Gimme Everything You Got

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  Bobby scratched the back of his neck. “For sure,” he said. He looked at me. “Can you get home okay?”

  “I can walk,” I said.

  Or run, I thought. I had to get ready for the concert.

  Twenty-Four

  “So here’s the thing,” Joe said as we took the ramp from Cicero to the Stevenson. “O’Banion’s is a complete shithole.”

  Tina had called me just before Joe picked me up, asking if I was ready for my date, so I had to remind her I was not going on a date, even as I started to worry it was one.

  Now, though, I was sure: the guy telling you that you were being taken to a shithole was proof you were not on a date.

  “That’s great—how did you know I love shitholes?”

  Joe laughed. “Well, it’s a great shithole and it’s a lot of fun. But it’s not our first stop. I figure we’re going to the city, and we both more or less look presentable, so maybe we should go get food someplace decent first?”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “You do look presentable. Nice, even.” He was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and jeans with Converse high-tops, and his hair was extra spiky. He smelled like paint and soap.

  “I enjoy showers too much to be a total dirtbag,” he said, merging into the left lane. “You like pizza, right? Even if it’s not just to hold in your lap?”

  “Every year on my birthday, I ask for a pizza that’s just for me instead of a cake,” I told him.

  “So that’s a yes.”

  We wound up at Gino’s East on Superior. I’d never been before, but you could write on the walls, which were covered in previous diners’ graffiti. Joe scribbled “The Watergate Tapes” on a beam next to our table and then handed me the marker.

  “I don’t know what to write,” I said.

  “Do you think all these couples are still together?” Joe was reading our table, which had pairs like “Danny + Debbie,” “Robert and Lisa Forever,” and “Maxwell and Ruby” scrawled on it.

  “Probably not,” I said. “Actually, you gave me an idea.” I added question marks next to every set of couples’ names.

  “Cynic,” Joe said with a grin. “You probably cursed them all.”

  The waiter’s entire presence suggested he was massively bored and thought he was too cool to be serving us. His flat tone only lifted to ask in a singsong way, “What will you two be having?” like we were a couple. I leaned away from Joe.

  “I love coming to the city,” Joe said as we waited for our food. “It sounds dorky, but I always feel like it kind of wakes me up that there’s more to life than Powell Park.”

  “God, I hope there is,” I said. It was a new hope, though. I’d never necessarily loved Powell Park, but I’d never felt like it was small, either, and lately, maybe since soccer, or the game in Wisconsin, I’d been thinking about traveling, and even contemplating a visit to Tonia in L.A., once I decided to forgive her. I didn’t bring her up, though, not wanting to wow Joe with tales of my wild older sister that would make me seem boring by comparison. Instead, I told Joe about the trip to the city with Mom and Tina and Candace.

  “Your mom sounds cool,” he said. “What’s your dad like?”

  “Dad-like,” I said. He smiled but didn’t say anything. “He’s okay.” I went on to talk about Mom’s self-improvement and how my dad didn’t seem any different, except for the new wife thing.

  “I never met anyone whose parents had a peaceful divorce, though,” Joe said. “So maybe he’s cooler than you’re giving him credit for.”

  “Maybe,” I said, wondering if I should tell him that my dad’s most prized collection was a folder of small appliance warranties. “What are your parents like?”

  “Normal, nice, sometimes trying too hard to understand my music,” Joe said. “They’re meeting us at the show.”

  “Really?” I asked. I tried not to look too floored by this, but why would his parents come?

  He shook his head and his smile showed all of his perfect teeth. “The expression on your face was terrified,” he said. “Nah. They’re supportive of the punk thing as long as I’m only a Powell Park punk. I think O’Banion’s would worry them. Which is half the point.”

  Our food came and we dove in. When there was one slice left, Joe urged me to take it. I was full but it was so delicious that I did.

  We took the L from the restaurant to a few blocks from O’Banion’s. “So how’d you hear about the show tonight?” I asked. I never had any idea what was going on in the city.

