Chapter 6: Returning to College Life

She spent that night packing her clothes for the trip back to the University; her packing went slowly, since she kept reflecting back to Mark’s last words, “Please go and let me be.” How could he be so mean to her, she wondered? Hadn’t she offered him her unconditional love, her vow to stand beside him as he recovered from his injuries, even though he may never walk again?

“Honey, he cares about you and I think he truly loves you,” Cecelia Hansson said. She had been helping her daughter pack for the trip back to the campus, which she’d make on the bus.

“How would you know, mother?” she snapped. “You weren’t there. He turned his back to me.”

Her mother attempted to hug her, but Karen rudely shrugged her off. “Leave me alone.” She fell onto her bed, among the lingerie that had been stacked ready for packing and buried her head into a pillow.

Cecelia Hansson remained, however, and continued to try to comfort her daughter. “He does love you and he wants you to be free to live your life, to have a career and maybe even find a nice young man you can love and share your life with. He’s afraid you’ll sacrifice everything in your future to care for him.”

“Oh mother, that’s so unfair,” she cried into the pillow.

“Unfair for whom, dear? You? Isn’t he the injured person here?”

Karen said nothing, but her mother’s words bore into her mind. Yes, Mark was the injured person here, and she was being selfish and thinking only of herself and the loss of the young man’s love for her. She realized that she should stop her crying, resume her packing and get ready for the return to school, where she could begin to move forward in life, facing whatever fortune or ill-fortune that came her way.

“I guess you’re right, mom,” she said finally, rising to a sitting position.

“Mark will want you to thrive, I’m sure, dear. Keep in touch with him, letting him know how you’re doing. You can be his friend forever, and in this way help him to recover. Who knows, maybe there’s a miracle coming for him?”

“Oh mother,” Karen said, putting her arms around her mother and hugging her closely.

*****
Karen returned to the campus a good 10 days before the regular semester was to begin. Professor Eric Fenstrom — the head of the Theater Department in the School of Fine Arts — arranged for another semester of a work-study arrangement that would pay her a relatively decent salary, and help to reduce her student loan burden while also giving her a chance to add to her plan to continue saving for her transitional surgeries.

At first she turned the professor down, largely because she was concerned that he might try for a second time to press his sexual attentions upon her.

“Karen, please reconsider your decision,” he urged on her after she told him of her decision to not rejoin him in the second semester. “You really are the most efficient girl I’ve ever had in this position, and you also have an uncanny sense about what works in the theater. Your instincts are terrific.”

“Professor, I’d like to continue in the job, but after what happened, I don’t think I’m comfortable working with you.” She had chosen her words carefully; even so, she found it difficult to state them.

The conversation occurred a day before the Christmas Holiday season began, and the two were in the professor’s cramped office in the Fine Arts Building, surrounded by shelves crammed with scripts, books and papers. His desk was a hodge-podge of piled papers, a few dusty acting awards from the professor’s performing days and a bobble head figurine of Sir Lawrence Olivier.

The professor leaned back in his commodious executive’s chair, wearing jeans and a stained “I Love NYC” sweatshirt, his athletic-shoed feet propped upon the desk before him. Karen was dressed also informally and wore tight-fitting, low-riding jeans with a peach-colored camisole covered by a violet v-neck sweater that accentuated her tiny breasts. She had drawn her light brown hair into a pony tail that she tucked back through the hole in the back of her light blue baseball cap that was emblazoned with a block “W” in red, a symbol of the University’s athletic teams. Karen had made it a practice of dressing casually in her work with the Professor, making certain she did not uncover any skin that may have turned on her employer’s libido. Even so, Karen had the feeling that Fenstrom, his reputation for pushing his attention upon his prettier students, was still aroused by her presence.

“Karen, I want to promise you that what happened a couple of weeks ago will never happen again. And, if that’s the reason you’re rejecting my offer, please rest assured, I’ll never touch you again.”

Karen was not convinced, but the professor persisted: “Look, Karen, where else can you get such a good job at such a good rate?”

Finally, persuaded by the need for a job, Karen agreed to continue as his assistant in the work-study program. It was then that she understood how women so often were forced to endure all sorts of sexual harassment, particularly pretty young girls as she realized she had become.

