Life sucked.
Chris buried his face deeper into the pillows beneath his head as the sun, nearing its noonday peak, and peeking out from behind the fluffy white clouds that had been hanging in the sky all day, angled its way through the delicate pink curtains of the room and onto his closed eyelids. Too bright, he thought. Way too bright. The last thing he wanted to see right now was the sun.
He went over and over it in his mind. Had he done somethingi wrong, somewhere along the way? Had he screwed things up? Had he had his hands on the ball, had the private dream he'd held so close for so many years within his trembling fingers, and then fumbled it? Or was this just fate's way of kicking him in the shin?
Or was it God's doing, punishing Chris for what he was, for what he wanted? Was it really a sin after all, despite what he'd told himself, despite what he felt in his heart, despite the miracle he'd been granted that very morning?
Dios.
Groaning, Chris tossed the blankets off his head and pushed himself up to his knees, turning to face the window. He muttered a prayer, long and fervent and confused. He pleaded for answers, for direction. Had God done this to tempt Chris, or had he granted Chris his wish out of mercy and love, only to take it away? Nothing made sense anymore. 'That's an understatement, he thought. Round and round in circles Chris went, until at last he turned back to the darkness of the room and dropped back into bed, feeling no more enlightened than before.
He closed his eyes and tried again to fall asleep, to bury himself in forgetfulness and dream, until at last he heaved a heavy, aching sigh and gave up.
Forcing himself wearily to his feet, Chris smoothed down his skirt. It had gotten mussed while he'd tossed and turned in bed, leaving his panties exposed. It was too short, he complained to himself; way too short, and too difficult to control. He didn't know how girls managed it.
He ran his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes, wiping away a few stray tears, careful not to scratch himself with the artificial fingernails on his fingers. His jewelry felt cold against his skin; Chris wasn't used to wearing jewelry, so it was an odd sensation. He hadn't even dared to order a class ring, for fear that it would make him look too effeminate. He held his hands in place for a moment, enjoying the soothing scent of his body wash--berry, he thought--then dropped them back to his side.
Chris paced slowly through the darkened bedroom. Stopping at the ornate white dresser, he ran a hand over the row of stuffed unicorns. Suddenly, giving vent to a moment of frustration and rage, he picked one up and tossed it against the far wall; it exploded in a shower of plush and pink felt. Chris smiled for a moment, satisfied; then he began to cry again, for what must have been the hundredth time that day.
It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.
Chris stared despondently at the pink shag carpet beneath his feet, at the kittens on his dainty ankle socks, at the knobby hairy knees poking out from beneath his skirt, at the stretch of muscular, toned torso that showed under his tight, high-cropped top. He suddenly felt ridiculous, like he was dressed like a clown. Like this was all a joke, like his morning had been a joke, like his plan had been a joke, like his whole life had been a joke. He wanted to rip off these clothes and put his football uniform back on, though he wasn't sure that woud change anything; probably it would only make him look even more ridiculous to everyone but himself... like a little girl pretending to be a big strong man. That's what he was, after all... was it what he'd always been? He cringed.
Sighing, he strode over to the mirror. He was a mess. His hair was tousled, his makeup was smeared, his face was streaked red from crying. He picked up a hairbrush and ran it through the air, trying to use the mirror to position it over his phantom mane of long blonde hair. It was slow going, but after a few minutes he had the hair somewhat under control.
Suddenly resolute, Chris left the bedroom and sought through the unfamiliar hallway for a bathroom. Once he'd found one, he turned on the sink and carefully washed his face, experimenting with a couple of the copious assortment of products arrayed around the room. Then he returned to the bedroom and, turning on the light--squinting for a moment from the glare--he took a seat at the vanity table and began sifting through the dozens of bottles of makeup lined up like a well-ordered army around the table.
It took Chris a long time--he didn't know how long, but it felt like forever--but, experimenting a bit and keeping a large bottle of cold cream handy, he managed to figure out how to apply the various types of makeup at his disposal. At last, removing it all and starting over, he applied a complete set of makeup with the skill of an expert--he seemed to have a surprising knack for this. When he was done, his reflection looked like an absolute vision of beauty. He smiled into the mirror, feeling very good about himself. The gorgeous image of Sarah McMillan beamed confidently back.
