Gimme Everything You Got

by Iva-Marie Palmer

I looked down at the grass-stained blue scrimmage jersey I’d forgotten to give back to Bobby as I skulked off the field. It was a castoff from the football team. Great—all I needed was to make the whole house smell like some freshman football player of seasons past.

  “It’s not mine,” I said. “It’s, like, communal.”

  “The community has not been kind,” she said, smirking. “I’m glad you changed your mind about quitting.”

  “Me too,” I said, not sure I meant it. The confident, walking-on-air feeling I’d had when Bobby told me I had amazing potential had been replaced by the sense that I was missing something that everyone else had. But if I told my mom that, she’d probably have advice for me from one of her self-help books, or tell me it didn’t matter what everyone else did as long as I was doing my best. Ugh.

  I opened the fridge to find that she must have gone shopping before coming home and putting on the yellow gloves, because there were two new packs of lunch meat, lettuce, mustard, and cheese from the deli. I pulled everything out to make myself a sandwich.

  “Don’t you have class?” It was only five thirty, and she usually wasn’t home until seven or so on Fridays.

  “Oh, it was a goof-off,” Mom said, now attacking one of the crusty casserole pans with a brush. “The instructor was sick so the fill-in told us to think about where we see ourselves in five years. And then pretty much sent us home.” She turned from the sink and looked at me as I took out three slices of bread to make a double-decker sandwich. “Can you imagine?”

  “You mean, where I see myself in five years?” I asked, peeling several round circles of salami away from one another. Did all the salami slices have amazing potential, or only one?

  “Sure, but the idea that someone is even asking me that question and there being more than one reasonable option,” my mom said. “When I was your age, if you’d asked me, I would have said, ‘I guess married and maybe with a baby.’ And I would have been right, since I was twenty when I had your sister.” She put the casserole dish in the drying rack and turned to me. “I hope I don’t need to tell you that I don’t regret that path for a second, since it got me you and your sister. I guess I just think it’s nice that your worlds can be bigger.”

  “I wonder what Tonia’s five-year plan is,” I said. The last time I’d talked to my sister, she told me she was on her way to an aura-cleansing disco.

  “You mean Chartreuse?” My mom laughed. I supposed it was good that she was taking my sister’s new identity in stride. “Well, I told her your dad would really like if she could make the wedding. It would be nice to see her.”

  I had assumed my sister would be required to come to town for Dad’s wedding. In fact, I was counting on it. Wasn’t the point of having a sibling that you had to endure your parents together? I bit into my giant sandwich and caught the fuzzy look in my mom’s eyes as she swiped beneath them with the knuckle of her glove. Okay, maybe Tonia’s faraway life bothered her more than she let on.

  “So where do you see yourself in five years?” I asked her.

  “Management,” she said decisively. “And maybe attending your college graduation.”

  College wasn’t something I’d necessarily planned on. Even my mom had never talked about me going to college until after the divorce, and I really couldn’t imagine it as something I’d do. If you asked me to look five years down the road, from my seventeen-year-old vantage point, my first thought was that I’d be twenty-two, and Bobby would be twenty-seven and not my coach anymore. But I couldn’t picture marriage or a white dress or, jeez, a kid. I also couldn’t picture management, whatever that meant. The surroundings in my future were a blur, but I could still see me. The same me who was standing at the counter, finishing her sandwich.

  Then that me was on a soccer field. The wavy vision cleared up and there I was, playing forward, kicking that goddamn goal with Bobby looking on approvingly. I didn’t have five years to wait.

  “You should think about your future,” my mom said gently as she picked up the next nasty casserole dish. “The possibilities are so much bigger for you than I ever thought they could be.”

  Those possibilities scared me. It would be so easy to pick the wrong thing, wouldn’t it? “I know,” I told her, instead of coming up with something better.

  My mom smiled faintly. In the kitchen light, the dark circles under her eyes stood out.

  “Give me the gloves,” I said. “I’ll do this.”

