Pretty Tough

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  Keeping her eyes averted, she made her way to a desk in the back row, aiming to blend into the bookshelves behind her. She scanned the books on the shelf. Sex and the Zitty: A Teen’s Guide Through the Ups and Downs of Adolescence.

  Riveting.

  As she sat down, she noticed someone staring at her.

  Charlie sighed. It had started already. Someone was staring and… smiling?

  Charlie looked up. There, on the other side of the room—an oasis in a desert, a life raft in the ocean. Carla!

  “Hey,” Charlie said timidly, giving a little half wave.

  Carla’s grin broke into a wide smile. She gathered up her stuff and switched to a desk right next to Charlie.

  “Hey,” she said. “I was hoping we’d have class together.”

  The janitor’s closet was the last place Krista should have been at two fifteen in the afternoon. She knew that. She had been on her way to her first soccer practice when Cam grabbed her and pulled her inside.

  It was funny… and romantic… and horrible because she knew she was really late. After fifteen minutes, she insisted that she really had to go.

  “One more kiss,” Cam said. “What’s the rush?”

  “The rush is I’m supposed to be at practice,” Krista explained again. “It’s not like last year. All these girls have been recruited and—”

  “I know.” Cam groaned, pulling away. “The team. It’s all I’ve been hearing about for five days. What about me? Shouldn’t you worry about me more than soccer?”

  Krista sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Okay,” Cam finally conceded, “but I’m serious. You owe me.”

  Krista didn’t stop to think what that meant. With a final peck on the lips, she slipped away from Cam and out of the closet.

  She ran down the hallway and pushed through the doors to the athletics field. The team hopefuls were already gathered there. Martie, the new coach, stood in front of them, mid-speech. Krista’s heart began to race. The start of a new season was always exciting.

  “I’d like to welcome everyone to our first official practice,” Martie said happily. As if on cue, all the girls applauded. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Martie Reese. And I graduated from B-dub in 1994.”

  Krista couldn’t help but be surprised that Martie had gone to Beachwood. The student body had little diversity. From the looks of the team, though, that was starting to change.

  The recruits were a virtual melting pot—a tiny Asian girl with her hair pulled into two short, pointy ponytails, an African American girl with the most developed triceps Krista had ever seen, a beautiful Hispanic girl cracking her knuckles, and—Krista narrowed her eyes, her heart sinking as she saw:

  Charlie.

  So she was serious about tryouts. Well, that was really a shame. Krista was going to have to crush that dream immediately. No way was she going to share the field with her sister. She would rather wear size-three cleats and have her fingernails pulled out one by one than have Charlie steal her spotlight out of spite.

  She watched as Charlie whispered something to the knuckle-cracking girl next to her.

  Krista shook her head in disbelief. What was this? Was the apocalypse upon her? It had to be the end of the world if Charlie, a self-imposed social outcast, was actually speaking to someone.

  Krista snapped her attention back to Martie’s speech.

  “After that, I became a member of the U.S. National team,” Martie continued. “In the last few years I’ve returned to coaching, and I’m really excited to be back at Beachwood. I know many of you were on the team last year, and I’m glad you’re here with us today. We’re also fortunate to have talented, skilled student athletes from all across Los Angeles—brand-new students at Beachwood—trying out, as well as a few girls from Beachwood’s other teams.”

  Really? Krista thought. She glanced around the crowd again, confused. On one side of the semicircle, Brooks had positioned herself right next to Noah. Not surprising.

  On the opposite side, Krista saw her two good friends and teammates, Buffi and Julie… but Martie wasn’t kidding. Girls from other sports were trying out for soccer.

  Jen, a senior from the beach volleyball team, and Karen and Heather, two junior standouts from the track team, were seated in the middle of the bench. Karen was Beachwood’s top cross-country runner and Heather, a record-holding sprinter.

  Did these girls actually think they could just walk in and play a sport that Krista had been playing for her entire life? So what if they played when they were, like, ten? Like Charlie, they were going to be sorely disappointed when the team was picked.

