Cindi Harrison Outfits On Sundays after church we’d stop at Bennett’s— the only deli-grocery in town. They had dill pickles the size of who knows what, and mother always bought them and cotto salami for my lunch. It was the same each day, and we’d peel off the crusts of our Roman Meal, save them for throwing at the boys. I was a femme, then, too—busty Theresa Dice my best friend—a pretty pre-pubescent twelve-year-old in pants. Phys. Ed. Was different than lunch time—showers had to wait till after math, if the hap- pened at all. Recess was unauthorized sport: a cross between football, rugby, and soccer called Smear the Queer. The only rules were tackle by any means necessary, when you’ve got the ball, run fast, don’t cry. “Girls can be queers too, don’t forget.” I made them remember: “she’s mean—to boys.” I was the pre-pubescent twelve-year-old in pants that everyone wanted on their team. And that’s to say I was the best queer on the play ground, and the best at catching queers. No amount of hiding the ball would make me miss my target, lose my goal. Theresa never played. “It hurts,” she’s say, or “I have my period.” I wasn’t a real girl back then, though. Late blooming, breastless and tough, my blood ran thick inside of me—of me— the pre-pubescent twelve-year-old. In pants, I could do anything. No dress or pumps would keep me slower than the boys. My hips were narrow, my legs too long and I would not ever fit in with the girls in the locker room, showering after a square dance or two on the gymnasium floor. But I wanted to watch them, and did, instead of showering. I watched them with their bras and skirts, giggling. And yes, I wished I had that, too. We were all twelve. Me, in pants..