I felt sorry for thinking that, so I wandered into the living room and took a seat next to him on the couch. A commercial for Budweiser was on TV. “Polly told you about the harvest thing?” he said, without looking at me.
“Yup,” I said, as the commercial ended and Soldier Field came back onscreen.
“I appreciate you not, you know, giving Polly a hard time,” Dad said. “I told her you don’t much go in for all the flowers and romance.”
He said it like he was almost proud of me for it, but before I could decide whether it was actually a compliment, he added, “Your ma mentioned something about a soccer team?”
He packaged his comment as a question, like he was interested in talking about it. So Mom had told him about it. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d both seemed tuned in to something I was doing.
“Yeah, I made the team,” I said. “We have practice tomorrow.”
Dad mulled this over with his eyes on the TV. “Huh. I always thought soccer was kind of a girly sport. Guess it makes sense they got a girls’ team going.”
It wasn’t the exact sentiment Michael had expressed, but it was in the same family. “It’s pretty tough, actually,” I said, even though I’d only had the one tryout and assumed at the moment that that was as hard as soccer would get.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure it’s just like the gridiron.” Dad chuckled lightly and put down his beer. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. I looked at the TV, watching as the quarterback got mowed over. I didn’t want to get mowed over. But was that because getting mowed over was something for guys to do and not girls? Or was not wanting to get mowed over universal?
“Our coach is a guy, and he’s in really good shape,” I said, thinking this fact would legitimize a girls’ team. Justifying the existence of a girls’ soccer team suddenly felt harder than the push-ups had been.
“Poor guy,” my dad said. A set of wavy lines skittered over the screen. “Dammit,” he said. “Reception’s for shit in this condo.”
His frustration was satisfying. I’d been nice about his stupid harvest wedding. He could be nice about soccer, even if he thought it was dumb.
Polly walked in and set a tray of cheese cubes and salami, a can of Pringles, and a bowl of what looked like lumpy cream cheese on the table. “The roast is going to take a little longer than I thought, and I don’t want you to starve, so I whipped up some snacks. The Jewel had fresh clam dip today, so don’t give me any credit!”
My dad and I both mumbled thank-yous and looked at the clam dip like it was a bowl of worms. Polly was humming as she sashayed out of the room, her blond curls bouncing. We reached for the same slice of salami and then pulled our hands back. “Go ahead,” my dad said, like I was some random kid waiting in line at a buffet. I took it and chewed slowly and he did the same while we sat mostly silent as the Bears gave up a touchdown and Polly sang “Chapel of Love” softly in the kitchen.
Six
Exactly one good thing came out of the Polly-and-Dad wedding-to-be, and it wasn’t that I learned there are several shades of peach. It was that after Polly and I had cleaned up the dishes from her enormous dinner and we’d eaten her homemade cream puffs and we’d all sat down to watch Mary—which was Mary Tyler Moore’s variety show that wasn’t as good as The Mary Tyler Moore Show and definitely not as good as All in the Family but that Polly seemed to like, and what could I say when it wasn’t my condo or my TV—she saw me lifting the cover of an issue of Cosmo that was on the side table and she told me, “Oh, take it. I’m so busy with this.” She held up a gargantuan Today’s Bride magazine like it was a trophy.
So I took Cosmo home and couldn’t even be all that mad at Mom when she asked if I was upset she didn’t tip me off about the wedding, because I was desperate to read an article called “How You Can End Up Turning a Man Off When You’re Trying to Turn Him On.” The article started with stories about women who couldn’t get second dates because they hadn’t asked a guy enough questions or complimented his car, but a box next to it was titled “Seductive Moves He’ll Find Irresistible.” I stopped reading the main article. The moves sounded perfect, and I liked the introduction even more:
Waiting for that man to wake up and realize you’d like a date? It’s the ’70s, sexy! Ask him yourself! Or, if you’re really wanting him to make the first move, give him a nudge in the right direction with these tricks that signal you’re ready to say YES.
