“Are you the girl who beat me arm wrestling?”

Pete's Vagina
94. Backfield
by Erin Halfelven

I watched Amy repair my face in the mirror. This was a skill I hadn’t learned, doing my own face, let alone someone else’s. Sponges, brushes, cakes and little pots of… face paint? No, the basecoat was called foundation, I remembered.

“You have lovely skin, you know,” Amy murmured.

“Thank you,” I managed to say. There’d been a time in the last few weeks, right after it happened, that I had a hope of changing back to the earlier male version of me. That had kind of disappeared—really? was it gone?— in the whirlwind of just being the me I was becoming. Who apparently needed to wear makeup, at least on occasion.

Like appearing on television.

In a corner of the room, a small TV with the sound off showed what was being broadcast live from Channel Fifteen’s transmitter on the mountain above the University.

Guy and Sheila were trading jokes with someone who might or might not be a pastor from the Apache reservation. The man didn’t particularly look like an Apache. His lean rectangular face sported a nose that claimed more of Ireland than the White Mountains.

Meanwhile, Amy was turning me into someone I didn’t really recognize. “Whoa,” I said.

She paused. “Stop? I’m almost done.”

A beautiful, even glamorous face looked back at me. “I’m getting jealous. Who’s this b-bimbo in the mirror? I don’t think I want Lee meeting her. I can’t compete with that!”

Amy laughed. “You goof!”

*

Maude, with Mom’s help, had altered my blue dress a bit while Amy worked on my face, and it fit differently enough that my energy felt somehow less awkward as I stepped out of the curtains around the entrance of the Green Room when Guy called my name.

“Gayle Petersen!” he said, and I felt a television smile spread across my face.

Guy came around his desk and held out his hand as Sheila stood and clapped behind him. Out of frame, I could see Teddy and Link by the wall under the engineering booth, Link clasping his hands above his head like a championship wrestler.

Guy and I touched fingertips, and he indicated I should take the guest chair again. The Apache pastor had exited during the commercial break before my entrance. I barely remembered to smooth my skirt under me before sitting, but I did remember.

Guy took his seat, glanced at his co-host, then stared at me, showing an open-mouthed grin and better teeth than any ex-athlete had a right to. “Wow,” he said, repeating it twice. “Wow. Wow!”

Sheila cackled beside him. “You broke him, Gayle!” she called to me.

I suppressed a giggle that almost came out as a snort. I knew where the monitors were now, and could see that both cameras were on me. One on my new face and one far enough back to show my legs. I crossed them and discovered that the dress was tighter than I remembered.

“Are you the girl who beat me arm wrestling?” Guy asked.

I shook my head. “No rematches.”

*

We bantered like tennis players with a score of Love-All for a bit. Then Sheila brought something up I’d been dreading. No chance these two would let it pass, so I grinned away the embarrassment when Sheila mentioned it.

“I’ve heard that one of the cheerleaders has nominated you for Homecoming Queen. Is that right, Gayle?”

I tilted my head, daring the cameraman to zoom in. “News to me, Sheila,” I lied. On the monitor, it looked like a baby grin of the shit-eating variety.

“Oh, come on, Gayle,” Guy interjected. “Aren’t the cheerleaders all friends of yours?”

“Sort of,” I agreed. “I think Johanna did it as a goof. She’s the head cheerleader, and kind of my favorite enemy on the squad.”

That got a laugh. “Isn’t she the one who helped you beat up the party crashers at her house a few weeks ago?” Sheila asked.

“What!” Guy exclaimed. “Did they make the mistake of arm wrestling you, too?”

“Uh, no,” I admitted. “I took one down with a spear to his middle, and Johanna kicked the other one in the forehead.”

“A spear?” Sheila wondered.

Guy answered. “A kind of tackle where you lead with your helmet, illegal now. At least in college ball.”

“You weren’t wearing a helmet, were you?”

“Uh, no, ma’am. I was dressed as a cheerleader, just for a goof. But they were college guys.”

Guy roared with laughter.

“And you got a mouse out of the encounter, a black eye?” she asked.

I suspected Johanna had fed the reporters this part of my story. I touched my face, remembering which eye. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I was mad and didn’t notice until later.”

Sheila glanced at something on her desk. “And this was an ice cream party? What’s that?”

She knew. Johanna, of course. “It’s a party where everyone brings a pint of ice cream, chocolate preferred,” I said.

“It’s an all-girl party? Right?” Sheila pursued it.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmured. On the monitor, I looked smug, which showed I was no actor, cause I was dreading the next question.

“Kind of a Friendly tradition? Friendly, Arizona, that is. Once a month, most of the girls have a party to…celebrate?”

“Not exactly a celebration, more like a commiseration.”

“Huh?” said Guy.

“All-girl party. Once a month. Get-together-and-eat-chocolate kind of party.”

“Oh!” said Guy, proving he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. “That kind of party.” A beat, and he continued. “Those party crashers—those poor guys never knew what hit them, huh?” He grinned, but the monitors were showing me smiling.

“We’ll be right back with Gayle!” he said, announcing a break.