Chris had been shocked, to say the least, when he had first seen Sarah's reflection in the mirror that morning. He remembered it all very well. He'd gotten up early, like he did every Saturday morning, to get ready for football practice. As usual, he'd looked toward practice with a veritable hurricane of mixed feelings. He enjoyed the camaraderie with his fellow players, but he hated their machismo. He loathed the violence of the game, but he enjoyed the intimate contact with their bodies, even if that contact did come in the shape of rough and painful tackles. More than anything, though, he loved loved loved the opportunity to hang out with Biff Meadows.
Biff had been quiet that morning. Biff, normally one of the rowdiest members of the team, had entered the locker room almost invisibly, and he had kept entirely to himself while he and Chris and the other players got changed. Biff had seemed almost shamed. It had broken Chris's heart to see the uncomfortably, vaguely baffled expression on Biff's face. More than anything in the world Chris had wanted to run over to Biff and give him a big hug and tell him everything would be okay, that he would take care of Biff and make whatever was bothering Biff all better. But Chris knew he would never get away with that. If he'd tried to console Biff like that, he'd be leaving the locker room with a concussion and a few broken bones, and perhaps absent a few teeth. Still, Chris had kept an eye on Biff--even more than he always did--and gradually a feeling of worry had begun to rumble through Chris's consciousness.
As they'd all run out to the football field, Chris had taken up a position next to Biff. Chris tried chatting with Biff as they jogged to the field, but Biff didn't seem to be listening; the other boy seemed miles away by that point. So Chris, not sure what else he could do to cheer Biff, up, simply slapped Biff warmly on the back.
And that's when everything had changed.
The next moment, Chris had found himself sitting in the passenger seat of a car, the quiet suburban streets of the neighborhood around school rolling by; his vision was tinted pink by the pink lenses of a pair of sunglasses resting over his eyes. At first Chris had just blinked, startled by the abrupt change in scenery. Then, however, something just as startling in his peripheral vision had caught his attention. Lowering his gaze and raising his sunglasses from his eyes, he saw, to his utter astonishment, that he has no longer wearing his football uniform, but rather he was dressed in a decidedly feminine outfit: a tight-fitting pink t-shirt with the word "Bitch" printed on it and a pair of shorts. The shorts were extremely short, and the t-shirt stopped a couple of inches from the top of his shorts. He saw flip-flops on his feet, and his toes were painted a bright shade of pink. Chris's body was still visibly male, and he still had his own tall, honed, muscular body, so the outfit looked very strange on him.
"Go on," came a girl's voice from his left. Chris turned and saw Gabrielle Metzler in the driver's seat, looking at him expectantly.
"H... huh?" Chris said, still dazed.
"You were saying something," Gabby said, turning back to him.
"Oh," Chris said. "Um. I, uh... I forget."
Gabby looked at him again. "Are you okay, Sarah?"
Sarah?
"I'm fine," Chris said, quietly. Reaching a trembling hand, tipped with long artificial nails painted the same pink as his toes, to the overhead mirror, Chris flipped it open and stared, stunned, into the wide blue eyes of Sarah McMillan.
The next few minutes were a haze. Somehow Gabby must have gotten the car to the school and gotten Chris, confused and mid racing, into the girls' locker room. She must have even led Chris to Sarah's locker and opened it for him. Then Chris had stood, staring into Sarah's locker for several minutes, trying to find some foothold in reality.
Once he'd gathered himself together enough, Chris reached slowly into the locker before him, staring at the two tiny pieces of his cheerleading outfit as he took them out. Slipping out of his sandals, Chris reluctantly removed his t-shirt and shorts, leaving him dressed in nothing but a sports bra and panties. He looked over his shoulder nervously, afraid that someone would notice that Sarah McMillan had been replaced by a guy, but none of the girls in the locker room seemed to notice him. So Chris turned back to the locker and slipped, slowly, into Sarah's uniform. Once he'd donned the uniform and slid into Sarah's socks and sneakers, he placed the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd first jumped into Sarah into the locker and quietly shut the door.
Walking through the crowd of girls who bustled through the locker room--Chris realized that this would be a dream come true for most guys his age, but the girls didn't do anything at all for him--he looked for a mirror. At last he found one and peered into it, amazed at the sight of Sarah's reflection, perfectly coiffed as always and dressed in exactly the same outfit he was wearing.