*****
Her early return to campus had the added bonus of allowing her to schedule an early appointment with Dr. Bargmann at the Mary Ann Keyes Gender Clinic to begin her hormone treatment. In fact, she had been able to get the appointment for the morning after her arrival on campus.

On the long bus trip, prolonged by half a dozen stops at tiny towns and traffic on the two-lane highways that connected her hometown with the University community, she found herself reflecting on the quick changes in her life. Just seven months earlier, Karen had entered the Summer Camp program as Kenny, a shy, unassuming but bright boy with a tendency toward fantasy and romance. In a few weeks, encouraged by her roommate, an athletic, blonde-haired Adonis by the name of Mark Hamilton and a gaggle of girl friends, she had assumed the role of a girl named Karen. As an acting student, she starred (“a dazzling starlet was born,” said a reviewer) as Ophelia, the confused teen girl in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.” For the part, Kenny was urged by the director who was a practitioner of “method acting,” to live for more than five weeks as a girl 24 hours a day, which she did. She found femininity came easily and naturally due to her dainty, soft body and within a few weeks she learned how exciting life could be as a girl.

Though she had enrolled in the fall semester as “Kenny Hansson,” her seeming femininity had become a reality and she was bullied and harassed into being hounded out of the boy’s floor of the college dormitory to find a home at Susan’s Place, a transitional shelter for transgendered girls on campus. With the assistance of the Gender Clinic, her university records were to be changed to enroll her in the second semester as “Karen Marie Hansson” with a gender listing of “F.” Since November 1st, she had lived outwardly as a girl.

Never a strong girl, Karen was breathing heavily as she dragged her large suitcase on wheels the two blocks from the bus station to Susan’s Place. Although there hadn’t been snow in several days, there were portions of the sidewalk which were still rutted with packed snow, making it hard to pull the heavy luggage, while managing a smaller briefcase in her other hand. It was a frigid late afternoon, already growing dark and the wind bit into her face.

She was within a block of the House when she felt she could go no further unless she rested. She stood on the corner, turning her back to the wind, when she heard a voice behind her.

“Need a hand, miss?”

She turned to see a tall, middle-aged man, wearing a leather coat and Russian-style fur hat, the ear flaps down as protection against the cold. He had a handsome, rugged square face, with slight lines emanating from his eyes, which sparkled as they looked directly at her.

“Oh, thanks, but I’m just catching my breath,” she said, the words coming out, accompanied by a cloud of frozen mist.

“Let me assist you across the street, young lady,” he said, his voice direct and commandeering. He took the heavy luggage from her grasp, snapped down the pulling mechanism and lifted it easily as he guided her, linking his other hand in her elbow, across the street.

“Now where are you headed?” he asked kindly.

“Just there,” she said, pointing to the transitional living center. Suddenly, she hated herself for offering such information to a strange man, even though he seemed so nice.

“I could see you were exhausted pulling this heavy case,” he said, as they stopped in front of the house.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, reaching for the suitcase.

“Let me take these up the stairs for you,” he said.

“No thanks, I can handle it from here,” she said, still struggling to get her hands on her suitcase.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, grabbing the case and moving quickly up the five steps onto the front porch of the old house.

Karen followed, cursing her own physical weakness that led her to become dependent upon this older man who moved with such directness and command. What did he have in mind?

Depositing the case at the front door, he turned to Karen and said, his smile widening, “I’m Paul, and what is your name, young lady?”

“Just call me Keisha,” Karen said, using the first false name that came to her mind.

“Keisha?” he said, mystified, apparently confused that a young lady of Karen’s appearance would have a name normally associated with African-American girls.

“Thank you, sir,” Karen said, using her own assertiveness, hoping the man would go away.

Just then, the front door opened and the tall, commanding figure of Sonja Peterson, the manager of Susan’s Place, appeared in the doorway. “Let me have your case, dear,” she said, walking out onto the cold porch. She was dressed in grey sweat pants and University sweat shirt, with a wool cap on her head.

“Thank you, Sonja,” Karen said, pleased to see the presence of Sonja, who had fastened a stern gaze upon the man standing next to Karen.

“I’ll get it from here sir,” Sonja said, eying the man directly. “Thank you for assisting her.”