  She didn’t protest, just passed me the gloves, then put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed. I hoped she saw my offer as a way of saying thank you.

  I washed the rest of the dishes and scrubbed the sink again until it shone. Then I went to my room and found the Wendy’s receipt with Joe’s number on it and called him.

  When I turned the corner to Oak Meadows at eight a.m. the next day, I was jolted with surprise to see Joe already there. I would never have taken him for a morning person. He had a stack of cones next to him—did he and Coach McMann shop at the same cone store?—and was bouncing a ball off the top of his foot, with the quick repetition of one of those paddleball games.

  Shit, he was good. I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself.

  “Hey,” I said, and he turned around. He was wearing warm-up pants, but he still looked punk, with his spiked hair and a black T-shirt with holes that appeared strategically cut from the chest and shoulders. I felt nearly naked in my shorts. And cold.

  “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t know there were goals here now.”

  “They’re new,” I said. “Our coach got them.”

  “Nice,” Joe said, gesturing to his cones. “I brought cones to make one. They might still come in handy if we practice footwork stuff.” Then, noticing my shorts, he added, “You need to get some track pants. Next time we practice, I’ll bring you a pair.”

  Was he this easy around everyone? Bringing cones and offering pants? Maybe that was how he’d landed the “babe” from Sportmart. “You don’t have to but, um, thanks,” I said, not knowing what to say to him already mentioning a “next time.” He seemed too eager, I guess, to be a punk. Or at least what I thought a punk was. “And thanks for meeting me.”

  “No problem, champ,” he said. “I’m a little rusty but I remember the basics.” At that moment, with me standing about ten feet away from him, he flipped the ball off the top of his foot and, nimbly tapping the ball with the inside edge of his Puma, sent a pass my way. Instinctively, I kicked it, but too hard. The ball flew over his head and landed on the playground.

  “Good reflexes,” he said. “We just need to work on that control. What position are you?”

  “I don’t exactly know yet?” I said. “Not goalie, though. That’s what you played, right?”

  “Yep,” he said, clicking his tongue and tilting his head as he sized me up. “You look quick. Maybe a midfielder, or forward?”

  “I’m fast, yeah, but I don’t have a great shot. I haven’t scored yet,” I said. “But I really want to. Score.”

  Joe clapped his hands and winked. “Well, you’re gonna score today. We’re not leaving this park until it happens.”

  I rolled my eyes but smiled. It was the first time I’d said it out loud like that, that I wanted so badly to score a goal, but it felt good, it felt right. And I wasn’t even embarrassed about the double meaning, that “scoring” was another word for having sex. It’s not like it mattered, with Joe. He was cute and all, and it was nice he was here to help me, but I could already tell he was the type of guy who was way too cool to take anything seriously.

  I could hear Candace in my head, telling me that I found something wrong with everyone. And she wasn’t wrong—but that didn’t mean I was. There was something wrong with everyone. Michael Webster was too full of himself. Jeff Sipowitz was a gross, lechy pig. Joe seemed fun and funny, but these sorts of irreverent, flirty dudes rarely turn out to be boyfriend material (not that I had a lot of experience with boyfriend material), and besides, he already had a “babe.”
Was it really some great mystery why I was fixated on Bobby?

  Joe told me we’d run a passing drill and I’d work on scoring in the empty goal first; then later he’d let me try to shoot on him. “Don’t let me being a skinny dude fool you. I’m all legs and arms. You kick it at me and it’s a mess. For you.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I grinned, even though I was already worried this would take all day and he’d regret offering to help me.

  Joe passed me the ball again and we dribbled alongside each other, trading passes until we approached the net. Then he’d kick it sidelong to me and I’d have to kick it at the net. The transition from running to shooting messed me up immediately, just like at practice. Several times, I kicked the ball way too high, or too wide, or too lightly, so it stopped just short of the goal. A few times, I misplaced my kick and my leg sliced air.

  “Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” I said. “You’d think one would go in by accident.”

  Joe waved me off. “You know what it is? You’re rushing.”