At first Chris felt confused and more than a little embarassed. As he continued to stare at Sarah's face in the mirror, though, stray thoughts began to creep into his consciousness, until at last they wove themselves together into a coherent realization. For years Chris had watched Biff Meadows, first from a distance and then from the close companionship of their football team. He had longed for Biff to hold him, kiss him, whisper kind and loving words to him. He'd wanted nothing more than to have Biff be his, his very own. And now... now... Chris didn't know how it had happened, but the evidence was right before his eyes and it was almost impossible to refute... now he had turned into Biff Meadows's girlfriend.
A thrill ran through Chris's body, from his head to his toes, and ending somewhere in the warm middle of his body; Chris looked down embarassed at the raised front of his skirt, until he realized that no one could see it, if the other girls' treatment toward him so far was any indication. His pulse raced, and a giddiness fluttered through his belly. Nothing, he realized, stood between him and his Biff now. Nothing would keep him from the strong embrace of Biff's arms, from the warm touch of his lips. There was no need to hide his affection for Biff now, no need to hold himself back. Suddenly, all the walls that had confined Chris for his entire life were stripped down, and he was free to be himself, completely himself. It was a miracle, and Chris whispered a quiet gracias to God.
Chris had never wanted to be a girl. He knew the stereotypes as well as any other gay man, but they were wrong. Like most gay men, Chris had never worn women's clothing, never been to a drag club, never even thought about crossdressing. He'd never even been particularl effeminate. Chris was quite happy being male. Had he been offered the choice, before that morning, of being male or female, he would have happily remained male. In all his fantasies of being with men, he was always still a man himself. Really, Chris thought of himself as a normal guy who just happened to like other guys.
But he was savvy enough and open-minded enough to realize the opportunities that were open to him, now that everyone seemed to think he was a girl. Though Chris had known he was gay for a long time, he'd never had the courage to come out. Between his conservative parents and his homophobic friends, he knew his sexuality would not be well recieved, and it wasn't worth the risks to Chris to come out. The thought of coming out was simply too frightening. No one--not his reltives, not his closest friends, not even the girls he'd tried to date to make himself straight--knew that Chris was gay. He had only told the priests at his church, and even then he had been shielded by the comforting anonymity of a confessional booth. Chris had never had the opportunity before to express his sexuality or to ct upon it. And, while Chris was quite comfortable being a guy, there were aspects of being male that he didn't like; in modern society, and particularly among the Mexican communities his parents and his other relatives had come from, the pressure of masculinity and machismo was terrible. Chris had always wished that men could be allowed to pursue a more moderate form of masculinty; perhaps then he wouldn't have had to put on such a macho act to coneal his own decidedly unmasculine desires.
So while Chris would never have asked to be a girl, becoming one was nevertheless a liberation, one that Chris gratefully accepted. And being Sarah McMillan, who was not only the most beautiful and popular girl in school but who was also the long-term girlfriend of the boy Chris loved more than any other in the world, felt to Chris like nothing less than a benediction.
As Chris headed with the other girls out to the soccer field where the cheerleaders held their Saturday morning practice, he fell into pleasant convsersation with Gabby and Janelle, two of Sarah's friends. At first Chris had felt tongue-tied; he didn't know how girls were supposed to sound, and despite living with his mother, his grandmother, and his two sisters (and a father who had felt desperately outnumbered until Chris, the youngest of the family, had been born), Chris had never had an opportunity to learn the nuances of feminine conversation. Chris soon found himself falling into a natural and comfortable rhythm, though. Both in this initial experimental conversation and later, as Gabby had driven him home, and after that again as he'd spoken with Sarah's mother, Chris had found that talking to a girls as a girl was a much more cooperative, much less competitive, much less aggressive, much more accomodating, much more person-oriented, and overall a much more pleasant and natural experience for him than the bantering, embattled, empty conversations he'd had with guys. Even when he'd talked to girls as his old male self, there had been an awkwardness and a tension that Chris didn't feel now. Picking up on Gabby's cues, Chris even found himself slipping playfully into more feminine mannerisms and vocabulary than he would normally use, having spent his whole life squelching his more effeminate traits and trying to move and look and speak like a man. It was fun, feeling so free to experiment and express himself.
As the girls had neared the soccer field, however, Chris's attention immediately fell away from the convsersation. For there, in the shadow of the bleachers, looking as handsome as he ever had and more alluringly mysterious than usual, Chris spotted Biff Meadows.
