Gimme Everything You Got

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  I hadn’t even thought of that. “I’m sorry to have made you worry.”

  “I should be ticked off at you, I know, but I also had this weird thought that this must be what it’s like to have your own family. It’s not just getting fancy photos taken for the mantel. There’s all the stuff you don’t commemorate, too.” She sipped her tea again. “Plus, I made your dad drive by your mom’s house that night to make sure you were okay. There were lights on and I saw you watching TV in your dress.”

  “From the street?”

  Polly blushed. “No. I peeked in the window. I’ll never forget creeping in the bushes on my wedding night. I assumed you didn’t want company.”

  I gulped, touching the velvet jewelry box. The soft texture was soothing. “You did all that?”

  She shrugged. “I figured it was an awkward moment for us all, but part of the growing process. I imagine it’s hard to have a parent remarry.”

  I plunged into my sandwich, unable to wait any longer. It was perfect, melty and greasy. Once I swallowed the bite, I said, “Are you a real person? How can you be so calm about this?”

  “I’m not, really. I have worried every day since we told you we were getting married that I would say the wrong thing to you, or force you to wear a dress you hate, or seem like I’m trying to take your mom’s place. I’m a mess.” Polly took another messless spoonful of soup. “You may think you screwed up, but all I’ve seen is a girl who handled her father’s remarriage with nothing but grace. I appreciate that. And I adore you.”

  “Um, thank you,” I said. I wanted to say something nice back but I was still confused.

  “That wasn’t too much like I was trying to be your mom, was it?” Polly said, holding her breath as she waited for my answer.

  “No,” I said. “It was like you.”

  She got up from the booth and sat down next to me. She hugged me and I hugged her back, grateful that my dad had picked this person and had once picked my mom. He had good taste, for someone with a bad haircut.

  I was crying a little when we let go. “Dad hates me, though,” I said. “He’s never going to look at me again.”

  Polly waved this away. “Your dad still has some things to learn about women. And honestly, he was so shocked by the whole thing that it gave me a good opportunity to discuss female sexuality with him.” She put a hand up to her mouth. “I’m sorry, that probably grossed you out.”

  “You owed me,” I said, laughing a little. “But seriously, I do feel really bad that I left, and the whole . . . incident. I saw your wish book. Those things were not in it.”

  Polly laughed. “My wish book is a fantasy, Susan. There’s a picture in there of a couple making their vows while they sit on white horses on a beach.”

  “Sounds nice. As long as you like horses.”

  “Sure, it sounds dreamy, and when I was younger, I did think about this big day and had so many expectations. But my real life is better, because it’s mine. Like sitting here with you right now? I’m not going to forget this, even if the circumstances getting here aren’t the kind of thing you glue into a wish book.” she said. She reached across the table and put her hand over mine, and she didn’t start speaking again until I looked into her eyes. “Wishes are great and fantasizing is fun, but when it comes down to it, some of the stuff we cook up in our heads probably would not be as great as we think it would. And then some stuff—like for me, having a relationship with you—might not be what we imagined, but is something so much better.”

  “But what about when you go for something that isn’t vows on white horses, but more realistic? And maybe you get it or almost get it, but it ends up being disappointing?”

  “I guess you try to not let disappointments turn you into someone who stops trying,” Polly said. She sounded like my mom talking about going for the job she wanted even if it didn’t work out. Maybe that was why they got along. “Or into my mother.”

  “It’s weird that you’re related to her,” I said.

  “Thank you for that,” Polly said.

  “I know you’re right, but sometimes figuring out what I want in real life scares me. Like getting this necklace after wanting it so much. Now I have it and I’m afraid I could lose it someday.”

  “And you might, but does that mean you never want to wear it?”

  I shook my head and pulled the necklace box toward me. “Can you help me put this on?”

  “Of course.” Polly gently lifted the necklace from its box, and I held up my hair as she looped it around my neck. Her cool fingertips fastened the clasp, and she turned me around to admire it.

