“Just keep moving, Petey, Pete, Pete."

“You mean gynecomastia?” Megan suggested. Had Dr. Verre mentioned the word? I didn’t remember. Somehow I did know what it meant, so I must have heard it somewhere. Breast growth on a boy. That really wasn’t the situation, but right at that moment, I would have stammered if someone asked for my name. I sure as hell wasn’t going to try to explain anything.

Coach pointed at Megan, “Yeah, that! Three-dollar word for five-cents of panic. It always clears up before it’s a real problem.” He grinned. “Lots of boys go through it. I had it myself when I was fourteen. Almost went out of my mind worrying about it.” He winked, still grinning.

My heart had already done a backflip, just showing my chest to Coach, and the sudden twist of hope I knew was false almost tied me in a knot. I slowly lowered my jersey to my waist again and tried not to make a sound.

Megan stepped up to take any heat off me. “You can see why Petey doesn’t want to dress in the gym, can’t you, Coach?” She didn’t look at me, and I swallowed another sob.

He nodded. “Yeah, sure. Guys can be real assholes about shit like that, and frankly, some of them are jealous of Petey being a star.” He laughed. “Just keep using my office bath for now, this may clear up before the end of the season. It goes away as fast as it shows up, usually.”

Megan put an arm around me, and I stretched my own across her shoulders. This was turning out way better than it might have. I gave her a bit of a squeeze and got one in return.

Coach’s grin looked like it might split his head in two. “You make a cute couple,” he said. “A future homecoming queen and king.”

Megan swallowed a noise between a snerk and a giggle—a snergle?—and I managed what sounded like a hiccough.

Coach, still smiling, commented. “You’re finally taller than your girlfriend, Pete. You’ve had a late growth spurt, and that’s probably what caused the other thing.” He was looking at my chest, so I moved my head in a sort of loopy nod, not agreeing or disagreeing.

Megan beamed at him, then turned to look at me, pretending she had to crick her neck to look up. “Petey’s the perfect height for me!” she told Coach. “But we need to get out of here.”

“Yeah, sure,” Coach agreed. “Neither of you going to be in trouble for not getting home before daylight?”

I stammered something, but Megan just laughed about it, like it was something that could never happen. I wasn’t so sure, though I hadn’t given a thought to any sort of curfew since football season started.

Was that going to change if my parents find out I’m a girl? I couldn’t think about that or my head would explode.

Megan headed for the door, steering me around the baskets of laundry and out into the chill October dawn. “Just keep moving, Petey, Pete, Pete. We’re doing good so far,” she whispered. Then shouted back over her shoulder to Coach, “Good night, Mr. _Wilson!” Even if, technically, it wasn’t night anymore.

“See you at two p.m., Pete,” Coach called out. “Lee has some new footage to show us. I think he got you stomping that Bulldog on film.”

I started to protest that I hadn’t stomped Ginger, the Bulldog number seventeen, but Megan almost yanked me off my feet when I tried to pause. Coach wouldn’t have heard me anyway, but I really didn’t want that version of events to spread. I let it go for the moment. My brain had been co-opted by some industrious squirrel and filled with pine nuts anyway.

We made it to the car, but Megan guided me to the passenger side. I didn’t object. If she wanted to drive, I could understand. My mouth tasted like moldy carpet, and my hands felt shaky. If she wanted to drive, it was probably a good idea.

I loaded myself in and sat forward, my head resting on the dash while Megan got us moving. “We’ll go to my house,” she said. “You can hide there until you feel like going home.”

You can’t nod while your head is in the position mine was in, but I waved a hand at her.

*

We made it to Megan’s place without me doing anything but sigh and giggle.

“You’re giggling,” Megan noted as she stopped in front of her family’s double-wide mobile home.

“Do you know how near I came to shitting on myself when you told me to lift my shirt?” I said, finally raising my head to look at her. Then we were both giggling as we got out of the car and tried to get inside before we woke someone up. It was beginning to be light outside, but plenty of the trailers around us were still dark on an early Saturday morning.

We went in the front door, Megan explaining that the young ones would soon be up to watch cartoons. I knew there were six or seven kids total in the D’Auguste family, counting Megan and her older brother Travis, but I’d never gotten straight on names, ages or genders.

I was just easing the heavy glass door closed behind us when a voice spoke up from the dimness of the living room, and a light went on.

“Bout time you got home,” Travis’s voice accused his sister as he sat up on the couch and dislodged a blanket that had covered him. His bronze body gleamed in the lamplight, revealing that he’d been sleeping in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts decorated with violins.