I knew Bobby wasn’t actually going to ask me out . . . but couldn’t these ideas translate to helping me get his attention at practice?
I called Candace. It was a little late and I worried Mr. Trillo wouldn’t let me talk to her, but Candace picked up on the first ring. When I said, “Hey!” she answered with an “Oh, hi.”
“Um, were you expecting someone else?”
“I thought you were Reggie. What’s up?”
I couldn’t go right from disappointing her with my not-Reggie-ness to asking about a guy, so I grabbed for whatever neutral topic I could. “I’m in my dad’s wedding,” I said.
“What?” Candace clucked her tongue. “I can’t believe he’s getting married already. What colors are they using?”
“Like, orange or something,” I said.
“Oh boy,” she said. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. Polly is nice enough,” I said. She was, and in that sense, I was okay. It wasn’t like my dad was giving me a stepmother like Jacqueline. I found I didn’t have much to say about the wedding after all. I smoothed down the glossy page of Cosmo. “Are you ready for practice tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’ll be nice to hang out with the girls.”
“Yeah, I can hardly wait to spend more time with Wendy Kowalski,” I said. “She’s a gem.”
“Did you see the way she leaned all over Coach McMann when she was spelling her name for his list?”
I had. I’d wanted to shove her out of the way. “Do you think everyone has a crush on him?” I asked, and my throat felt tight at the thought.
“He’s a teacher,” she said, like this explained something. “I doubt anyone’s, like, into him into him, but who wouldn’t like having a cute coach? And soccer’s something to do.”
“But so is pep club, or yearbook, or, like, badminton,” I said.
“Pep club and yearbook are run by bitches,” Candace said, reminding me that she’d gone to meetings for both of those things last year and quit right away. “And badminton is like tennis’s weird cousin.”
“I wish I were out of high school and met Bobby at the gas station or something.” I wanted to talk about Bobby but I wasn’t quite sure how to do it, even with Candace, who was my oldest friend. Of course she knew I thought Bobby was cute, but that I imagined meeting him outside of school was a new revelation that made my stomach rise up in my rib cage as I waited for what she would say.
“He’s a teacher,” she said again, but this time like it was a law I’d broken. My stomach dropped back down.
“I know,” I said, the edge of a whine creeping into my voice. “It’s just weird, because my dad was twenty-three when he met my mom, and she was eighteen. I’m seventeen and Coach McMann is probably about twenty-two.”
“I don’t know, Susan,” she said, sounding like her mom. “An older guy is different than a teacher, you know?”
“You’re right,” I sighed, because she was. “We don’t know anyone that hot, though.”
“Reggie is hot,” Candace said. I held back the gagging noise I wanted to make.
“But Coach McMann is like a movie star,” I said.
“That’s your problem. You always get crushes on movie stars because you’re afraid to confront a real-life penis,” Candace said, clearly enjoying her expertise as someone with many penis confrontations to my zero.
“It’s not fear. The penises in Powell Park are attached to the boys in Powell Park, is what it is,” I said.
“I don’t know. I think you should try to be more realisti
c and go out with someone at school.”
Like you do, with every single boy we know, who all treat you like shit, I wanted to say. I’d rather squeeze my legs together through a million of my fantasies than have to put up with some guy who thought it was sexy to pretend a girl’s nipples were radio dials. I bet Bobby wouldn’t do that.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, annoyed. “I’d better get some sleep.”
We hung up and I went back to the magazine, alone. Candace was wrong. Maybe actually dating Coach McMann was unrealistic right now, but at least I had good taste. Every real-life guy I’d met before was a gutter ball, but Coach McMann had bowled me over. If anyone was unrealistic, it was Candace, for thinking that a football team neanderthal like Reggie was going turn into boyfriend material because of one hand job. It was more likely that his dick would start laying golden eggs.
I read through Cosmo’s tips carefully, but I was confused over which would work best. So I fell asleep after deciding to try each one until something clicked.