She pulled Karen inside and slammed the door shut, leaving the man alone on the porch.

“Thank you, Sonja,” Karen said. “He just came along and grabbed my suitcase from me and insisted on carrying it right up to the door.”

“I’m glad I happened to look out of the window, Karen,” Sonja said, her voice husky, but lilting with feminine inflections. “I’ve seen him hanging around the neighborhood recently, and I’m worried he’s got his eyes on some of you girls. I guess I can look tough and nasty so he won’t monkey with me, but you on the other hand need to be wary of guys like him.”

“Well, he seemed nice enough,” Karen said. “And I was grateful for his help. I was worn out dragging it from the bus station.”

“You’ll have to learn, dear, that pretty girls like you are often prey to guys like him,” she said. “They come on all sweet and nice, but they only got sex on their mind, and it’s not going to be sex the way you’ll like it.”

“I know. I told him my name was Keisha, but I don’t think he believed me. Thank God you came to the door.”

“Keisha?” Sonja said, giggling. “That’s a good one.”

Suddenly, the two girls were laughing uncontrollably.

Sonja was required by her job as House manager to remain at the place during the Holidays, although she did find get home for two days at Christmas to visit her family.

“Now it’s only you and me here for a few days, before the others arrive,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back, Karen. It was getting lonely here.”

Karen went to get unpacked; later the two went to a nearby Pizza parlor for dinner, where Karen chose Italian salad and garlic bread.

“Guess you’re not planning on doing any kissing tonight, Keisha,” Sonja teased as they awaited their food.

“No,” Karen said, laughing at Sonja’s use of her fake name.

Realizing that the person she wanted to kiss was still flat on his back in a hospital room, Karen’s momentary joy turned sour. She felt tears forming in her eyes, picturing Mark Hamilton and remembering his last words ordering her to leave his room — and his life. She thought back to the last scene she and Mark had performed together in the summer camp performance of “Hamlet,” in which the crazed Hamlet dismissed the shy, uncertain Ophelia with the words: “Get thee to a nunnery.”

This was the third time that Mark had told her to leave his life, and on two of the occasions he had not been acting. She had been rejected by the love of her life again and again. Yet, she felt she still had a lock on Mark’s heart; he wanted her badly, she felt confident. Just give him time!

*****
Karen saw Dr. Bargmann the following morning. She chose to wear thick, black tights under a wool skirt, blouse and sweater for her visit to the MaryAnn Keyes Gender Clinic, even though the zero-degree temperatures probably would have made slacks a more sensible choice.

Sonja had queried her at a simple breakfast of dry cereal, skim milk and banana the two shared that morning, wondering if she was dressed warm enough.

“I just want to look feminine for the doctor,” Karen explained.

“Honey, you don’t need clothes to make you feminine,” Sonja said, smiling. “You’re all girl, even in a lumberjack’s outfit, dear.”

Karen blushed. Becoming girlish had been no struggle for her at all; it seemed natural.

She was grateful for the beige feather-stuffed parka and its hood as she walked the several blocks to the Gender Clinic; even so, her nose stung and cheeks seemed to freeze from the stiff, cold north wind. The fur-lined boots she wore made the walk laborious, but they were necessary to keep her feet warm. She carried an oversized fabric purse with brown leather trim in which she stuffed a pair of ballet slippers that she could slip on after arriving at the clinic. As she soon realized, the thick tights offered little protection against the cold and she feared that perhaps she might have gotten frost-bit during the walk.

“Migosh, Karen,” gushed Moira, the physician’s assistant at the Gender Clinic. “You look so cute and pretty this morning. It’s obvious you’re becoming quite a girl.”

“Thank you,” Karen said. The two gave each other warm, sisterly hugs.

Sitting in the outer lobby, Karen leaned over to remove her boots and put on the flats. She looked up at one point and realized Moira was watching her closely.

“What?” Karen asked.

“I was just noticing your legs, Karen. They’re just lovely, and those black tights really make you look so sexy.”

Karen smiled, and thrust her right leg up as she completed putting the flat on her foot, performing a little show for Moira.

“I’m envious, Karen,” Moira said. “I’d die for a nice pair of legs like yours.”

