Note to readers. Don't read if you don't like poor grammar, this is rough.
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?

Edited by Amanda Lynn.

Thank God, I have my family. Mom is my mother and dad is my father. Then I have a sister, Dea. She’s four years younger than I am and four inches taller than I am.

A few weeks ago the whole family had been shopping for a new dress for Dea. There were people with cameras who were taking pictures of some event, but they took pics of me instead of Dea, while mom’s talking about her. So everyone thinks that I’m mom’s tomboyish daughter emerging her cocoon.

To tell you the truth, I’m not that much against being mom’s daughter. I like the time others think I’m a girl up to the paddling for not wearing the bra to school. I now wear it.

Mom has arranged things for me to look and feel and accept the girl I apparently am.

But back to my sis. Meet a tall precocious girl with a kid’s brain – that’s Dea. Add to this attention deficit syndrome and you get a picture. The picture of me chaperoning Dea everywhere she needs and doing whatever she needs.

I do her homework with her. I learn her rhymes and read her books. She wants to be a dancer so we dance together. She wants to be a singer so we sing together. We stretch together. We play accordion together.

We go to the same self-defense classes because she needs protection. We learn to attack instead of escape and it proves to be effective for me with the bullies at school.

We go to school together and come back home too. That’s cuz the Elementary, Junior High, and my school shares the same campus.

Today we go to school together again. It’s Saturday and there are no classes so we wear what’s comfortable. We both wear shorts with tights underneath, cropped tees, and then hoodies.

It’s the end of September. To be more accurate it’s the last Saturday of September. At Junior High, it’s a day for tryouts., Girls day, For volleyball, soccer, cheerleader, track, and marching. My sis Dea wants to be in the marching band. She plays accordion but there are no accordion players in the band. She wants to be a dancer there. Like majorette but not majorette – the dancer.

She has some steps, moves, turns, and jumps to learn for tryouts. I learn them first and then I teach her what to do.

We are here at the school’s stadium some thirty minutes early, because kids are called alphabetically. Our surname is Borlaw and I don’t think that there are many girls in front of Dea. Because she has attention deficit syndrome, she needs to practice before she tries out so she can do everything she needs to.

We both do turns, steps, twists, and jumps. Meanwhile, kids start to gather. Coaches are here at last and Dea is called. She is the first one, then she is dismissed to wait till all the other girls have finished.

As I have said before it’s the end of September. It’s not cold but it’s kinda chilly. That’s why we wear tights under our shorts and why we have hoodies to keep Dea and me warm. To keep Dea’s mind occupied we do the same twists, jumps, and steps as before.

Only three girls of eleven are selected to the band, Dea’s one of them.

The two of us and the other two girls now stand at the coach's table and they give us slips for our parents to sign. Then the girls are measured for their uniforms. The schedule is every day after school, so I’ll wait for her in the study hall and do my homework. Not bad.

“What’s your name sweetie?” one of the coaches asked me.

“Sally, ma’am.”

“Are you in some way related to Dea?”

“She’s my sis, ma’am.”

“Why don’t you try? Your moves are even better than Dea’s.”

“I’m in high school, ma’am,” I reply motioning toward my school building.

“I don’t remember you,” coach number two says.

“We don’t have marching band, ma’am,” I say.

“We have pep squad,” she says.

Ok, that’s news to me. I don’t know what it is. I know squad. But what’s that “pep” thing is about.

“Don’t want to join us? Your moves are perfect,” the coach asks.

“I can’t.”

“Why?” they both ask.

There are those two coaches and all the other girls and a couple of adults with them.

“I don’t want to answer in public,” I reply, look around and I count almost ten heads here.

The kids are dismissed but we wait another fifteen minutes until there are only coaches left.

“Because of my sis Dea’s attention deficit syndrome, I have to stay with her all the time,” I explain to them.

Coaches look at each other and then number two says, “Pep squad practice is at the same time as of the marching band.”

“You’ll get some credit points,” number one adds.

“There are still some unanswered questions,” I state.

“And those are?” number one asks.

“I don’t know what this pep thing is,” I say.

“It’s like cheerleading but more like dance, more in the school and not the field,” number two replies.

“I need you to call my mom,” I add.

“Isn’t a signed slip enough?”

“I prefer you call her,” I insist and give them mom’s mobile number.

Mom says she’s ok with me in the pep squad when we come home. She says coach Grant knows I’m a t-girl.