Tip #1: Skip the bra. Men love a woman who embraces freedom. If you catch him looking, smile.
So Monday Susan went to practice without a bra.
It was hard to find a shirt that wouldn’t emphasize the unevenness of my breasts, but I finally settled on an old Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt of Tonia’s that was soft from the wash and clung just right. But I hadn’t counted on how brisk it was going to be at practice. It was one of those September days when the wind was just cold and fast enough to feel like a slap, so my nipples were pointy and hard within minutes of getting to the field.
Still, the magazine had suggested I throw my shoulders back and be daring, so I did.
“Is that one Hi, and that one How Are You?” Candace said, pointing at my breasts.
“More like Come, and Get It,” Tina said. “Do you want to catch his eye or put his eyes out?”
“Shut up—Bobby’s here,” I said.
He came onto the field looking, momentarily, like someone who’d be described as pure of heart. It was most likely because the day was overcast and he was standing in the sole patch of sunlight, but I crossed my arms over my chest, thinking now was not the moment to make my bralessness known.
“It looks like everyone’s here,” Bobby said. “I hope you’re all as excited as I am to get things going. This first week, we’ll be focused on the basics. Foot-eye coordination, ball handling, overall conditioning. I know a lot of you haven’t played before, but I have complete faith that you’re each going to feel like you know what you’re doing very soon. All I ask is that you don’t get discouraged. Some of the best athletes are made, not born, so don’t be afraid to get things wrong. I’m here to help.”
Despite his encouragement—and the praise he peppered over everything we got even half right—we struggled through the basics, repeating things until they grew boring. Bobby must have noticed our attention waning, because toward the end of practice he said we could try kicking at the goal—which was just a section of the field marked off by some old cones he’d brought, since we didn’t have a real goal.
Sadly, there was no way for Bobby to notice my boobs when our feet and their lack of cooperation were his only concern.
“Don’t worry, kicking a soccer ball only looks simple if you’ve worked on it for years,” he said, positioning himself in front of the ball and reeling back his right leg, then sending the ball on a fast forward trajectory toward the cones. “Once you get it, there’s nothing more satisfying.”
I could think of many more satisfying things.
We took our turns and not once did Bobby give me a special look. On Dana Miller’s turn, he came over and helped her get into position, touching her shoulders. On my turn, I hoped for the same thing to happen. But instead I rocketed my ball sideways, sending it into a row of bushes, and I had to go fish it out. My shirt got snagged on a branch and I left practice with a scratch on my nipple.
Tip #2: Remember the power of good old-fashioned eyelash batting. Play up your peepers with dramatic makeup and lock stares with that handsome stranger.
Tuesday Susan lined her eyes.
I spent ten minutes after school applying turquoise liquid eye shadow until my eyes looked as big and bright as Bambi’s, and then I had Candace help me glue on fake eyelashes so thick, I felt tired keeping my lids open. “You look really good,” she said, and I started to forgive her for her lack of early support.
“You’re all looking good,” Bobby told us as we muddled our way through the same things we’d done the day before. He’d given another long and inspiring speech, but even though I acted like I was paying close attention, I never got the eye contact I wanted. Instead, Wendy faked a twisted ankle and Bobby stopped everything to hold her leg in his hand and check it.
“I bet you wish you’d thought of that,” Tina said, as Wendy sat there with a smug grin. I did.
When we finally had to run laps, I sprinted ahead of everyone just to be alone for a minute, even though it made my eye makeup melt and trickle into my eyes. I felt like an idiot and wanted to cry.
Tip #3: Don’t be afraid to get wet. A woman’s skin beaded with water fresh from a shower or a swim is an earthy, natural enticement. Try it at the beach, or when you greet your favorite delivery man!
Wednesday Susan brought a milk jug filled with water from home.
I wasn’t sure how much water I’d need. Bobby had us do more of the same drills we’d run the last two days. He staked three sets of short colored flags in circles into the ground and broke us into three groups. Then he called out a color for us to kick our balls to.