“I’m sure yours are fine, Moira,” Karen said. The physician’s assistant was in her early thirties and had a slightly chunky body; though Karen had never seen her in anything but slacks, she imagined the woman must have had heavy-framed legs. Karen had always thought Moira to be a pretty woman, perhaps because of the ever-cheerful demeanor and dancing dark eyes in a face framed by dark bangs.

Moira led Karen to an examining room, where she took Karen’s blood pressure, temperature, height and weight. The readings were 120/68 for blood pressure, 97.9 for temperature and 5’7” at 118 pounds.

“You’re a healthy girl, all right,” Moira said.

“I gained some over the holidays,” Karen said, her tone apologetic. “My tummy feels chubby.”

“A little chubbiness doesn’t hurt, Karen, but then maybe you should do a bit more exercise,” the physician’s assistant said.

“I don’t want to bulk up, Moira, or get those big, ol’ muscles.”

“You don’t need to lift weights, but maybe we can get you into some regular aerobics groups for women.”

Karen nodded. She realized Moira was correct; she had thought that her work as a waitress was exercise enough, and to be sure she was always physically exhausted after a day of hoisting dishes and trays and bustling too and fro from the kitchen to the customer’s tables.

“I’m not very strong,” Karen confessed.

“Well, I’ll see if I can find a nice program for you, and one that will fit into your schedule,” Moira said.

The physician’s assistant turned the conversation into a discussion about Karen’s progress in transitioning; eventually, Karen admitted to her concern over the injuries to Mark and his apparent rejection of her. The conversation ended when Karen could no longer control her emotions and began crying.

“There, there, Karen,” Moira said, hugging the girl.

She left Karen alone in the room, telling her that Dr. Bargmann would be in to see her soon.

*****
“So that young man is your boyfriend?” Dr. Bargmann said as he began his examination. The doctor referred to Mark, of course; most likely Moira had shared with him the incident in which Mark had been injured.

“Was my boyfriend,” Karen said, hoping her eyes were not so red as to betray her crying jag.

“Was? I watched that game and saw he was injured, Karen. That was so tragic; he had been playing spectacularly before that.”

“He says he wants me to leave him alone, that he doesn’t want me wasting my life caring for him, but Dr. Bargmann I can’t leave him like that. I don’t want to desert him.”

Dr. Bargmann’s face showed concern for the girl seated before him; he offered a faint frown and was silent for a moment, as if seeking to find a way to express himself.

“My dear child,” he said finally. “Your compassion is sweet and sincere, I’m sure, but your friend is certainly going through a tough period in his life. He needs understanding from his family and friends. Sometimes, he won’t act as you might like, because as I understand he’s facing the loss of a promising athletic career, and that must be devastating to him.”

Karen nodded. “I think he still loves me, doctor.”

“He likely does, but he sounds like a generous and caring boy, Karen, and I think he was being honest when he said he doesn’t want you to waste your own life, in case he will never be able to fully recover. I understand there’s a concern that he’ll never be able to walk again.”

“Yes, that’s still to be determined, I guess, but I want to be there to encourage him and to help him. Oh doctor, I love him so.”

Karen could no longer hold her emotions back, and she began to cry. Dr. Bargmann moved onto the sofa next to her and put and arm around her, drawing her to his chest. She buried her head onto his tweed sport coat and sobbed, her slender body shaking in sadness. He held her for several minutes, his hold being gentle and caring.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said when her sobbing quieted. She straightened up, and he released her, going back to the executive chair next to his desk.

“This isn’t my normal role, Karen, to comfort you like this, and I hoped I helped you a bit. I can suggest a therapist or two who you might like to visit for consultation in your current grief,” he said.

Karen look at him, still wiping her face dry from the tears with a tissue. “I know doctor and I’m sorry to have broken down like this.”

“Dear girl,” he said. “You needn’t apologize. You’re reacting as only a young lady in love would act.”

He paused for a moment, and then resumed talking:

“My job now with you is to determine whether you’re ready to begin hormonal treatment. What that means is do we consider you to be sufficiently motivated to live your life ahead as a woman, since once we begin treatment if will be hard to reverse the process and return you to a male life style.”

