High-Tops to High Heels: Return of the Sister: Part 1

“And of course, we can’t talk enough about this kid Bobby Vickerson, warming up right in front of us now. He’s come out of nowhere to lead the NCAA in scoring and assists, really an incredible story...”

“Absolutely, Jack. He played his high-school ball in Green Lake, Wyoming -- you ever heard of the place? Me neither. Anyways, unrecruited, made the team here as a walk-on, worked his way up to starting point guard, and he has been on a tear ever since.”

“Extremely manly, too. Have to point that out -- just the sheer masculinity of this kid.”

Bobby Vickerson tuned out the chatter coming from the commentators table as he limbered up, preparing himself to lead his team to yet another victory. The stadium was packed, as always, and he could see his adoring parents in the front row of the crowd, furiously waving their home-made signs. A bevy of attractive female fans weren’t far off, all of them screaming his name. He gave them a dismissive wave.

“Are you prepared for this test?” his coach, a moustached man in a sweater vest, demanded.

Bobby snorted. Of course he was prepared. He’d gotten them this far, hadn’t he? All his teammates had to do was give him the ball, and the wins would keep coming.

“What were the three main causes of the Industrial Revolution?” his coach asked. “Barbie? Are you paying attention? Barbie!”

Bobby Vickerson snapped back to reality. He was in Mr. Wilson’s high school history class, not in some college gymnasium. He wasn’t even a member of the Jefferson High basketball team anymore, nevermind leading a university squad to the NCAA championship. And worst of all, due to a combination of bad luck, a psychotic hacker-slash-blackmailer, and a dumb bet with his ex girlfriend, Kimberly Quinn, he now went by “Barbie.”

“Um, the three main what of what?” Bobby asked, raising the pitch of his voice as high as he could manage without sounding like a cartoon character.

God, he hated having to talk like a chick.

Of course, he wasn’t too big on the rest of it, either: the blonde wig always getting in his face, the coating of makeup he had to constantly check up on, the eyelash extensions fluttering around whenever he blinked, the sticky pink lipgloss he was somehow supposed to remember to reapply, the claw-like fake nails that made everything take twice as long as it should…

“The three main causes of the Industrial Revolution,” Mr. Wilson sighed.

Bobby swallowed. “Uhhh...”

And the clothes were even worse -- his beloved T-shirts, hoodies, skinny jeans and sneakers were long gone. Today he was wearing a black long-sleeved crop top that not only left his taut midriff exposed, but also had a scoop neckline designed to draw attention to his seemingly still-growing boobs, and the top was paired with a tiny black-and-white checked miniskirt that ensured he spent most of his time trying not to display his panties.

He had never realized how freaking cold the air-conditioning in this school was. Kimmy kept telling him that showing skin was expected, especially from girls as hot as “Barbie,” and that he had to dress extra-girly if he wanted everyone to believe he was actually trans. He sure didn’t see many other girls going around in bright pink pumps with a four-inch heel, but apparently that was the price he had to pay.

Bobby squirmed under Mr. Wilson’s glare, inadvertently making his miniskirt ride up a little higher on his thighs -- a fact that did not go unnoticed by his male classmates, even though they knew full well that the blonde hottie in the back row had been their star point guard just a few fateful months ago. Bobby flushed as he realized the guy seated on his left was blatantly checking out his legs.

“I think the three main reasons were…” Bobby’s high-heeled foot bounced anxiously under his desk. He looked the other way, only to realize the guy on his right was staring at his chest. “Uhhh…”

The old Bobby would have made some kind of wisecrack by now, or just sullenly shrugged off the question, but now, with the eyes of the whole class watching him, he was totally flustered.

Bobby took a deep breath. “Capitalism… Sewing machines… And, um, Microsoft?”

Someone on the other side of the classroom guffawed, and in the front row a nerdy-looking girl with glasses leaned over to whisper what sounded like “such an airhead” to her equally nerdy friend. Mr. Wilson, meanwhile, had shut his eyes with the expression of someone on the verge of quitting the teaching business once and for all.

“Some things never change,” he muttered. “Barbie, please get somebody to help you study for Monday’s test. For your sake, and the sake of my own sanity.”

“Sure thing,” Bobby said weakly. The bell rang, saving him from further embarrassments. He gathered up his books, pens, and little pink designer purse, then swished off to his next class as quickly as he could.

#

Kimberly was pretty sure that most evil masterminds would be taking a victory lap by now -- after all, her big scheme to ruin Bobby Vickerson had gone off without a hitch. As far as Jefferson High and the world at large was concerned (including, most importantly, Mr. and Mrs. Vickerson), “Barbie” was openly trans. As far as Bobby himself knew, he had been conned and coerced by an anonymous blackmailer, and his increasingly feminine body was the result of a natural hormone imbalance.

Only Kimberly and Josh Delacroix, Bobby’s former basketball rival, knew the full truth, and she intended to keep it that way. Which meant no victory lap -- not yet. She had some loose ends to tie up first. It was for that reason she was spending lunch hour parked outside an extremely sketchy-looking motel in the dingiest part of town.