  “I only have a few seconds to kick it, though. Or less, if someone steals it.”

  “Seconds are long, man.” Joe came up behind me. I tensed a little, sensing his body right behind mine.

  “May I?” he asked. His tall frame cast a shadow on the grass next to mine. I came up to his shoulder.

  “May you what?” I turned my head back to look at him.

  “Like, put you in a good position? I don’t want to just grab you.” He put his hands up like he wanted to show me what he’d be using to touch me.

  “Yeah,” I said. I thought of some of the romance novels I read, like Captive Bride, where the hero grabbed the woman all the time. I liked those parts, but it was nice to be asked, too. Especially because for Joe and me, it clarified that we were friends, even if he was a constant flirt.

  He put a hand on each side of my waist and gently nudged me so I was at a slight angle. Then he got on the ground and moved my nonkicking foot so it was even with the ball and about a foot away from it. I was glad I’d shaved my legs.

  “That’s your place foot,” he said, looking up at me. “Your body points toward the goal, not away. Then look up for a split second, see the goal and where you want to go. Do you see it?”

  I nodded.

  “Now, give the ball your full attention as you pull back and nail it. Use the inside edge of your foot—that’ll give you the most control.” He was still on the ground as he said this, and I was pretty sure Bobby had demonstrated something similar and I’d been focused on his butt and not the lesson. How much better I’d be at soccer if my coach wasn’t hot wasn’t even a question I could answer.

  Joe sprang up from his crouch and nodded his head toward the goal. “Wanna try?”

  I was already in position, so I let out a breath and said, “Yeah.”

  “Okay, think about where you want to go and go there.”

  I looked at the net and thought how Wendy and Dawn had both let by kicks into the bottom corners. I had a feeling those goals were as much about Wendy and Dawn being inexperienced goalies as about anyone on our field calling her shots, but if I could call a shot, how cool would that be?

  I drew back and gave the ball a nice solid kick with the inside of my cleat. It cleared the grass, hurtling fast, and hit the back of the net—not the corner, but close.

  “Yes!” I screamed. Even though I’d made goals standing still before, this felt different, as if being more intentional made the result more exciting. I wished the goal had made a noise like a pinball machine.

  “Nice one, champ. So if you’ve got it”—he moved to stand in the goal—“now try to get one by me.”

  “Already?”

  “You’re ready.”

  I did everything the same way, bringing the ball down the field toward the goal. But even though my kicks were better when I got into position, it was obvious I wasn’t going to get the ball past Joe. He moved way too fast, seeming to anticipate where the ball would go before I even kicked. He shot out a leg here, or an arm there, knocking away anything that came close.

  “You weren’t kidding about the long arms and legs. But also, do you have, like, Spidey senses? How do you always know where I’m going to kick it?”

  “Goalie secret.” He smirked.

  “I don’t think I’m going to get one by you,” I told him.

  “Not today, anyway,” he agreed. I pouted, but I had to admit I liked the fact that Joe wasn’t going to give me a goal. Other boys might have, and in a way that would let me know they were doing it to be nice because it was “cute” that I played. I thought about Bobby, and what he’d said about his dad and brothers after he was so rough on us at practice.

  I really wanted another lesson. Fortunately, as Joe hefted his cones and tossed me the ball to carry, he said, “I have my car, so I can drive you back—and I can pick you up next time, if you want.”

  “Next time?” I was relieved he’d said it again and I didn’t have to ask.

  “Yeah, you’re not yet wise in the ways of the Force,” he said. “. . . Sorry, have you seen Star Wars?”

  “Sure, but what, you’re Obi-Wan now, and I’m Luke?”

  “I retain my claim to higher-ranking Jedi until you get a ball past me,” he said, stopping at the curb next to his car. “But anyway, the big thing you need to learn is, every goalie has his weakness. Like, Ken the Lame, this guy at St. Mark’s who took over my position? Fucker practically lays out a red carpet to the top-right corner of the goal for everyone who wants to take a shot on him.”