“I understand, doctor, and I assure you I feel real as a girl,” Karen said. “I can’t imagine ever living as a boy again.”

Dr. Bargmann said he’d like to turn on a tape recorder to keep a record of their conversation and to assist him in making his report later. “Do you object?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said.

He asked her to sign a release, also signed by himself, in which he agreed the tape would be kept confidential and only become a part of her private medical record. He spent about 15 minutes, mainly asking her about her experiences since she had begun living fulltime as a girl; she became nervous at times, realizing she portrayed her tension by repeated dainty flicking of her hair as she talked.

At times, she tried to calm herself down by sitting primly, looking occasionally at her slender, pretty hands folded together in her lap, both feet planted squarely on the floor in front of her.

“You’ve only been living fulltime for a bit over two months, Karen,” Dr. Bargmann said when the interrogation ended. “Normally that’s not enough time for us to begin hormonal treatment, but I can see both by your physical appearance, your mannerisms and your experiences so far that you are ready. You certainly seem to have a dominance of female genes in your system, since you appear naturally female.”

“I’ve never been comfortable as a boy, doctor. That much I know,” she said.

“Frankly, I can hardly picture you as a boy, Karen,” he said, smiling.

“I was a pretty pathetic boy,” she said, letting out a giggle.

“Well, Karen, you are a very lovely girl, and most importantly you seem to be most generous and caring,” he said. “So often my patients here seem selfish in their quest to transition, but you seem to care about others. That may be your most marvelous and most feminine feature, dear.”

He gave her prescriptions for two medications, one as a testosterone blocker and the other as a female hormone, and said she could get them filled at the University pharmacy. After that, Karen was advised to begin participating in a support group of students that would begin meeting weekly in the living room at Susan’s Place once the spring semester began later in January. She would also have weekly meetings with Moira, the physician’s assistant.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said, bounding out of his office. Her spirits were lifted — at least for a while — as she returned to Susan’s Place.

*****
The walk back to Susan’s Place was a frigid one, since the temperature had already dipped to below zero as the sun dipped down to the horizon in the southwest, behind the ancient buildings of the old campus of the University. Karen reflected on the idyllic nature of the view, as she walked in the cold, her hood drawn tightly against her head, a colorful scarf wrapped about her neck, flowing in the breeze as she walked. Despite the weather, Karen’s spirits were high, and the wind out of the northwest was at her back. Momentarily, at least, Karen felt at peace; neither the concern over the unexpected loss of Mark’s love and his questionable chances of recovery, nor the challenges of the coming school year along with the complications of her transitioning seemed to intrude upon the comfort of the setting in which she walked, carefully avoiding the ice that formed periodically on the sidewalks.

The scent of baking burst into her nostrils as she stepped out of the cold and into the living room at Susan’s Place.

Taking off her parka and her boots, she wondered if Daphne had returned from her trip home; she knew Sonja rarely cooked anything, much less do any baking. The only girl in the residence who baked regularly was Daphne, the onetime football lineman who had become — at her own volition — the house’s resident baker.

“Welcome back, Daphne,” Karen said, entering the kitchen. “It smell’s great.”

“Ah, Karen, come give me a kiss, right here on my cheek,” the girl said, her voice husky but soft. “My hands are full of dough or else I’d give you a large hug.”

Karen almost had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss the tall young woman. She had a massive body that had grown soft with a combination of hormones and lack of regular exercise. Her large breasts strained against the full length pink, frilly apron she wore; her arms were exposed, her once massive muscular arms becoming a gelatin of flabby fat. Just two years before, Darren Zelich, had been all-conference tackle as a freshman on the football team and faced a potential future as a high-priced athlete.

Zelich surprised everyone by giving up his football scholarship; publicly the school announced that Zelich would leave the team for personal reasons. He dropped out of the University for the spring semester, returning the following year as Daphne Zale. Karen heard Daphne singing to herself as she entered the kitchen and she was cheered by the joyful demeanor of the girl as she baked. In the two months Karen had been living at Susan’s place, she had never seen Daphne with a frown or scowl. She seemed to be the happiest girl in the house; yet, Karen knew she had experienced a difficult transition.

“Making cinnamon rolls, Daphne?” Karen asked.

