attaboys.” I was the third or fourth shortest person in the room and the shortest starting player.

And the only girl, even if only Jake and I knew that.

I think it was the fug of budding testosterone in the room that brought me to that admission. My nose noticed a difference, I hadn’t expected that. One of these things is not like the others. I wasn’t one of the guys anymore. Only Jake knew, and I couldn’t let anyone else find out, or they wouldn’t let me play football any more.

And Lee’s movies proved something, something I already knew. I needed to be on the team for us to keep winning. The films showed that I carried the ball eleven times, four times across the goal and three times for a first down and four more times for two to seven yards gained. Eight of those carries started with a handoff from Jake, two were from him lateraling and I picked up one loose ball while playing defense.

The Buckaroos were sad competition at almost every position, but we never lost yardage on a play where I touched the ball.

“I guess we know who takes the MVP cup home this week,” said Coach Wilson and the roar of “PEE-EET-EE” from my teammates almost knocked me down. The cup was a take-home-trophy for the player voted that week’s most valuable.

It embarrassed me so much that when I tried to laugh it off while pointing at Jake that I broke into what could only be described as giggles. No one seemed to notice and most of the guys were just laughing, too.

“Nubbin gets the cup, Nubbin gets the cup!” somebody chanted, and there were calls for a totally unnecessary speech. No one made speeches at these things.

I stuffed another slice of pizza in my face to cover my embarrassment. I’d already had three pieces and wasn’t really hungry for more. Normally, I would eat six or eight slices, nearly half a large pizza (they cut them narrow for this kind of backroom party). But I was full and didn’t really want anymore.

I didn’t drink as much soda as I normally did either, but enough that I needed to get rid of some of it. I slid off the end of the bench and I’d already pushed through the door labeled Men before I thought about it. I made for a stall in the back while several guys were doing their business at the urinals. My face felt like it was burning but no one looked at me.

I latched the stall door and tried to ignore the gaps at bottoms and sides. I pulled my pants down and sat to do my business, but nothing was happening. Oh my God, I thought, I’ve forgotten how to pee. It was—different. I couldn’t articulate how it was different, it just was. I squeezed and released internal muscles to try to start the flow but nothing was happening.

No one noticed, no one commented, no one could see my dilemma. Except—my feet were pointed the wrong direction, most likely visible under the door. Why don’t bathroom stall doors and walls go all the way to the floor?

I knew I had locked the stall but I kept expecting someone to burst in and shout, “Petey’s got a pussy instead of a dick!” It was…excruciating, and the tension was surely responsible for me not being able to locate the flood gates.

I had pissed before when I first woke up, but then I hadn’t thought about it, I just did it. The question now was how? To distract myself, I took a big wad of toilet paper to have ready for patting myself dry. Another cringeworthy necessity.

I had already spent longer than necessary in the stall, I guess hoping that if anyone wondered why, they might think I had to go number two. That would explain the toilet paper sounds, too.

But a public bathroom is a noisy place, what with the tile and sounds of running water and feet and doors and, in this case, one of those hand-dryer blowers. Maybe no one had noticed any strange sounds.

I heard people leaving, and after a bit, it got quiet. I was thinking I needed to get out of there, and maybe find somewhere else to pee, when a pair of shoes stopped in front of my stall.

I could see them under the door, big lace-up Nikes. Before I could worry about that, the knock on the door scared me again. “Pete?” a voice called softly. Jake. “Pete, you in there?”

“Yeah,” I said. Then I let go of something inside me in relief and the sound of water hitting the bowl made me wince. No guy made a sound like that when pissing.

“Jesus, Pete,” said Jake. He’d noticed too.

“I can’t help it,” I whimpered. “It all comes out at once!”

“Jesus, Pete,” he repeated. “It sounded just like a girl pissing.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered. I would not say it, and it was all I could do to not cry. I used my wad of tissue to dry my eyes and then the damp curls between my legs. It felt weird but it worked. I hadn’t been able to piss until I knew it was just Jake and I in the bathroom. How messed up was that?

He moved away from the stall door while I pulled up my shorts and pants, and when I opened the door, I saw him standing by the sinks.

“This isn’t going to work,” he said.

I washed my hands, staring at my face in the mirror. Did I look like I had been crying?

“You’ve been crying,” said Jake, answering that question.

“Shut up,” I said. “It has to work. We’re going to win the league then go to the state tourney and win our division. Someone will have to give you a scholarship then!”

“I—? You—? Is that what this is about?”

I nodded. “I can’t let you or the team down. I’m the best running back in the league and I bet I’m the best in our division.”

