The Locket by Stacey Jay

something. I had to quit thinking about it or I was going to lose what was left of my mind.
    “Katie? Is my van cool with you?” Mitch asked, waiting for my approval. “Or do you want to drive? We could put the bike rack on your car.”
    “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.” I smiled and followed the boys to Mitch’s old family van, helping load my and Isaac’s bike inside.
    From here on out, there was no more angst, only awesome. I was going to make sure these two weeks were the best of my and Isaac’s life, starting right now.
     
    “I’m not wearing a wig, man!” Isaac laughed until his cheeks turned red as he watched Mitch struggle into the long blond wig the costume lady at the Broadway end of the Shelby Street Bridge had given him to wear.
    “It’s cross- dress- ing the bridge,” Mitch insisted. “There’s no other way across.”
    “I put on the dress. That’s enough,” Isaac said, gesturing at the bright red prom dress that hung down over his jeans. Somehow, he managed to look even more masculine in sequins. Maybe it was the barrel chest straining the seams at the sides.
    Mitch, on the other hand, was weirdly pretty. With his big brown eyes and full lips, he really could have been mistaken for a girl. Except for the size-fourteen shoes, weirdly wide shoulders, and the hint of stubble on his chin, of course.
    “Isaac, you need hair, you have to complete your look. Besides, it’s for charity,” Mitch said, keeping a straight face when the giggling costume woman handed him two round pillows to use to stuff the front of his blue polka-dotted dress. “Thanks!” He genuinely looked excited to be sporting fake boobs, the nut. “Do these make me look fat?”
    I laughed. “No, you can totally pull off a D cup,” I assured him. “You just look a little top heavy.”
    “Pamela Anderson top heavy or Bubbe Birnbaum top heavy?”
    I snorted, nearly dislodging my newly affixed mustache. Girls had to cross-dress to get across the bridge too. My brown sweater was now covered by a ratty old man’s suit jacket, my hair was shoved under a bowler cap, and my upper lip sported a thick mustache. The lady had even dug through her makeup kit to find a red one to match my hair. I was sure I looked like a little boy with a testosterone problem, but I didn’t care. It was exciting to be part of the charity event. I wanted to work for a nonprofit organization when I got out of college and loved seeing how creative people could get in the name of getting other people involved.
    The Shelby Street Bridge—the easiest bike route from downtown to the larger city parks—had been taken over by Nashville’s Society for Breast Cancer Awareness for a cross-dressing-the-bridge fund-raiser. They were charging five dollars to bike or walk across the bridge and supplying everyone with opposite gender “costumes” that smelled like they’d come straight from the Salvation Army donation box.
    We were probably all going to get lice or bedbugs or something, but at least everyone was having fun doing it.
    “How about a tiara?” the costume lady asked, grabbing one from the corner of her table and holding it out to Isaac. “We’re running low on wigs, and it would be a shame to cover that pretty blond hair.”
    Isaac blushed and took the tiara. The woman had him. The manners ingrained in him by his southern mama wouldn’t allow him to say “no” after he’d received a compliment. He was going to have to wear the tiara.
    “Thanks, ma’am.” He plunked it down on his head and jumped back on his bike. “Are you two coming? Or what?” Oh, he was annoyed, but the tiara was hysterical. The funniest thing I’d seen in months.
    Mitch and I managed to hold our laughter for about thirty seconds before we both lost it. I giggled so hard I nearly fell off my bike.
    “What pretty blond hair you have, Isaac,” Mitch said, in an exaggerated southern drawl. “You were just born to wear a tiara.”
    “Shut up, jackass.” Isaac flipped