“Yes, and you and Sonja better help me eat them,” she said, with a giggle. “I shouldn’t be baking them at all. I gotta start losing weight.”

“I’m sure we’ll help,” Karen said.

“God, I envy you, Karen. I’d die to have a body just half as girlish as yours.”

“You’re look plenty girlish, Daphne.”

“Hah! Just big, old fat girl!”

Karen impulsively gave Daphne as quick kiss. “You’re the sweetest, kindest girl I know, Daphne.”

Daphne reddened. “Just get out of here and let me cook. I hope you’ll join Sonja and me for supper. I’m doing my special recipe for eggplant Creole.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“And we’re going to have a dress up meal, just the three of us girls, with candlelight and wine. Do you mind dressing up, Karen?”

“Great, I love it,” Karen said.

“We’ll have a few glasses of wine at 6:30 and serve about 7.”

Karen bounded up to her room, tickled with the idea of dressing up without the need for venturing out into the cold night air. The expectation of having a quiet evening with two such sweet girls excited her immensely and she wanted to look as pretty as ever for them. What a marvelous way to celebrate her beginning of a life as a woman!

*****
Her excitement was tempered with thoughts of Mark Hamilton, flat on his back in a hospital bed some 90 miles to the east. She wished she could magically fly to his side, to hold his hand and comfort him. Even if she could find such a magic carpet, she knew he’d reject her, not because he didn’t love her, but that he now felt he was not worthy for her love, and that his helplessness would make a lifelong relationship impossible. He did not want to become a burden to her.

Mark’s mother (Bless her soul!) had invited Karen to call her periodically for information on Mark’s progress.

“Call my cell phone, dear, but if I don’t answer just leave a message as to when’s best to return your call,” Patti Hamilton told Karen. “I won’t answer if I’m with Mark, dear. I hope you understand.”

“I do, Patti,” Karen said. “I just wish he’d let me talk to him.”

“Just give him time, dear. Mark’s going through a difficult time right now,” the woman said. Karen could hear Patti Hamilton’s voice breaking up, as if she were about to cry.

“I’ll try not to bother you too often, ma’am, but I really care about him.”

“I know you do, Karen, and I know Mark still cares about you.”

Karen had some time to herself before she had to get ready for the supper that Daphne was preparing for the three girls. She checked her emails, and was pleased to see that Ramini would be returning to school within a few days. The prospect of sharing time with the petite Indian girl pleased her, since the two had always been able to share their joys and sadness together. In a sense they had become girls together, since they first met during the first semester as a pair of petite boy roommates.

Patti Hamilton sent a brief email, saying Mark was continuing on a series of tests and had remained “stable.” The term bothered Karen. Wouldn’t remaining stable mean that nothing had changed, that there’d been no improvement in his condition? Did it mean that he was still unable to move his legs, or even to control his personal needs?

In her email, Mrs. Hamilton suggested that Karen check the Des Moines Register website, which had carried a story about Mark the she might find interesting. She also suggested to Karen that she might want to write Mark a letter (not an email, but a real pen-and-ink letter). Her message ended: “Don’t send him any gushy ‘Get-well’ card. Just tell him what you’re doing. A chatty letter would be great. Love, Patti.”

The suggestion brought a tingle of excitement to Karen; suddenly she imagined being a young lady in Victorian years, when poetry and handwritten letters were exchanged between lovers; she imagined herself, fully dressed in high-collar dresses, fully fluffed out with several petticoats, sitting at a desk in a heavily draped pinkish room writing by a quill pen onto a lace trimmed piece of stationery. And how sweet it would be to enclose a dainty handkerchief, scented with her perfume, into an envelop with the letter? Her room, she imagined, would be lit only by several kerosene lamps or perhaps even flickering candles.

To her dismay, however, she realized she had no stationery suitable for a young lady like herself to send to a boyfriend or lover. Perhaps one of the other girls in the House might have some she could borrow; otherwise, she’d have to get some the following day during her lunch hour. She was scheduled to work at Professor’s Fenstrom’s office then.

“Hamilton forgives tackler” headlined the sports page on the Des Moines Register website.