She was kind of glad she had Josh along. He was the star center for St. Ceylan’s, Jefferson High’s biggest rival, and he had always been about twice as big as Bobby, his main competition for best basketball player in Green Lake.

“So the drug dealer’s name is Skeeter?” Josh asked skeptically.

“I know,” Kimberly muttered. “He’s not exactly Narcos material.”

Josh wasn’t just brawn, though. He had brains, too. He was the one who’d gotten control of Bobby’s social media accounts and blackmailed him into dressing up as “Barbie” in secret. They’d then used the accumulated material to “out” Bobby to the world, making it look like he had been in the closet all along, desperate to reveal his true, female self.

Yep, Josh was every bit as responsible for Bobby’s current predicament as she was, and just as morally bankrupt -- even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Kimberly’s phone buzzed. She snatched it out of the cup-holder and thumbed the screen. “Ugh.”

“Is it Skeeter?” Josh asked. “Did he cancel, or something?”

Kimberly just showed him her phone. It was a message from Bobby: Where TF are you? I can’t eat lunch solo, Kimmy!

“He was never this clingy when we dated,” Kimberly muttered, tapping out a response. “Go… Sit… With Bev... And the cheerleaders…”

“She, you mean,” Josh corrected. “And why’s she still “Bobby” in your phone, anyway?”

“Because I haven’t had time to change it yet,” Kimberly said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t jump down my throat, lover boy.”

Josh flushed slightly. “Okay, okay. You sure I can’t message her yet?”

Kimberly grimaced. “It’s been less than two weeks since Phase Three,” she said. “She’s still adjusting to girlhood, remember? So, no. Absolutely not. It’s going to take time.”

Kimberly and Josh’s goals were similar, but their motivations were very, very different. Kimberly had always been out for revenge, but ever since Josh saw “Barbie” for the first time, he had been totally infatuated. Nothing would give Kimberly a bigger thrill than seeing her misogynistic ex become another guy’s hot blonde trophy girlfriend, but it wasn’t going to be easy to pull off.

The more immediate concern was the hormone pills. For the past two months, Kimberly had been pumping Bobby full of dubiously legal high-powered hormones from some lab in China, first by spiking his protein powder, more recently his daily mango smoothies. Her ex’s pathological distrust of doctors had come in handy there -- he’d refused to go see a medical professional about his “condition,” instead choosing to believe Web MD and hoping it would go away on its own.

Now that Bobby was out and proud, however, it was only a matter of time before his parents or some other concerned party brought up the subject of hormone replacement therapy. Which would mean bloodwork. Which would mean Bobby, dim as he was, would realize somebody had been dosing him with female hormones without his knowledge -- unless Kimberly got out in front of it somehow.

“That’s him,” Kimberly announced, watching a small blue Prius pull into the motel parking lot. “That’s Skeeter.”

“He looks like an accountant,” Josh said, peering through the window. “I’m serious. He looks like the guy who does my dad’s taxes.”

“Maybe your dad’s in the mob.”

The Prius backed into the spot beside them and the drug dealer rolled down his window. “Hey, Kimberly,” said the balding, middle-aged man in a polo shirt. “Who’s your friend?”

“Jerry,” Josh said quickly. “Jerry Garcia.”

“I’m guessing you were between that and Fakey McFakeName,” Skeeter said. “What’s this about, Kimberly?” He looked her up and down. “Huh. Those pills usually work miracles, but I guess you maxed out on the chest development already.”

“They worked fine,” Kimberly said, through gritted teeth -- she’d let Skeeter assume she was trans, and that the pills were for her. “In fact, I want to recommend you to a friend.”

“Then just send me her number,” Skeeter sighed. “Don’t drag me out here in the middle of the day. I’ve got a Gilmore Girls marathon to get back to.”

“There’s sort of a catch,” Kimberly said. “We can’t let her find out, under any circumstances, that you and me did business. Uh, have you ever impersonated a doctor before?”

Skeeter narrowed his eyes. “You’re wasting my time,” he said. “And I really don’t like having my time wasted. I’m a dealer, not an actor. Peace out, Kimberly. Jerry Garcia.”

He was about to roll up his window when Josh pulled out the thick wad of cash he’d emptied his savings account for. He waved it meaningfully in the air. “Maybe Benjamin Franklin could persuade you otherwise?” he asked. “Him and forty-nine friends. Who are also Benjamin Franklin.”

“We give you half now, half after,” Kimberly clarified. “Plus, you get a new client out of it.”

Skeeter rolled his eyes, but held out his hand for the cash. He thumbed through the bills, then grunted. “You kids are lucky the turf war got rescheduled,” he said. “I’m free this weekend. Send me the details by tonight. Later days.”

Kimberly and Josh watched as he peeled out of the parking lot.

“You think he was kidding about the turf war?” Josh asked. “He had to be kidding, right?”

“I can never really tell with that guy,” Kimberly admitted.