  “My cousin Artie took me here last summer,” he said. “And this is embarrassing, but honestly, I heard about the show because I keep calling the place to try to get them to give us a gig.”

  “I should have worn a Watergate Tapes shirt and told them you’re my favorite band.”

  “You haven’t heard us play,” he said, but he smiled like he liked the idea.

  O’Banion’s was a shithole. On the outside, it was a scary shithole that looked distinctly unloved. On the inside, though, it was more of a friendly shithole. As Joe led me in, a tall black woman in green sequins and a yellow-blond wig stopped us. “Joey,” she said in a deep voice. “You here for Tutu?”

  “Hey, Twinkle, yeah, definitely here for Tutu,” Joe said. “This is my friend Susan.”

  “Susan,” Twinkle said, extending her hand. “You’ve got a cute little figure, don’t you?”

  “. . . I don’t know,” I said, looking down at my T-shirt and jeans. I’d abandoned the Sportmart plan after running into Bobby. “I guess.”

  “You do, sweetie,” she said. “Joe, be good to this one.”

  Being called “this one” bothered me, but Joe actually blushed as Twinkle sashayed away. “Is Twinkle a drag queen?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, O’Banion’s is a gay and drag bar during the day, and then it crosses over to punk at night, but some of the drag queens like punk. Twinkle is a great crowd surfer.”

  O’Banion’s was noisy and packed and there was no stage. People just gathered on the floor in front of the band. As we walked deeper into the space, I couldn’t hear Joe as well over the music, but we got closer to the band by Joe expertly weaving through the jumping crowd.

  “Is that Tutu and the . . . ,” I yelled over the noise, realizing I’d forgotten the band’s whole name.

  “The Pirates?” Joe shook his head. “No, that’s a warm-up act. They’re okay. From Elgin. I guess they’re better than the Watergate Tapes.”

  Joe pursed his lips and watched the band play. He looked like he wanted to crack the code of why that band—who looked like they were in high school, too—was onstage and he wasn’t. I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll get a show here someday.”

  He beamed. “I hope you’re right,” he said. The group finished with a clatter of instruments and noise and whoops from the crowd. “I mean, the standards are low. Plus, Ben got dumped so we have a drummer again.”

  Then five new guys came out, and the guy at the mic threw a roll of toilet paper at the drummer. “That’s Tutu and we’re the PIRATES! Let’s go, Tutu!”

  The band launched into a song that seemed to be called “Debbie Debbie Debbie and her Prison Baby” and was relentlessly upbeat. Joe started pogoing off the balls of his feet with the rest of the audience, and I followed his lead. Everyone more or less danced the same, and it didn’t seem to matter if you knew what you were doing or not.

  “Are you having fun?” Joe hollered a few songs later.

  “Yeah,” I shouted, and it was true. I tried to remember the last time I’d had fun like this. Maybe when Joe had taken me to Skee-Ball.

  The band paused for a second and the bassist switched guitars. “That’s the toilet seat bass I told you about,” Joe said. “They’re gonna play ‘I Wanna Be a Janitor.’”

  The singer grabbed a plunger that he waved around as he sang, and the crowd went even wilder. Near me, a girl stepped into a guy’s cupped hands and hurled herself onto the outstretched hands of a dozen or so other audienc
e members, who passed her along to a second group of people, who passed her on to another, until she dismounted right near the stage. I saw Twinkle go up next and make it even farther, landing right next to the singer and yelling the lyrics into the microphone.

  As the crowd’s frenzy grew, Joe and I were pressed tighter together. When the band launched into a song with a tempo so fast I couldn’t understand a word the singer said, a tattooed man next to me jumped in the air and the contents of his beer cup went up like they’d been spouted out by a spitting cherub in a fountain. Joe grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the way before the beer could land on me. “That was close,” he said.

  “Thanks for saving me,” I said. His fingers were wrapped around my hand and we both looked nervously at our clasped palms before he let go.

  The show wrapped as abruptly as it had started—a punk thing, Joe told me—and we spilled out of the club with everyone else.