“You were,” he said bluntly. “Hell, you might have been the best in the state. Coach says he’s never seen a halfback with your combination of speed, nerve and smarts.”

I rubbed my forehead with both hands, like trying to scrub away thoughts.

“But since this morning…,” Jake continued.

“Shut up,” I said. “I can still do it.”

Jake shook his head. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt….”

“I’ve had a charmed life,” I said. “I’ve never had anything worse than bruises or a pulled muscle. I know how to take a hit, how to fall. I won’t get hurt.”

“Dammit! Listen to me!” he said, frustration in his voice peaking, and, just to prove it, he punched the chromed metal of the towel dispenser built into the wall. The flimsy panel bent and the dispenser exploded, scattering towels all over the bathroom.

“Now look what you’ve done!” I accused him. But Jake was kneeling on the floor, holding his right hand in his left and wincing in pain.

“I may have broken something,” he said calmly.

*

Telling Coach was hard. He didn’t rant or scream, but he did make us feel like idiots, just by his look of disappointment. Then he hustled us into his car and headed to the hospital where I had just had an appointment with a gynecologist.

I didn’t mention that, of course, but heading back to the hospital made me wince. What if someone recognized me and commented? I tried to back out of going along, but Jake had my right hand in his left and I couldn’t abandon him.

It didn’t make sense that I was more worried about getting recognized than the possibility that Jake had broken his throwing hand. But the truth was, I did worry to the point of feeling sick at my stomach from the combination of Jake maybe being seriously injured, and my secret being found out.

It didn’t help when I spotted Dr. Verre in the hallway. She nodded at me but didn’t speak, and I retreated back to the plastic chairs in the emergency room waiting area while they took Jake in for x-rays on his hand. Time had a weird jerky quality, it seemed to drag then take sudden jumps.

Jake’s mom showed up and it got even more confusing after that. I avoided Mrs. Fremont, knowing she would try to pump me about Jake. Let her talk to the hospital staff, they got paid for it. If I said anything to her, she’d want to know why Jake got hurt. And I might cry.

Our story to Coach, that we had just been clowning around and Jake had hit the towel dispenser harder than he intended wouldn’t fly with Jake’s mom. She’d suss out a lie and demand the whole story. I had no idea how Jake was going to handle talking to her.

I had to get out of there. My car was at home. Jake’s truck was at the Pizza Barn. I supposed we would straighten that out when all was taken care of, but I was doubly surprised when Megan landed in the chair next to me. “Petey,” she said. “Aunt Lou says you didn’t make an appointment for your ultrasound.”

I waved vaguely at her. Another thing I didn’t want to deal with.

“And I think you just forgot that you left me here without a ride,” she accused.

“Sorry,” I said. “Can’t your aunt give you a ride?”

“Yeah, but she’ll be here till six or seven.” She shook her head in annoyance. “You were thinking of other things,” she allowed. “But I made your appointment for you with the ultrasound department. Two p.m. Tuesday for a gynecological exam.”

“Jeez!” I winced, looking around. “Don’t say that where anyone can hear you!”

“You’re not going to be able to keep it secret forever, Petey,” she warned me. “People will find out.”

“Not if no one tells them,” I insisted. “And I’ve got football practice.”

She tilted her head and looked at me. “You know you’ve got female hormones now?”

“Ah….”

“Aunt Lou says, you were barely into puberty as a boy, so now you get to do….”

“Shut up! Jeez, Megan, shut up!”

She rolled her eyes then leaned in closer to me and whispered. “You’re probably going to have your period in two weeks or so.”

“Gah!” I kept it quiet, too, but it was a near thing.

“And your shape will start changing.”

“No! No, it won’t!”

She made a face. “Well, maybe it won’t,” she admitted. “This whole thing is so weird, who knows what might happen?”

That didn’t really relieve the anxiety she had caused, and I scowled back at her. I imagined my shape changing, by which I assumed she meant I would grow breasts. “How…how fast does that happen? If it happens?”

“It normally takes months,” she said, trying to be reassuring. “Years, even. Most girls start puberty at around twelve and have most of it done by fourteen or fifteen.”

Months. Maybe nothing would show before the end of football season. Maybe it would all spontaneously reverse itself. When you don’t know anything, everything is a worry.

We had forgotten to continue whispering but no one seemed to notice. I reached out and took Megan’s hand and she gave me a little squeeze. I squeezed back. It helped.

I had a mental image I was trying to shake, of my fourteen-year-old sister who had already developed an attention-grabbing figure, but with my black hair instead of her red.