Confessions of an Ex-Tomboy

For the German National Honor Society induction
I was told to wear "Sunday clothes."
If I had taken this literally, it would have meant
wearing ratty jeans and an old T-shirt.
I wore a tux instead,
to an occasion only formal enough
to warrant slacks and ties for men,
a skirt for me.
I changed in the school's upstairs bathroom
when I was sure no one would be looking;
even though I wasn't embarassed about it,
I didn't want to try to explain it.
My father told me that I looked like
something out of Penthouse magazine,
which made me vaguely uncomfortable,
even though I smiled and thanked him
for the compliment.

In middle school,
the swim team was my life.
I showed my affection for a boy on the team
by beating the crap out of him.

Before kindergarten, my backyard
was the coolest place in the neighborhood.
I was the one with the tree house,
which I fiercly guarded with a
never-ending supply of water bombs
and a "no girls allowed" sign.
I can't remember anoyone ever
trying to break into my hideout,
but I was determined to defend myself
if they ever tried to get me to
play house instead.