"Biffy!" he shouted, bounding easily forward toward Biff in Sarah's almost weightless uniform and sneakers. He closed the gap between them and, with the eagerness of one who had spent a lifetime keeping his desires in check, he wrapped his arms around Biff and kissed him lightly but affectionately on the cheek. Biff's face was warm and a little stubbly, and his waist was firm and strong. Chris melted.
Then something hit Chris, and for the first time since he'd switched into Sarah's body, Chris remembered Biff's odd behavior that morning. "Biffy," he said,. "shouldn't you be getting to practice?"
"Practice?" Biff asked, looking dazed and uncomfortable. Chris's stomach sank in worry.
"Football practice, silly," Chris said. "Didn't it start half an hour ago?"
Biff looked blankly at Chris... then a strange, unpleasant smile crossed his lips. "I'm quitting the football team."
Chris's arms fell away from Biff's body, suddenly slack. All the strength had left Chris's body, like he'd been hit by a flying tackle. The thought of Biff quitting from the team, even if Chris was now Biff's girlfriend instead of his teammate, was a terrible thought. "You're... quitting?" Chris asked in a small voice. "Wh... why?"
"Football is an idiotic game played by moronic louts who like nothing more than getting their heads bashed in by their fellow players," Biff said. Chris flinched at every single word. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Biff a little; but if that was what Biff thought about football players, about his teammates, then what must Biff have thought about Chris himself? "It's stupid," Biff went on, "and I'm tired of it. I think I'll join a witch's coven instead."
Chris's spirits fell further. Despite bring gay, Chris was a devoted Catholic; that was what had made his struggles with his sexuality so particularly agonizing. The thought of Biff as a pagan, as a witch? Now Chris was more worried than ever, and on a much deeper level than before.
"Biff?" Chris said. "What on earth has gotten into you? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Not at all," Biff said. "And in fact,"--Biff shot a horrible look directly into Chris's eyes--"I'm also breaking up with you."
Chris crumbled. He tried to form words, but he couldn't, couldn't find the words, couldn't even begin to think what to say. To spend his life longing after Biff Meadows, to miraculously turn into Biff's girlfriend... and then to lose Biff almost immediately? It was cruel, it was monstrous, it was...
Had he died? Was he in hell? Was this his punishment for being gay? Tears began to form unbidden in Chris's eyes. He began to lift his hand instinctively to wipe them away--after all, he'd had it rammed into him for a lifetime that boys weren't supposed to cry--but then he let his hand fall away. He was a girl, wasn't he? He had a right to cry. And besides, what did any of that macho nonsense mean anymore? What did it mean, when Chris had gained and lost the only thing in the world that mattered to him?
"That's right," Biff said. "I'm dumping you. You are the single cruellest, most shallow, most superficial, most moronic, most vapid bimbo I've ever met in my entire life. I could date a dog and have a better time than I've had with you."
Chris closed his eyes and flinched with every word. He knew Biff was talking about Sarah, but his words felt like they were being hurled at Chris himself instead. And, given that Biff thought that Chris was Sarah, Chris supposed that, technically, they were.
Chris opened his eyes and looked, through tear flooded eyes, at the man he loved. Biff sneered back with an experession of hatred, of utter contempt. Chris felt himself withering under Biff's gaze. Chris had imagined coming out to Biff a hundred times. Usually the scenario didn't go well in his head. But it had never gone this badly. Usually Chris pictured Biff pounding the snot out of him, maybe taking a trash can to his head or stabbing a knife in his gut. He had never pictured this cold, horrible cruelty. He had never, ever imagined it would go down like this.
Biff smiled in utter triumph; he had crushed every inch of Chris's spirit, and Biff knew it. But then Biff turned and looked past Chris. "But instead," Biff said, "I think I'm going to go out with your friend here." Chris turned and saw Biff grab Janelle and kiss her deeply.
That was it. That was the last straw, the final touch, the last nail, the final agonzing shot to Chris's heart. He shut his eyes and turned and ran away, loosing a Noah's flood of tears as he ran. It was the first time in ten years that Chris had cried in public, and he had never needed it more. Chris had been witness to a lifetime of heartaches, great and small. But of all the times his heart had been broken, this was the absolute worst.