  I liked the weight of the necklace, and the coolness of the metal. I’d wanted it so badly last Christmas. Maybe what Polly had said wasn’t entirely true. Some wishes did turn out exactly like you’d hoped.

  Thirty-Two

  I sat in front of my mirror, looking at my necklace.

  Polly was right. I might never have fantasized about soccer, and I had found it only because of a crush on Bobby, who had disappointed me. But that didn’t change how much I loved the game. Maybe there were pages in my mental wish book that I should tear out and other ones that I could write anew. I could make something happen, even if it was a colossal failure.

  I was going to get a real game against St. Mark’s.

  And maybe it didn’t have to be a failure. When we kicked their asses in reality, it would be better than any daydream.

  When Mom got home from her night class at eight, I asked if I could borrow the car.

  “You look like a new person,” she said, holding out the keys. She gestured to my chest. “The necklace is pretty on you.”

  “Thanks for telling Polly I wanted it,” I said, admiring my mom. How cool was it that she could let my dad’s new wife do something nice for me without feeling threatened by it? I hugged her suddenly.

  “What’s this for?” she asked, hugging me back.

  I shrugged. “No reason. But I have to tell you something.” I’d debated whether I really wanted to say what I was about to say. But Polly knew, and Dad knew, and it seemed unfair for Mom not to know.

  I told her the whole story, starting with the game, all the way up to what had happened with Joe. I even told her about how hot and heavy things had been, and how I’d called him the wrong name. My mom always tried to be open with me, and she deserved to be trusted.

  She listened with the kind of diligent precision you saw from doctors on TV. It was the kind of listening you’d expect from a mom who’d once carefully explained the workings of the vagina to you.

  When I was done, she inhaled one slow breath through her nose and exhaled.

  “Well, it sounds like you like this boy,” my mom said. “But I don’t know that I have good advice for how to smooth things over with him. Except maybe being honest.”

  “Polly isn’t mad, but I think Dad thinks I’m a deviant or something,” I told her. “. . . Are you mad?”

  Mom rubbed her temple, as if the answer was waiting there. “I’m not going to be upset with you for doing something utterly natural. As for your choice of venue, being caught by your father in a private moment was punishment enough. If it helps, I’m sure someday you’ll be able to laugh at this.”

  Having my mom and Polly both react so serenely to something I’d thought was a major fuck-up felt like the kind of gift you couldn’t accept, because it was so extravagant. But maybe it wasn’t a gift, when someone understood you. Maybe letting someone understand you was an exchange you both got something out of.

  “Can I still have the keys?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, extending them to me again. “But fill it up. I have that interview tomorrow.”

  “I know,” I said. “And you’re going to be great.” I kissed her on the cheek and charged down the steps. I was going to be great, too, but I needed a game.

  Joe’s car was parked out front of his house, and it felt like a good sign. I realized how badly I wanted to see him, even if I knew I c
ouldn’t expect it to go well.

  I parked carefully, not wanting to screw up Mom’s car before her big morning. Crossing the street, I adjusted my posture and smoothed my hair a little. I was glad I still had on my Going Places outfit. It was evening, so Joe’s parents were probably home; if his mom answered, and on the chance that Joe had ever mentioned me, she’d be pleased to associate my name with this straight-backed girl with nice hair. I was past worrying about a lot of things at the moment, but I still wanted my friends’ moms to like me.

  I rang the bell and waited with my hands folded. It was Joe who opened the door, as a woman’s voice—clearly his mom’s—called from the other room, “Joe, you’re staying in tonight, remember?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Ma, don’t worry. It’s no one.” He turned back to me.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  Joe didn’t laugh. “I think you have the wrong house,” he said pointedly.

  “I’m really sor—”

  “You don’t have to say you’re sorry.” His voice lacked its usual charged tone, and his flat stare was the opposite of welcoming. But he hadn’t slammed the door in my face. That was something.