  As we made our way back to the L, Joe told me that Tutu had once opened for the Ramones. “I’ve wanted to see them since then,” he said. “So thanks for coming.”

  “Well . . . if we’re doing each other favors,” I began, grinning so Joe wouldn’t think my question was too big a deal, or feel like he had to say yes, “I need a date for my dad’s wedding, and I was thinking, you want to go with me?”

  “Really?” Joe said.

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll even change my T-shirt.”

  Twenty-Five

  On Sunday, while I tried to write my report on Great Expectations (titled “Great Disappointments”), I kept drifting into thoughts of the night in the city with Joe. It was new territory for me to have daydreams about something that had actually happened and I hadn’t made up.

  It wasn’t one of my fantasies or anything like that. I thought about how Joe had said he was going to apply to colleges. That would probably mean no more Saturday practices or concerts if he went far away. It was another entry on the list of reasons not to let things change between us. In movies, there was always some woman waiting for a guy to come back to her, like needing a guy was the basis for her entire character. I never wanted to be that woman.

  Knowing that I didn’t like the idea of being left behind—by anyone—going away to college sounded more attractive. On Monday I went to see my guidance counselor, excited to hear what she’d say. My reservations about college, I realized, were partly due to my belief that it required some kind of specialness. Specialness that I didn’t have, that Powell Park didn’t have. Average people belonged in average places.

  But if what Bobby said was true, and colleges were seeking out girls who played soccer, then maybe that was my specialness.

  Ms. Hong had just taken a sip of coffee when I dropped in on her. When she saw me, she gulped it down and put her mug on the desk abruptly. “Susan?” she said, like she thought I’d walked into the wrong office. “I’m sorry, what can I help you with?”

  I’d last seen Ms. Hong during the mandatory guidance sessions we’d had freshman year, and at the time I had made every effort to say as little as possible to her. I’m sure it was clear that I wasn’t thinking about my future. Or not any version of a future you could bring up with school staff.

  “I was wondering if you knew anything about . . . soccer scholarships,” I said. “To college. I’m on the team here.”

  Ms. Hong cleared her throat and I could tell she was trying not to smile. She opened her file drawer and pulled out a folder with my name on the tab. “I know you’re on the team. I have to admit, I was surprised to hear it. When we talked about extracurriculars a couple years ago, you made it pretty clear that you had no interest in joining any clubs or activities. I suppose Coach McMann made the team sound . . . alluring?”

  I caught her meaning easily—she was about as subtle as a chain saw. But I decided to ignore it. “At first, I thought it just seemed like something fun to do. But I’ve gotten pretty good. And I know that it’s still a newish sport here in the States, so there might be opportunities to play at the next level.”

  I’d practiced that part before I came in, and Ms. Hong stared at me like I’d started performing a singing telegram.

  “Well, yes, there are scholarships, and I’ll happily help you,” she said. “A few smaller schools would probably be willing to look at skills outside of competition, but do you know if you have any games coming up? Some schools might want to send a scout to see you play.”

  After Bobby’s request that we keep the game quiet, I couldn’t invite scouts to the St. Mark’s game. Plus, it was nerve-racking enough. “Not at the moment. But I’m only a junior, so I have a little more time, right?”

  Ms. Hong nodded and, opening my file, said, “You do. I’ll start getting some options together for schools you might consider. And with that extra time, see what you can do about this English comp grade, okay?”

  Ms. Lopez’s class. I grimaced, thinking how my “Great Disappointments” paper probably wasn’t going to bring up my grade. But it was only the first quarter of junior year.

  “Sure,” I said before taking my special-and-not-average ass back to class.

  Bobby had managed to get us a half hour in the weight room right after school on Monday and announced that we’d have a long practice that afternoon. But because daylight saving time meant sunset had crept up to four thirty and the park would get too dark, we also had a new practice venue: the boys’ football field. We had to wait for the boys’ teams to finish, but the field had lights, so we could stay as late as we wanted.