“This again?” Wendy asked.
“When do we get uniforms?” Dana inquired.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot. I needed to at least crack a light sweat so I could douse myself with the water, but we were just standing there.
“Can we be done early today? I’m helping the pep club bring cookies to the football team.” That was Candace.
“You’re not in the pep club,” Tina chided her.
“I know. But I made cookies and I’m getting mine to the field before they do,” Candace replied. “If they think they get to decide how I show school spirit, they thought wrong.”
“Maybe we need to start a new club for people with vendettas against the pep club,” I said. Candace and Tina laughed.
“The sooner you focus, the sooner you’ll get out of here,” Bobby said, looking right at the three of us.
“This flag thing is so boring, though,” said Lisa Orlawski, as Lisa Kowolski and Lisa Jaworski nodded behind her.
“I get it, but this is a very basic drill and you need to master it before we move on to anything harder,” Bobby said. He smiled tightly.
“What about the uniforms?” Dana asked again.
“Yeah, are they cute?” asked Sharon Henderson.
“Let’s stay focused,” Bobby said, blowing his whistle. “To red!”
“Someone’s cranky,” Candace said to me as we plodded toward the red flag in our circle. “What’s the water for, anyway?”
“Just wait,” I told her. I wondered if Bobby being cranky would make him more or less receptive to being seduced.
“More practicing, less chatting, ladies,” Bobby said to us. “To red, Sharon, not orange!”
But we weren’t the only ones talking. Everyone was. Besides Coach McMann’s lousy mood, there was other gossip, like how Peggy Darnell had gotten caught backstage with a guy from St. Ignatius after rehearsals the other day.
“Okay, you’re a mess out there,” Coach McMann said, blowing his whistle so loud it startled me. He had his hands on his hips now. “You all need to shake out whatever’s keeping you from having your head in the game. Five laps around the park. Go!” He blew the whistle again.
Everyone groaned—everyone except me. If I finished first, I’d have time alone with Bobby. I could splash my face and enticingly glance up at him with glistening beads of water dappled across my cheekbones. One long look from Bobby
would make all this crap worth it.
So I took off, the cadence of my footfalls a drumbeat in my ears. Halfway through the first lap, Tina caught up with me, breathless. “Wait up,” she said.
“Can’t,” I huffed, and charged forward.
By lap three, everything hurt, but I was way ahead of everyone, and as I passed him, I saw Bobby give me a thumbs-up. “Keep it up,” he said.
I finished at the bench, well ahead of the team but completely out of breath. “You okay?” Bobby asked as I grabbed the bench and reached for my water.
“Yeah,” I said, struggling to untwist the cap. “Just . . . hot.” I didn’t know if my voice sounded breathy and intriguing, or medically unsafe.
Bobby was smiling at me. “You’re fast,” he said. “Great stride.”
I took this to mean he’d been looking at my legs and I smiled at him, still unable to speak properly. As I tried to tilt the jug to pour some water into my free hand, my grip slipped, sending a stream of water down the front of my shorts. My crotch was soaked. “Oh my God,” I said.
Bobby had turned back to watch the other girls and barely looked as he threw me a towel from inside the equipment bag. “Dry off—there’s more to do,” he said. Then he turned and pointed at my milk jug. “Smart idea, though. I’ll bring water for everyone tomorrow.” He clapped for the girls headed into their last laps. “Looking good, ladies.”
So he just complimented everyone like that.
I was dabbing at the water as the other girls started to come back. Wendy yelled, “Oh my God, Susan, did you wet yourself?”
Since Bobby had turned away from me, I mouthed Fuck you, but she was too busy laughing to care.
Thursday Susan didn’t even get a chance to employ Cosmo’s fourth tip, because I made him mad. Well, we all did.
It started when Bobby showed up to practice that day. Most of the girls were looking at their cuticles or checking their hair for split ends instead of warming up, like we knew at this point he wanted us to.
Gimme Everything You Got Page 6