7. Running to Stand Still

I don’t know why I went.
Maybe I thought pretending things were normal would make them feel normal.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to sit in that dorm room any longer, staring at the popcorn ceiling and listening to the muffled sound of someone’s stereo blasting Oasis down the hall.

So I went to practice.

The field was already buzzing when I got there — cleats clacking on the concrete path outside the locker room, water bottles slamming down on the bench like old Snapple caps, the sound of guys shouting drills to each other like it was a war zone. Someone had a boombox propped up on the bleachers, playing Tupac a little too loud, the cassette warbling slightly as it neared the end of the tape. Coach hadn’t shown up yet, but everyone else was warming up, laughing, yelling, hyped.

I kept my head down and laced my cleats in silence.

Garrett noticed me first. “Yo, Whitlock! Thought you died or something.”

A couple guys laughed. One tossed a ball toward me. I caught it, barely.

“Rough night,” I muttered.

I kept my responses short. Kept my head down. Tried to speak low — but no matter how I shaped the words, my voice didn’t cooperate. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t flat. It wasn’t me.

No one said anything right away. But I felt it.
A pause in the rhythm. A second too long between jokes. Just enough to make my skin crawl.

Warm-up started. I jogged the perimeter of the field, past the chain-link fence that rattled in the breeze, stretched near the old Gatorade-stained scoreboard, kicked when I had to. My body felt weird in the uniform — not tight, not loose, just… off.

The mesh jersey clung in places it didn’t used to. The neckline felt strange against my collarbone, like the fit had changed overnight.

I told myself I was imagining it.

But when one of the guys called out, “Over here, man!” and I yelled back — the way I yelled...

Everything stopped.

Not the drill. Not the world.
Just them.

A few heads turned.
Then—

“Dude! Why do you sound like a girl?”

The words hit like a slap. Loud. Sharp. Echoing across the field like it was part of the drill.

I froze.

Someone chuckled — a dry, confused kind of laugh — and another guy muttered, “Wait, seriously? That wasn’t—?”

Garrett’s voice cut in, trying to be cool. “Chill, maybe he’s just messing with you.”

“I’m not,” I said quickly.
Too quickly.
Too high.
Too much like a girl.

More heads turned now. Not everyone. But enough. Enough for the heat to rush into my face and crawl down my neck. I looked at the grass. Focused on my cleats. Pretended not to hear the whispers starting around me.

One guy muttered something I couldn’t quite catch — and didn’t want to.

I backed away.

“I forgot something,” I said, barely audible, already turning toward the edge of the field.

Garrett called after me. “Whitlock? You good?”

I didn’t answer.

I just walked.
Fast.
Then faster.

Then ran.

I didn’t stop running until I was off the field, past the parking lot with the faded yellow lines and rusted-out Honda Civics, and halfway to the back side of campus — where the old benches near the art building sat mostly empty. A few crumpled soda cans and a torn flyer for a Pearl Jam listening party flapped under a nearby bush.

I dropped down onto one of them, chest heaving, head low.
No one followed.

Good.

I didn’t want to be seen right now. Not by Garrett. Not by Coach. Not by anyone.

I took a shaky breath, then another.
Then I tried something.
Just to see.

I cleared my throat.
Sat up straighter.
Took the same breath I used to take before reading aloud in class — back when we passed around photocopied short stories with faded ink and dog-eared corners.

Then I spoke, quietly: “Testing… one, two…”

The sound that came out wasn’t even close.
Not a slip. Not a crack. Just… wrong.

I tried again — lower this time.

“Hey, I’m Riley. I play mid-field and write weird superhero stories in my spare time.”

Still not mine.
Still not deep. Still not familiar.

I tried again. And again. Even whispered. Even mouthed the words like maybe the shape of them would bring it back.

Nothing.

The voice — my voice — the one I’d known since I was twelve and hated until I didn’t… was gone.

And no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it back.

****

I don’t know how long I sat there.
Long enough for the breeze to cool the sweat on the back of my neck. Long enough for the weight in my chest to settle into something heavier.
The rustle of tree branches above, the faint sound of a car stereo thumping somewhere far off — TLC, maybe, or Alanis Morissette — drifted through the air like a background track I wasn’t invited to.

That’s when I heard footsteps.
Soft ones.

Then a voice, hesitant and gentle:
“Hey… are you okay?”

I stiffened.
It was Maya.

I didn’t look up.
She must’ve been on her way to the girls’ soccer field — I’d forgotten their practice started soon. Their warm-ups usually started right after ours, across the old cracked asphalt path that ran behind the fieldhouse.

“Are you…” She paused, then stepped closer. “Do you need help?”

Of course she thought I was someone else.
Of course she heard a girl crying on a bench.

I turned my head just slightly, still not lifting my eyes.

“Maya,” I said quietly, voice trembling.

She froze.
“…Riley?”

I nodded once, barely.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, moving quickly now. She dropped her nylon Adidas bag — the kind everyone carried — and sat beside me, her hands reaching out but not quite sure where to land. “I—I didn’t know it was you. I swear, I didn’t recognize—”

“I know,” I whispered, wiping my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. “No one does.”

She was quiet for a second. Then:
“Is it your voice again?”

“It’s always my voice now,” I said. “I can’t make it go back.”

And that was what broke me.
Saying it out loud.

Maya didn’t say anything right away.
She just pulled me into a hug.