Accompanying was a photo of a smiling Mark in his heavily wired hospital bed, with a huge round-faced young man, similarly smiling. The caption read: “Mark Hamilton, the injured Cyclone quarterback, and Gene Sokolowski, the tackler whose hard hit took Hamilton out of the Bowl game, meet in Hamilton’s Milwaukee hospital room.”

In the accompanying story, Mark Hamilton was reported as saying in a brief interview after the meeting that he felt no anger toward Sokolowski. “From all I’ve seen and been told, it was a legal hit and all Gene was doing was his job in trying to tackle me. That’s football!”

Mark also was quoted as saying, “I feel sorry for him. He feels just devastated that he hurt me so badly, but I told him he wasn’t responsible. He’s really a sweet guy.”

Karen read the words, hardly believing them. How could Mark forgive Sokolowski? Wasn’t it just a brutish attack? Finally, she realized that everything Mark had said in the interview was correct; Gene Sokolowski was merely playing the game as he was taught. It was a revealing moment and it reminded her again of why she loved the boy so much. He was loaded with talent, brains, a lovely body and incredible good looks, but more importantly Mark Hamilton was a warm, honest and humble man.

*****
Karen wondered just how formal the other two girls were planning to be for their supper that evening. It seemed strange that Daphne and Sonja wanted to set up such a formal affair for just the three of them. Normally both girls seemed to be dressed in the most casual of outfits, normally jeans and sweats.

Karen had a black cocktail dress that she wore only once, and wondered about wearing it. She loved how she looked in the dress which exposed her pretty shoulders and arms; it had mid-thigh length and with coffee-colored hosiery and a pair of simple black pumps she knew she looked both stunning and sexy. The house, however, was a bit chilly as temperatures outside plunged well below zero and she’d like have to wear a sweater or jacket so as to avoid the shivers.

Putting aside the cocktail dress, she finally settled on a fitted, pencil shaped cotton textured skirt in grey, speckled with touches of light red and yellow pansies; she topped that off with a white camisole and a plain teal cardigan sweater with five large jeweled buttons adorning the front. She let her hair down, brushing it into smooth flows to her shoulders. Under the skirt she wore a pair of dark tights, with a pair of teal-colored sequined sandals with two-inch heels.

Karen rubbed a bit of foundation into her face which had become ruddy due to the walks she had been doing in the frigid, windy weather. She applied mascara and light touches of blush along with modest eyeliner and light, pink lipstick and gloss.

“Wow, we are three lovely girls,” exclaimed Sonja as the three gathered at the table.

“Are we celebrating anything?” Karen asked.

“Not really, but I just feel like dressing up and being beautiful, not that I’ll ever qualify for that description,” Daphne laughed.

“We both think you’re beautiful, don’t we Karen?” Sonja said.

“Yes, I do, I really do, Daphne,” Karen said.

“You’re both such convincing liars, although being raised on a farm, I know that some cows can be truly beautiful,” Daphne said with a smile, her sparkling eyes dancing as she spoke.

Karen looked at the other two and suddenly felt under-dressed; she realized that when the others wanted a “dress-up” dinner they really wanted it to be nearly formal in style. Daphne wore a full-length navy blue shift with a high neckline and puffy sleeves; she wore several strands of pearls that dangled down to her ample breasts. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail that exposed dangling hoop earrings. She wore flats, a concession to her 6 foot-plus height. The tall, slender, athletic Sonja wore a red jersey dress, with a drooping neckline. She made an elegant sight, and she, too, wore flats due to her 6 foot frame.

The three gathered at the dining room table where candles were already lit and the lights were low; someone had turned on a Pandora jazz link on their iPad which played through small speakers set up on the breakfront. The tinkling of a piano, the beat of the bass and light rifts from a drummer sounded in the background.

A bottle of chardonnay sat in the midst of the table, with three stemmed glasses.

“This is so elegant,” Karen said.

“Yes, all we’re missing is the men,” giggled Daphne.

“Maybe,” Sonja agreed, “But maybe this might be more fun.”

Karen nodded. She was right; the three girls were able now to enjoy the food, the wine and each other’s company without any stresses.

“Here’s to us girls,” Daphne offered, raising her glass, inviting the others to join her. In dainty, feminine motions they clinked their glasses in the toast.

“To us girls,” Karen and Sonja joined in.