  “You girls are all athletes in every sense of the word,” Martie continued. “It’s not the sport that makes you successful as an athlete; it’s being an athlete that makes you successful in the sport. That warrior mentality, that sense of pride you get from doing something to the best of your ability, cannot be learned. That’s something you already have within yourself. My job is to help you bring it out on the soccer field. My job as your coach is to develop high-caliber soccer players and bring recognition back to a program that was once great. But more than that, my job is to develop amazing young women who take pride in themselves and their school.”

  Krista sighed, a little too loudly. Sure, pride was well and good, but the truth was, Beachwood’s record was bound to be mediocre this year. Krista tried not to let it get to her. If anything, it helped her stand out more among her classmates. She knew she was a great player, but at Beachwood she could also be the star.

  Did Martie think she could waltz in here and revamp the entire team? In just six weeks?

  Good luck, Krista thought. Their old coach had been trying for four years.

  As Martie droned on, Krista glanced at her watch, wondering if they were even going to play. If not, she’d have to cancel her plans with Cam later to go for a run instead. Brooks and Krista always made sure to get at least forty minutes of cardio in six days a week. After all, it was bathing suit season all year long in SoCal.

  “I want you to know that whether or not you make the team does not determine your value as an athlete or human being. That said, I can only take seventeen of you for varsity, and whether you were on the team last year, were recruited, or are a walk-on, you’re going to have to prove yourself and earn your spot. I know many of you have given up playing a fall sport or competing for a club team in order to be dedicated to Beachwood soccer. Those sacrifices do not go unnoticed, but it will take complete dedication, extreme effort, and superior skills to make this team. What you get back will be even greater than what you could imagine. This is going to be the year that, together, we put Beachwood women’s soccer on the map!”

  Martie’s energy created a ripple effect in the group; her enthusiasm was contagious. The girls applauded excitedly. Krista was immune. It was easy to give a speech; it was another thing to actually coach. Martie’s instinct in that department was clearly questionable, given the players she recruited… or, at least, one player.

  “Now, I’m sure many of you have heard of hell week. It’s not only a chance to get in top physical shape,” Martie explained, “but an opportunity to bond with your future teammates while I’m kicking your butts.”

  Everyone laughed nervously.

  Krista knew all about hell week. It was essentially boot camp—an intense round of pre-season training where the girls’ abilities and skills were tested and noted. And although it was called “hell week,” it was technically only five days.

  Krista loved hell week because it gave her a chance to shine. She worked harder than any other girl and had the body and skills to show for it.

  “I’m going to post a list after hell week of the girls who’ve made the team.

  “And then,” Martie added, “those who are on the list will begin hell month.”

  Krista’s jaw dropped.

  “What do you mean, hell month?” Brooks snapped, not liking the sou
nd of the phrase.

  Beside her, Noah smirked. “Um, hell week times four?”

  Brooks smiled playfully, reversing course. “Well, I knew that.” She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Silly.”

  Krista rolled her eyes. Martie continued.

  “Every day after school, we’ll meet either here on the practice field or at Zuma or Pepperdine, depending on our conditioning focus. We’ll run, scrimmage, do drills. And on Saturday mornings, for those who live locally, I’ll set up optional canyon runs for anyone who’s interested.”

  Krista breathed a sigh of relief at the word optional. It looked like weekends were going to be her only time to see Cam.

  “And by optional,” Martie added, “I mean be there.”

  The girls looked at each other nervously. Krista cast a sideways glance at Charlie. This was going to cut into her sister’s surf time, which would normally drive her crazy. Maybe she would drop out right now….

  No such luck. Charlie’s lips pressed together, forming a firm line. Her stubborn look. She appeared completely determined, committed, and unfazed by Martie’s demands. Krista took a deep breath and tried to wipe the look of concern off her face. With all the girls assembled, it looked like she was going to have some serious competition after all.