  “Why didn’t you go back, after your leg got better?” I asked. I’d been thinking about it all morning, since it was so obvious that he loved to play. “You’re really good.”

  He shrugged and pursed his lips for a second. I could tell immediately he didn’t want to talk about this but also didn’t want to admit he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Started my band, didn’t like the whole jock thing,” he said after a moment. “Especially at St. Mark’s. All that ‘Strength, Honor, Courage’ crap, but the best athletes are all the worst people. Being on a team mostly means blindly following whatever the shittiest guys want to do. Like the Webs, the guy you shot down. He’s a turd. The teams are mostly turds.”

  He loaded the cones into the trunk of his old Nova and I threw the soccer ball in beside them. For the first time that day, he seemed unsettled, and I felt bad for making him talk about his ex-team.

  “So what’s your weakness?” I asked as I opened the passenger door and dropped onto the ripped seat next to Joe’s.

  He looked over and smirked. “Nice legs,” he said.

  I slugged him in the arm. I’d called it. He took nothing seriously. “You’re lucky you’re a decent teacher.”

  Ten

  After Joe dropped me off, I walked to Sportmart again, this time to buy my own soccer ball. At the rate I was spending money, I’d be babysitting Randy the Terrible forever.

  Later, I was practicing positioning myself on the shag carpet in the den while I watched The Love Boat when the phone rang. It was Candace.

  “It’s Lasagna Night tomorrow—are you coming?” she said. I could picture her on the phone in her kitchen, which was nearly identical to the phone in our kitchen except hers was a pukey shade of green and ours was more a baby poop shade of yellow.

  Picking up the phone to hear Candace on the other end was as familiar as the rumble the radiator made when our house’s heat kicked on, or as reliable as the drawer next to our stove being filled with the rubber bands and twist ties my mom saved from bags of produce and bread. But as soon as her voice came over the line, I realized I’d been nervous about us ever since she’d quit the team and I hadn’t. I knew she wasn’t angry, but I was worried she was hurt. I didn’t want our separate decisions to be a sore spot—more a clarification that we were who we were, the same as the tacit agreement that she would always wear a mud mask at our sleepovers and I would not. (They made me claustrophobic.)


  When I said, “What time?” and she brightly answered, “The usual,” I knew I was worrying over nothing. Our friendship was solid. I could almost smell her mom’s spaghetti sauce and feel the scratchy fabric of their couch.

  “Okay, I’ll be there,” I said. I didn’t ask if Tina was coming, for two reasons. One, Tina usually had to eat Sunday-night dinner at her house; and two, from the way Candace had been acting the last week, I knew she wanted to feel like it didn’t matter to me if Tina came, too.

  Lasagna Night happened once a month at the Trillos. When we were younger and our dads worked together, my whole family went. Mr. Trillo and my dad had met working for the phone company out of high school. Now Mr. Trillo managed a team at a steel mill in Chicago and my dad still worked for the phone company, but no longer had to climb telephone poles. They were still friends, but the days of my whole family attending Lasagna Night had faded toward the end of elementary school.

  As I headed out the door the next evening, I called goodbye to my mom, who had a textbook open next to one elbow and a pile of bills and her checkbook next to the other. If someone wanted to paint her portrait, that would be the pose she’d be in.

  “Lasagna Night?” she said, as she flipped back through the check register and then looked at a bill again, like the amount might change.

  “Yes,” I said, and then, because she looked so small behind the books and the bills, added, “Is that okay?” I knew better than to ask to use the car, too, since gas was so expensive.

  “Sure, lord knows I don’t have a plan for us.”

  The Trillos lived a mile away, in a redbrick house on a street two blocks past the high school, in the direction of a McDonald’s on Ninety-Fifth Street that students would walk to after school. When we were younger, Candace and I would sit on her porch and crane our necks to see girls in groups sharing french fries or couples with their hands in each other’s back pockets walk by. We’d imagine that high school was going to be the beginning of our real life. If you could decide when you got to eat McDonald’s and had someone who liked to squeeze your butt, wasn’t that all you needed?