The polyester of her practice jersey scratched against my cheek. Her hands smelled faintly like that green Herbal Essences shampoo — the kind everyone used because it came in huge bottles.

I pulled back from her hug, wiping my eyes again with the inside of my sleeve.
Then I started scratching.
Not out of nerves this time — actual itching.

“God,” I muttered, shifting on the bench. “I must’ve gotten bitten by mosquitos or something. I’m itching down here.”

I scratched near my chest, just under the edge of my shirt.

Maya turned her head slightly. “Where exactly?”

I gestured across my upper chest, frowning. “Like… here. I dunno. It started yesterday during class, but it’s worse now.”

Her brows knit together. “Maybe we should look, just to be sure it’s not a rash or something.”

“I guess.”

I pulled up the hem of my shirt halfway, expecting a red bump or irritated skin.

Maya leaned in to look — and then froze.
Her expression changed instantly. Her eyes scanned the spot quickly, then flicked up to meet mine.
She didn’t say anything right away.

“Is it bad?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light. “Poison ivy? One of those demon college bugs?”

Maya didn’t answer. Instead, she gently pulled my shirt back down.
Firm, but careful.

Then, quietly:
“…That’s not a bug bite.”

I blinked. “Then what—?”

She shook her head, still calm but now serious in a way that made my stomach knot.

“I’ve seen that before,” she said softly. “Come on. Not here.”

I stood without thinking, my hands hovering near my sides, still unsure what exactly she saw — or what she knew that I didn’t.

Maya didn’t say anything else.
She just picked up her bag, nodded for me to follow, and started walking.

We cut across the edge of the quad, past the side of the library and into the quieter part of campus where the girls’ dorms sat tucked between rows of trees. A squirrel darted across the concrete path, and the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with the faintest scent of cafeteria French fries wafting from the student union vents.

The whole walk, I kept thinking she’d say something — joke about it, ask if I was okay again, something.
But she didn’t.
She just walked with purpose. Calm. Like she already knew something I didn’t.

Her building was quieter than mine — no music leaking under doors, no yelling down the halls. The hallway felt cool and echoey, painted in the same dull beige every dorm seemed to have, with a fire extinguisher case halfway down and a poster for Respect Week crookedly taped beside a vending machine humming softly in the corner.

She unlocked her door without a word and stepped inside, holding it open for me.

I hesitated for half a second, then followed.

Her room was simple — two beds, one unmade. A corded phone sat on the desk under a dry-erase board that said “Back @ 7!” in pink marker. Posters on the wall — Empire Records, Clueless, and a big one of Mia Hamm. A corkboard full of pinned photos — school dances, soccer games, beach trips.

She walked straight to her side and tossed her bag down before turning to face me.

“Sit,” she said gently, motioning to the edge of her bed.

I did.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She knelt in front of me, her face serious but kind.

“Can you show me again?” she asked softly. “Just for a second?”

I nodded, slowly.
Pulled up my shirt again.

She looked — and this time, she didn’t hide her reaction.
Not fear. Not disgust.
Recognition.

Maya sat back on her heels and took a breath.

“That’s not a bite,” she said. “That’s… development.”

My brain stalled.

“What?”

She looked at me carefully. “Riley… I think your body’s changing in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with mosquitos or practice or stress.”

I dropped my shirt and looked away, heart pounding.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “It’s not possible.”

Maya didn’t say anything right away.
She just looked at me.
Not scared. Not confused. Just… steady.

I turned my head slightly. “What do you mean it’s development? What are you saying?”

She hesitated — just for a second. Like she was searching for the right words.

Then she said it.
Soft.
Careful.

“I think you might be… turning into a girl.”

The words hung in the air between us like fog — heavy, impossible, real.

I stared at her.
My mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

“You’re not crazy,” she added quickly. “And you’re not imagining it. I saw what I saw, Riley. Your voice. Your body. Everything’s been changing.”

I shook my head, but it wasn’t a no. It was more like a what do I even do with that?

“That’s not a thing,” I said hoarsely. “That doesn’t happen.”

“I know,” she said. “But I think… it is.”

Maya was quiet for a long moment. Then she shifted where she sat, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“I know this is awkward,” she said softly. “But… can I ask you something? And you can totally say no.”

I looked at her, still feeling like I was floating a few inches outside of my body.

She hesitated, her cheeks coloring. “It’s just… you said the nurse noticed stuff was off, right? I’ve just been thinking. And wondering. So, um… have you ever been, like… kicked down there? You know—accidentally. In soccer or something?”

The question caught me off guard. “Uh… yeah? A few times.”

“And… did it ever really hurt?”

I blinked. “Not really. I mean, I thought maybe I was just lucky. Everyone else made such a big deal about it.”

Maya gave me a long, searching look, like puzzle pieces were finally starting to fall into place in her head. “Riley… is it possible this didn’t just start recently? Like… maybe something’s always been different?”

I didn’t know what to say. My hands were clenched in the navy bedspread again, the one with faded stars. My chest felt tight.

“What are you saying?” I asked, even though I already sort of knew.

“I’m saying… maybe this isn’t just some sudden change. Maybe your body’s always had something people just didn’t notice. Or didn’t want to notice. Like… intersex.”
I looked at her in shock and disbelief.

The room felt too quiet. Too still.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she had to be.

But all I could do was sit there, frozen, as something deep in my gut started to shift — not like panic this time, but like a question I’d never let myself ask.

Something I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to.