  “Sometimes I don’t,” I said. “But to you, I do. So whether you want to hear it or not, I’m really sorry.” Then, even though I didn’t want to admit it, I offered a real explanation. “I did have a crush on Bobby. I think you suspected that. I . . . sort of . . . had this story in my head about him—a fantasy—and when you were making me feel so good, it surfaced. It wasn’t like I’d have rather been with him. I wanted—want—to be with you. And I know I blew it, but you deserve to know the truth.”

  He didn’t smile or respond, but he listened. Maybe he wasn’t unserious about everything.

  “If you don’t like me, I understand,” I continued, hoping he’d protest. He didn’t. “Still, I wanted to ask if you’d help me get a rematch with St. Mark’s.”

  “Did he want you to get the game?” I knew that by “he,” Joe meant Bobby.

  “This isn’t about him,” I said. “I don’t want to see him anymore. I’m team captain and I decided.”

  Joe’s eyes flickered, just slightly, and he caught his mouth before he grinned.

  “Your graffiti went over well,” he said, and I was happy that he couldn’t resist paying this small compliment. “Everyone went fucking nuts on Monday.”

  I shrugged nonchalantly, even as the flash of the old Joe gave me a surge of hope.

  “Thanks, but they owe us a game,” I said. “Can you help me or not?”

  Joe leaned against the doorframe, long arms, long legs, dark hair a little messy. I didn’t breathe, waiting for his answer. If he said he’d help, he still liked me. If he said he wouldn’t, well . . .

  He finally spoke. “Look, if you want them to take you seriously, you need to get the game yourself,” he said. Deep down I knew he was right. He pulled away from the door and stepped into the house. “Now I have to get back inside. CHiPS is on.”

  “You hate CHiPS,” I reminded him.

  He grinned, big, but not for me. “Sure do,” he said sarcastically and shut the door.

  I turned to leave, my legs weak. He hadn’t wanted to help me. He didn’t like me. A sob crept up my throat, but I forced it down.

  I was waiting to cross the street to Mom’s car when I heard Joe’s door open again. I spun around, hating how hopeful I was it would be him, when it was more likely one of his parents, taking out the garbage. But there was Joe. “They had an away game tonight,” he said. “They probably just got back. They’ll be at Wojo’s by now.”

  I looked him dead in the eye and, hoping my smile would communicate more than appreciation for that bit of information, said, “Thanks, Joe.”

  “Sure, champ.” My heart fluttered, hearing him call me that.

  Maybe I had a chance.

  I left Joe’s and went straight to Wojo’s before I had time to think about it. I flipped on the radio, hoping for a song that would psych me up. “Gimme Shelter” or something equally powerful. Instead, ABBA poured out, “Take a Chance on Me” filling the car with pert Swedish pop. It was not going to make me feel like someone who couldn’t be trifled with, but as I started to sing along, the song wasn’t important. I was someone who couldn’t be trifled with, or streaked by, or sprayed with douche and pelted with underwear. I was also so nervous that I half hoped the team wouldn’t be there when I arrived.

  But as I pulled into the small parking lot next to the restaurant, I could see Ken holding court with the rest of the team at the booth with the best view of the street. Facing that way, they wouldn’t see me as I came in the side door.

  My hands trembled as I flipped down the car door lock and got out. I made my way into the restaurant. My mouth had gone dry at the same time a red heat rose under my hair, sending a trickle of sweat down the back of my neck. There were so many of them, and one of me. If they wanted to humiliate me, they had the numbers.

  Susan, I told myself, the last few days have been a huge mess. How bad could this be?

  Wojo’s was a tiny place and it was always packed. They had a white menu board that was overwhelmed with black plastic letters offering anything you could make on a grill or deep-fry, but the real draw were the seventy flavors of milkshake spelled out on a painted sign next to the register.

  It was also, I now remembered, impossible to enter without someone seeing you. As soon as I walked inside, one of Ken’s friends heard the door chime and swiveled his head toward me. He tapped Ken’s shoulder and Ken whipped around.