  Chapter Five

  Peering out of her bedroom window the next morning, Charlie thought she was still asleep and dreaming. Down below her stood Carla, next to a sleek black Town Car with its very own driver, Martie’s Uncle Roger. Although he lived near downtown LA, Roger worked for a company that was based in Malibu, so he made the trip to the water on a daily basis. Using money from the new school soccer endowment, Martie had arranged for him to drive any girls who lived far away to Beachwood, including Carla.

  Carla waved at Charlie. Charlie opened her window and stuck out her head.

  “What are you doing here?” she called, confused.

  “You missed first period yesterday,” Carla said, as though her showing up was the most natural thing in the world. “So I thought I’d give you a ride. That way you don’t have to rely on…” Carla thought for a moment, trying to recall Charlie’s own words. “What did you call her?”

  Charlie thought about it. The possibilities were endless. A sheep? A lemming? Suddenly, it came to her.

  “The Wicked Witch of the West Side?” she offered.

  “That was it.” Carla laughed. Loud and unapologetic, the sound rang out like a bell. “That way you don’t have to rely on your sister.”

  Charlie felt elated. This was the closest thing she’d had to a friend in what felt like forever. She couldn’t go through another year without anyone to talk to, having people call her a mute, and saying she should ride the short bus.

  How awesome, she thought, to show up in a chauffeured car instead.

  “Give me five minutes,” she yelled. She slammed her window shut and threw on an old pair of cords and her vintage Black Sabbath concert T-shirt (thanks, Dad). She quickly ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it back into a half ponytail, half bun. She pocketed her Burt’s Bees peppermint lip balm, grabbed her soccer bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She’d gotten a new combination, and left her books in her locker, making the executive decision that the first day of school was difficult enough without adding insult to injury by forcing herself to do homework.

  She jumped down the stairs two at a time, rushing past her mother at the refrigerator and Krista, who was sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on a whole-grain something or other.

  “Honey?” her mom asked. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  Charlie made a beeline for the back door. “Nothing. I’m good.”

  “You really should eat something,” her mother encouraged. “You barely had dinner last night.”

  It was true. Charlie had been so tired from practice that she’d barely had the energy to lift the fork to her mouth.

  Her eyes ticked over to her sister. She even hated the way Krista chewed. She took little tiny rabbit bites, as if she’d absorb less calories that way.

  “Krista doesn’t eat,” she said dryly. “Why should I?”

  Krista scowled up from her half-eaten bagel. “Get a life,” she spat.

  “Get a personality,” Charlie shot back.

  A honk came from the driveway.

  “What was that?” Krista asked.

  “That’s the sound of me getting a life,” Charlie retorted. She pulled the kitchen door open, then looked back over her shoulder. “Get used to it.”

  Charlie slammed the door in Krista’s face and ran for the Town Car. She slid into the backseat. Much to her surprise, someone else was already sitting there.

  “Hey.” The girl smiled. Charlie recognized her from practice. She was the girl with killer triceps, who actually looked like a mini-Martie.

  Carla slid in on the other side, and Charlie felt overwhelmed by the girl-bonding potential. It had been a long time since she’d had friends—now she was sandwiched between not one, but two potential new ones. The car started and rolled down Charlie’s driveway.

  “Charlie, this is Pickle,” Carla introduced. “She’s a freshman.”

  Pickle? Charlie reacted at the name but quickly masked her look of confusion. After all the comments thrown at her about her name, she wasn’t about to ask.

  “My real name’s Nicole,” Pickle offered. “When I was born, my sister was two. She couldn’t say ‘Nicole,’ so…”

  “She’s Pickle,” Carla chimed in. “I told her you’d be able to sympathize.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “I’m—”

  “Charlie Brown,” Pickle interrupted. “I heard.” She shook her head. “Sucks.”

  “You could go by Nicole, you know,” Charlie said bluntly, unsure why anyone would keep a name like Pickle if they had another, perfectly acceptable name to use.

