Free Best Kept Secret by Debra Moffitt Page B

crowing about Title IX, well, that was just not well received by a certain element. And, of course, those girls at Yale were quite provocative in what they did. It’s not every day a bunch of lady athletes make their point by taking off their shirts.”
    That last line got my attention. A U.S. soccer player had once taken off her shirt in celebration. I’d seen photos of that from an old Olympics. But she had a sports bra on underneath and it was no big whoop in my book. Finally, I couldn’t take it one more second and made the time-out sign so Bet would pause the video.
    â€œWhat is Patricia talking about?” I asked.
    â€œJust keep watching,” Bet said.
    â€œWait. Are you going to show this to the whole school? It could really blow our cover.”
    â€œLet’s discuss,” Bet said. “Some stories demand to be told.”
    Classic Bet. I asked her to roll the video again.
    â€œThere’s so much more to the story,” Bet told the camera, “that I felt it only fitting that I break it into two parts to do it justice. Please join me next Friday for part two of my report, ‘The Past Is Pink: What Happened to the Pink Locker Ladies?’ ”
    â€œYou’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?” I asked.
    â€œLet’s get Piper and Kate before I say more.”

Nineteen
    I wanted to call Kate and Piper, but it was time for track practice. Left-right, left-right. A run was a very good chance to think things over. Just what else did Bet know? And what did the Pink Locker Ladies have to do with girl athletes protesting at Yale thirty years ago?
    There was little chance Bet was going to let her scoop go to waste. But I was worried that the renewed curiosity about the PLS would tip off Principal F. Then he’d call my parents in, like, a second. It seemed like just a matter of time before someone noticed the Web site was running again. Or did grown-ups have so much on their minds that no one would bother to check? I wanted to keep on serving the world of girls. It made me feel good. And it wasn’t all “dog ate my bra” stories but really important stuff, too.
    Take Queen Quitter. I had struggled with my reply. It was a lot easier to give advice about stuff like smelly feet or hairy legs. With those kinds of questions, I always tried to put myself in the other person’s shoes. But Queen Quitter was a tougher case. I couldn’t imagine not wanting to do something I was great at. (I, for one, was still trying to find my special thing.) Kate was a brainiac, Bet had MSTV, and Piper had, well, everything. But I told Queen Quitter I understood the part about not wanting to disappoint people, and I told her to not—definitely not—let a car tire run over her toe, for heaven’s sake. She seemed grateful to get my advice, though her problem didn’t get solved so easily.
    Dear PLS,
    Thank you for trying to help me. Some days I feel like I’m sleepwalking through my own life. My coaches and my parents don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve seen the doctor for fear I had mono—the kissing disease!—but I don’t. I’ve also been checked for Lyme disease and a bunch of other things. Nothing is physically wrong with me, which is good. But it’s also bad because while they thought I might be sick, I didn’t have to practice.
    I’m starting to think that I just want to start making my own decisions. I don’t ever remember deciding that I wanted to do my sport. Somewhere back in time, someone dressed me up and pushed me out there and I was “a natural.” Was it ever fun? Sure, I guess so, at one time or another. My room is full of ribbons and trophies, and I have sport-themed T-shirts, tote bags, jewelry, and even ponytail holders. People always equate me with my sport. I am tired of it filling every nook and cranny of my day. My evenings, my weekends, even my summers are