  Tuesday, it rained, hard. Bobby sought us out and told us that since we couldn’t use the field, we’d meet at the Powell Park Recreation Center, which had an indoor track that surrounded an expanse of floor typically used for little boys’ basketball games. The practice wasn’t as strenuous as it would have been outdoors—the space was smaller—but the fact that Bobby was making sure we practiced hard leading up to the game felt like a vote of confidence. We worked on some defensive attacks and offensive feints as a team of seven-year-olds waited to play.

  As we wrapped up, I saw Mrs. Ketchum, the mom of Kevin, one of my babysitting charges, watching us. She looked bewildered. As I waved to her on the way out of the rec center, she touched her own perfect curls and appeared wounded by the sight of my sweaty ponytail. She left Kevin standing there with his team and when I got up from the water fountain was hovering over me. “Susan,” she asked with concern in her voice. “Is all that exertion affecting your menses?”

  “. . . Are you asking about my period?” The only time Mrs. Ketchum had ever been concerned about my well-being was when she hoped aloud that I’d eaten before coming over as her way of letting me know the pantry was off-limits. “My menses are fine.”

  “Oh,” she said, loudly. “I was worried they might be . . . stunted by all that exercise. You wouldn’t want to ruin your chances for children one day.” She said this at the same time her darling Kevin licked a garbage can.

  “My monthly is fine, too,” Tina chimed in.

  “I get my period like clockwork,” added Dawn.

  “Aunt Flow loves her visits,” Joanie piped up.

  “Actually, hasn’t she been visiting us all at the same time every month?” Wendy said, smiling at Mrs. Ketchum, who was now looking at us all like we were a coven of witches, and not the pretty kind who did spells by twitching their cute noses.

  It was like our own version of “I am Spartacus.”

  “I wish mine came like clockwork, but the Quinn women have always had issues,” Marie said. “Since soccer, though, my cramps are way better. And my moods. You should try it!”

  Mrs. Ketchum’s features pinched into a disgusted expression as she hurried back to her precious Kevin. I’d probably lost that babysitting job, but I didn’t care.

  Two days before the game, at the end of our last scrimmage, Bobby blew his whistle.

  “You look great, and I’ve never seen—or been on—a team that has worked this
hard. But we have a problem.”

  Several groans and “whats?” burbled up from our huddle.

  “You all like each other too much,” he said.

  “What?” Franchesa said. “Isn’t that the point?”

  Bobby nodded. “I’m glad you’re all getting along,” he said. “But think about the guys you’ll be playing. They don’t like you. I see it going one of two ways. They might come out with kid gloves and treat you like they have to go easy on you.”

  “Because we’re girls?” Dawn Murphy said, using her shirt to rub sweat from her face.

  “For better or worse, yeah,” Bobby said. “But I think it’s going to go the other way. I think you’ve upset them, and I think they’re going to be angry. They’re going to make this game hurt. Split up. Same teams you just had. And this time, I’m going to be on defense.”

  We did; my side had the ball.

  “If someone throws an elbow,” Bobby said, lining up with the other team, “you have to dodge, or take the blow somewhere it will hurt less. If one of these guys tries to tangle your feet up, you’re going to hit the dirt, and you have to roll to make sure you don’t sustain an injury. I’ve seen you all take knocks in practice, and I’ve seen Marie and our defenders dish it out. But St. Mark’s is going to be relentless. Let’s play!”

  Bobby blew the whistle. I passed the ball to Tina, who kicked it to Dana in the open field. She had Franchesa on her and kicked it back to me. I started for the goal, keeping Tina and Dana in my peripherals. As my feet pounded the crunchy turf, I heard an unfamiliar cadence next to me. Marie’s steps were lighter, and Joanie’s run sounded like a ticking clock. Bobby’s footfalls were rhythmic, like a heartbeat. My own sped up as I could hear him breathing behind me. I picked up my pace. Bobby would appreciate me challenging him.

  I was dribbling toward Wendy and the goal when he closed in on me, his leg cutting over mine for the ball. I charged forward hoping to flick the ball left to Tina. I lowered my chin as Bobby began to pivot, his elbow flying back, hard—right into my eye.