  “Well, if it isn’t Soccer Barbie,” he said as I took my first steps toward his table. He looked me up and down and then looked back at his friends. “Or really more like Soccer Skipper.”

  They all laughed like he was fucking Richard Pryor or something. I didn’t waste an ounce of energy to flip him off or think of a response. I knew what I wanted to say, and stumbling over a witty reply wasn’t going to get me there.

  “Are you here for another show?” Ken said. “Because there’s a strict No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service policy. But we can arrange something for another time.” He patted his upper thighs.

  The entire team laughed again. I wanted to leave. I couldn’t breathe.

  Now Ken turned in his chair and looked up at me, like I was lost. “Can’t you talk? Are you here by mistake? This is a guys’ soccer team. And we’re not looking for cheerleaders.”

  “Our cheerleaders would be better looking,” one of Ken’s buddies said.

  “She’s not bad,” Ken countered, and stared at my butt in a way that made me uncomfortable.

  Stay focused, Susan, I reminded myself, clenching my fists at my sides. I wanted to do something cool, like put my hands on the table and loom over Ken threateningly. But with the way he kept staring at me like I was a five-foot-three Wojo’s milkshake, I crossed my hands over my chest instead.

  “I know why you didn’t play us,” I said, my voice shaking. “You were too scared.”

  “Yeah, right,” a guy in a baseball cap by the window said.

  “We just didn’t want to hurt you,” Ken said, almost sweetly, as he put his chin in his hand and batted his eyelashes at me. Every bone in my body wanted me to knock him down and punch him for as hard and as long as I could.

  I took a step back toward him and pointed my finger in his face so fast, he flinched. Just a little, but he knew he’d done it. “Nope. You were scared,” I said. “Just like you were scared Joe was better than you, so you took him out instead of trying to earn your position fair and square.”

  Baseball hat guy said, “What’s she talking about, Ken?”

  “He won’t tell you,” I said, as Ken squirmed. “He’s a cowardly turd . . . no, less than that. He’s a shit stain, just like the ones in his underwear.”

  Now Ken pushed up from his chair so he was standing over me. “Fuck this,” he said, the smell of his onion breath curling sourly in my nose. “I don’t care if we hurt you. You want a g
ame? You’re fucking on.”

  I smiled my best Polly smile. “Great,” I said chipperly. I handed him a slip of paper I’d written out in advance with a date and time on it. “Your field again. And you’d better show up to play. Wear clean underwear this time, in case you need to go to the hospital.” I turned and walked to the door, praying they couldn’t see how wobbly my legs were.

  “We’ll be there,” Ken said to my back.

  I flipped him off over my shoulder without looking back.

  I didn’t need to see his face. I’d wait to enjoy his expression when we beat him.

  Thirty-Three

  On Thursday, while she was styling her hair, I put a note in mom’s briefcase wishing her luck on her interview. Then I put on my soccer jersey. It was still as sweat-stain yellow and hideous as the day I’d gotten it, but today it felt like armor. It said, “Keep away from me, because I don’t care what you think.”

  Tina came to give me a ride and, when she saw me in my jersey, said, “I thought you were done with soccer.”

  “I’m done with Bobby,” I told her. Then I grinned. “But I got us a rematch against St. Mark’s.”

  Tina landed a heavy foot on the brakes, stopping way before the intersection. “Are you crazy?”

  “What have we got to lose?” I asked her.

  “Teeth,” she said. “After the St. Skid-Marks thing, they’re going to want to kill us.”

  “Yeah, they definitely do,” I said. “But we can’t let them scare us. The team needs this.”

  “And I’m the first one you told?” Tina looked like she would throw me out of the car if this wasn’t the case.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then,” she said with a little smile. She pulled away from the curb and continued to school. “You’re getting awfully bold, Suzie Q.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “So spill—did you talk to your mom?”

  Tina nodded, never taking her eyes off the road. “I started to. She knows about Todd, and that we’ve been dating awhile. It wasn’t pretty. She’s mad I was keeping secrets. But after some fireworks, she and my stepdad said they want to meet him.”