  Pickle shrugged. “Pickle’s just who I am. Changing that would be changing me.”

  Charlie stared at Pickle. Changing herself was exactly what she wanted to do.

  The car turned off Charlie’s road and onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Carla and Pickle seemed mesmerized by the ridiculously huge houses built right into the cliffs.

  “Man,” Carla gasped. “Can you imagine being this rich?”

  Charlie looked up at the homes she’d seen a million times. “Yeah, well, money doesn’t buy happiness,” she pointed out.

  Pickle raised her eyebrows and looked at Charlie. “Maybe not happiness. But it buys a lot of other things.”

  Charlie smiled and sat back in her seat. No amount of money buys you friends, she thought. That was something you had to earn. And Charlie didn’t want to get ahead of herself, but she couldn’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, she was on her way to earning some.

  • • •

  Her hunch proved right a few hours later in the cafeteria. Charlie was in her usual place—at the table in the far corner of the cafeteria, the smelly corner, near the trash room—when Carla and Pickle approached. Charlie looked up from her peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich, surprised.

  “Are these seats taken?” Carla asked.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Charlie answered sarcastically. “Ten of my closest friends are joining me.”

  Pickle started to turn away. “Oh. Well, we can find somewhere else to—”

  Charlie looked across the cafeteria at Regan laughing with her new friends.

  What was that phrase her mother always used? The one about catching more flies with honey… ?

  Charlie turned back to Carla and Pickle. “I’m kidding. Of course they’re free. Didn’t you get the memo? I’m a social pariah.”

  “A piranha?” Pickle looked confused, her tray hovering inches from the table. “Just tell me, can I sit down or what?”

  Charlie and Carla both laughed.

  “Sure,” Charlie said. “Have a seat.” She smiled and took in the faces of her new friends. If Pickle and Carla thought she was cool enough to sit with, she
might as well enjoy it.

  Charlie glanced over at Regan.

  She might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  Krista showed up at the beach promptly at three, ready for day one of hell week. She kept telling herself not to be nervous, but her fears, worries, and insecurities were getting to her. What if she didn’t make the team? She’d be a bigger loser than Charlie already was, and Yale wouldn’t even think about taking her.

  Brooks, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less about tryouts. For her, it was all about Noah. She’d actually cut out of seventh period to primp in the school bathroom before practice. With her hair swept up and makeup perfect, she looked more like she was going to a movie premiere than a soccer practice. Only her tiny pink velour Juicy shorts and a white sports bra indicated otherwise.

  Brooks pulled up right behind Krista and hopped out of her car. She spotted Noah right away.

  “Is it possible that Europe made him even hotter?” Brooks mused, leaning in to Krista’s window.

  Krista glanced over at Noah. Brooks was right. He had gotten cuter. His piercing blue eyes and toned-but-not-to-the-point-of-obnoxious body already made girls look twice. But now, his sandy brown hair had grown out a little, and while he still gave off a preppy soccer vibe, he looked a little more relaxed and laid-back. Like he had chronic bed head or, more likely, was trying to shake off that Malibu trust fund image.

  Traveling the world had obviously changed him, but underneath the messy rock star hair, he was still the same guy—Adidas flip-flops, Nike shorts, Urban Outfitters T-shirt, and—

  Krista’s gaze stopped abruptly on the clipboard in Noah’s hand. The very sight of it made her stomach twist. She didn’t like the idea of Noah and Martie evaluating her every move, especially when she, more than any recruit, deserved to be here. She made up her mind then and there. The new coaches needed to know that she was the star.

  She slammed her car door shut and took a deep breath. It was now or never.

  The girls were assembling down on the beach, some talking and laughing about school that day, others stretching quietly off to one side. Krista spotted Charlie right away, sitting between two other girls. She knew one girl was Carla, and she swore she heard Carla call the other girl “Pickle,” but that couldn’t possibly be right.