Chris couldn't remember what had happened after that. It was all a blur, and he'd seen it all through tearstained eyes. After a while, though, Chris found himself in Gabby's car again, tracing the route they'd taken to school, this time in reverse. Gabby was saying warm and comfortable and wonderful things to him as they drove. At first Chris didn't pay much attention to what she was saying, but then he began to listen, really listen. And he was amazed. If Chris had been himself and Gabby had been a guy, she would never have been saying things like this. She certainly wouldn't have stomached Chris crying. At best she would have sat down with Chris and they would have had an awkward convsersation that wouldn't have made Chris feel any better. More likely she and Chris wouldn't have talked about it at all, would have been sitting here in hollow silence. And had Chris dared to shed tears, much less to weep inconsolably like he had for the last several minutes, there was a good chance Gabby would have pounded him until his tears were mingled with blood. Instead, Gabby was speaking to him soothingly and sincerely. Chris had never felt so loved, so cared for, as he did now. Even if everything Gabby was saying was meant for Sarah, not for himself, it helped Chris to listen to it. Now, more than at any other point that morning, Chris felt incredible solace in being a girl.
At last Gabby stopped outside Sarah's house. She and Chris got out of the car and spoke on the lawn for a time; then, at last, Gabby reached up and hugged Chris tightly.
When Chris pulled out of the hug, he thought he saw a strange expession cross Gabby's face; but she shook it off and said a pleasant, if oddly curt, goodbye to him. She'd started to walk toward Sarah's house, but then Chris had reminded her that it was his house, and that Gabby's car was in the street. Gabby had nodded and walked down to her car. Chris thought her behavior strange, but soon forgot about it; he had more than enough on his mind already.
Entering Sarah's house, he found Sarah's mother in the living room. She looked at Chris in surprise and asked what Chris was doing home so early. Chris tried to be evasive, still a little unsure of himself and his performance as Sarah; but at last he let it all pour out of him, and he began crying all over again. After a long talk, Chris hugged Sarah's mom--who he noticed seemed to stiffen in his embrace; strange, but again it slipped Chris's miind--and then retreated deeper into the house. It had taken a few minutes, but at last he'd found Sarah's room, taken off her shoes, and flopped heavily into her bed.
And now here he was, sitting in front of Sarah's mirror, staring at her reflection, and trying to make sense of it all.
Chris sighed. Perhaps... perhaps Biff Meadows was... simply... a jerk. No, scratch that. Biff was a jerk. Chris knew it. Of course he knew it. He'd seen the way Biff had treated some of the less popular students around school. And the ones he treated the worst were the gay kids. Or the kids who seemed gay, the boys who weren't masculine enough and the girls who weren't feminine enough. Chris had seen it all, but he has always looked the other way. Because Biff wasn't like that to him, so it was easy to ignore. And... because... because he'd been in love.
He was still in love. That hadn't changed. But now Chris knew it was hopeless. And now, for the first time in his life, he was seeing Biff with open eyes. And, so, perhaps it was finally time for Chris to give up.
However. As he stared at Sarah's reflection, Chris knew something else as well. He was currently in the body of the most popular girl in school. Now that he'd cleaned himself up, combed Sarah's hair, reapplied his makeup, he looked stunning. Girls all over school--no, all over town, all over the country, all over the world--would kill to look like Chris did right now. And the boys would be tripping over themselves to be his next boyfriend. Chris could have any guy he wanted, except of course for Biff himself. He didn't know how he'd gotten Sarah McMillan's body, but now that he had it, he was going to use it. And if he had any say in the matter, he was going to keep it. For good. That morning he'd seen some of the blessings of being a girl. And that morning, he'd been handed the tools to attract any man, any straight man in the world, who he wanted, free of guilt and free of fear. He was the luckiest boy in the world, bar none.
He felt sexy. He felt confident. He felt like a woman. And he loved it. He never would have asked for this, but now that it had happened, he never wanted it to end.
Walking over to Sarah's large walk-in closet, he threw it open and stared at the copious wardrobe within. So many choices, and so much opportunity. He began looking through Sarah's clothes, piece by piece. He was going to find the cutest, sexiest, girliest outfit he could find and wear it. And heels. He was going to wear heels. He didn't care if it took him all afternoon to learn how to walk in them; he was going to wear a pair of high freaking heels, and he was going to love every minute of it. He was going to embrace his new body, his new role in life. Head cheerleader. Most popular girl in school. Hottest girl in town. Chris had been blessed with a one-of-a-kind opportunity, and he wasn't going to pass it up.
Watch out, boys. Sarah McMillan was on the prowl.
But then, just as he'd picked out the perfect dress, Chris was startled by the sound of gunfire thundering through the house.