So it’s Monday now and I’m wearing my new uniform. It’s like a cheerleader’s uniform but there are panties under the skirt, not running shorts and pantyhose. I don’t know how girls feel about it. For me, it is compressing and hot. The uniform is so constricting that I need almost ten minutes to take a leak.

Well… I’m in uniform cuz the squad is one girl short and homecoming week starts. We raise school spirits before classes and during recess.

So it’s Wednesday now and I’m used to the uniform and I am with the squad. We do toe-touch jumps together with cheerleaders when the alarm goes off.

I mean it’s an alarm and not a school bell. It’s nothing really special cuz we have several of them each year, alarms, I mean.

Some teacher says it’s a mass shooting.

Another says it’s a drill.

The third says maybe it’s real but she can’t be sure.

If it’s a fire alarm, students go outside. If it’s a mass shooting, we go to shelters. There are two shelters – one for boys and another for girls. I usually go into the boys' shelter, but today I’m in a pep uniform and they shun me out.

I go to the girls' side but the gym teacher says I’m not a real girl and have to stay with boys. I turn back but the boys’ shelter and it is already closed.

I think, “What a heck? It’s a drill anyway.” And I go outside to the recess’ area.

So I’m minding my business and repeating Chattahoochee's steps there.

“Whatcha doing?” a voice asks from behind me.

It spooks me, I squeak, I turn around and there is a man in black. I mean the man in black not like men in black but like the man in special gear with a gun, in gloves, and some special goggles.

“Practicing,” I manage to reply.

“I mean why are you not in the shelter,” he asks.

“There is no place for me in any of them.”

He says a word I don’t dare to repeat here.

“It’s a drill anyway?” I say not sure it’s a drill.

“It’s real,” he says.

“Nobody’s here,” I say. It can’t be real without a shooter.

“Junior high,” the man motions his head in direction of Dea’s school.

“You sure?” I ask in awe. He nods his head yes.

The panic overwhelms me. Have I mentioned that my sis Dea has attention deficit syndrome? Someone has to take her by hand and lead her into the shelter. Otherwise, she will stay outside.

I don’t remember any good Samaritan in my previous school. Dea is for sure left outside and I have to protect her.

“You don’t,” the man says. I look at him. It dawn’s to me I’m thinking aloud.

“I’ll be back,” I say and run away. Not away but to the junior high.

Some boy is on my way and he intentionally trips me up. I fall to the ground. I jump up on my feet, I see my pantyhose is running, my face is bloody and my uniform is ripped.

I’m in a fury. I tackle that boy down, keep him pinned to the ground and smash his face with my fists.

The same man in black runs to us and peels me from that boy. Some other men take the boy away.

I’m not finished yet.

“Calm down,” the man says.

“You don’t know how hard it is to keep that pantyhose from not running all day!”

“Yeah… I don’t,” he admits.

“And my uniform and this blood and I still need to get to Dea…” I’m so agitated I’m sobbing.

“You don’t,” the man says.

I want to complain but other men in black gear approach us, they take us to their vans. There are police officers here and they want statements from me and I say I can’t.

They ask, “Why?”

“Cuz my sis Dea is in danger and my pantyhose’s running,” I explain.

“She’s not in danger anymore,” one officer says.

“Is she killed?” I shriek. They try to calm me and then one says like, “The shooter’s arrested. No casualties here.”

The incident is over and they take my statement not letting me change my pantyhose and wash my face. Then I’m in an ambulance, paramedics clean my face and put a band-aid on the wound. I still have a black eye.

I go back to my school. The teacher doesn’t allow me into the class and takes me to the office. Secretary calls my mom.

There is a reporter from the local paper but they tell me to wait for my mom. My mom arrives and she’s ok with me being interviewed by a reporter.

The reporter drops the bomb and says I’ve disarmed the shooter. Like that stupid boy is the shooter.

The reporter is like, “Oh I remember you from the teen magazine.”

“She’s a tomboy then,” my mom chirps in.

“I still recognize the true tomboy in you,” the reporter says and smirks at me.

“How so?” I wonder.

“Running pantyhose and black eye – the image of the true tomboy,” she said and I guess there’s some pride in her voice. She takes my picture on her camera.

Then I’m released and go home with my mom.

The next day I’m at school, I’m in pep uniform like a day before, I still have my black eye, but mom helps to conceal the blackness. I’m suddenly famous and I don’t know how to deal with being famous.

If Dea was in another kind of sport I would have never joined the pep squad. With all those consequences, like forced to go to the girls' shelter and not being allowed in there, then left outside and fighting that boy.

I’m used to staying under the radar, I’m like on display now, And I don’t like it.