She tosses the ball up, and we resume play, throwing the ball back and forth, working our way downcourt, taking shots. “How come?” Dixon pushes.
“Too competitive,” I huff.
She blows her whistle and doesn’t say anything more.
“Watch out,” one of the guys says. “She’s recruiting you for the basketball team.”
“Yeah, and they’re not competitive at all,” another one adds.
“I’m standing right here. I have ears,” Dixon says.
It’s still well before three, but like every day this week, she lets us go early. We all help put the basketballs back into the hopper.
Dixon says to me, “You’re a good athlete, Ella. You should look into the sports program here.”
My insides sing.
As I approach the locker-room door, another coach comes out. “Hey, Dix,” she says, looking up from a clipboard.
“Addie. I want you to meet a new student, Ella Kessler. Ella, this is Coach Lauer.”
We shake hands.
Dixon says, “When are your softball tryouts?”
“Monday. Why?” The coach looks right at me. “Do you play?”
Before I can answer, Dixon says, “Ella just moved here from Chicago. She’s a natural athlete.”
“I’m new here, too,” she says. “To Spring Valley. I started a month ago.” She smiles. “So, if you’re interested, Ella, why don’t you come by the field on Monday. Three thirty. Two days of try-outs, and the team’ll be posted by Wednesday. Easy as that.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, because she makes it sound so simple.
I change clothes in the locker room and then stand with all the second and third graders waiting for my mom to pick me up. I have no friends. No place to go this weekend. The wind is so warm and dry here, like September back home. I close my eyes to imagine Chicago right now, where it’s still winter in the worst way—streets heavy with slush, the wind biting at your cheeks, your nose running, and your eyes tearing. Everyone rushes down sidewalks or stands on El platforms waiting for trains, just gazing out into the world, trying to think of anything besides the cold. I always loved winter, even when it lasted six months in Chicago.
And then some kid pokes me out of my daydream and says, “Hey, I think your ride’s here.”
I’m so sure.
My mother asks me the same questions every day. How’d you do? How were your teachers? Are the classes too hard? Do you have a lot of homework? It makes it easy not to talk about anything important. I just answer the questions and glance in her direction every few seconds. I don’t tell her about the softball thing, and how would she even know to ask?
But then, out of nowhere she says, “What else is going on? There’s something, isn’t there?”
We’re at a stoplight. She’s staring me down. It freaks me out.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. You have a look.”
“A look?” I snort as I say this.
“Okay, you don’t have to tell me. That’s fine.”
And so I keep it wrapped tight in the palm of my hand all weekend. I fix up my new room, which has a border of daisies with little flecks of yellow. Kind of babyish, but not so bad. I hook up my computer so I can start I Ming Christine, Amy, and Jen and tell them how wrong they were about their predictions for me. I unpack my things and get completely organized with my classes. I spend half of a beautiful Saturday doing my homework and the other half arranging clothes in my very own closet. The house is so big I get my own bedroom, and, best of all, it’s connected to my own tiny bathroom, where I can line up my lotions and shampoos on the shelf beside the tub and not have to share anything with my sisters.
Finally, on Sunday I get out and do something. My mom and I go to the library together, and while she’s getting a card and looking through new fiction, I sneak to the nonfiction area and page through a book on softball.
In general, I understand the game. My dad and I watch the Cubs all summer. I know about three outs and balls and strikes. I know where each position is, and I know that a mitt is also called a glove. I haven’t played since I was a kid, but I’m pretty sure I can catch and hit. Throwing might be a problem. So I find a chapter on mechanics, like catching a fly ball, fielding a grounder, swinging the bat, and pitching. Unfortunately, the section on throwing only talks about things like where to throw when you get the ball in the outfield and there’s a runner on first, for example. I guess they just assume you know how to throw the ball already.
My mom rounds the corner. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” She cranes her neck to see the book I’m studying. “Find something?”
I need to make a quick decision. If I shove the book back on the shelf she probably won’t ask about it again and I won’t have to explain that I’m trying out for a sports team. But then I won’t have the book to take home with me. If I tell her I’m checking it out, she’ll see it, and I’ll have to tell her everything. And she’ll be so excited.
I don’t know which is worse.
I close the book and hold it against me. “Mom, I want to get my own library card and check out this book, but I don’t want you to ask me anything about it right now. Okay?”
She opens her mouth. I can tell she has no idea what to say. She probably thinks it’s a sex book or some self-help for teens on how to tell your parents you’re mad they made you move someplace you never wanted to go. She glances at the other books on the shelves near me, trying to get an idea of what I’m hiding.
“Ella.” She stops.
I know I should say something to help her. The truth is, what my parents said after my first day of school was right. If I joined something, a team or a club, maybe I could make some friends and have some place to go after school. I could at least go through the motions of belonging. But what if I try out for softball and don’t make it? What if I’m so bad that the nice coach will take me aside on Wednesday to tell me? She’ll say she really wishes there was something she could do, but I was just so bad. Then I’d have to come home and tell my parents, and they’d be all sorry for me. I couldn’t stand that.
When I don’t respond, my mother takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says finally, agreeing not to ask questions.
In the car on the way home, I tell her, “I promise to explain this at some point.”
She nods without looking at me.
That night in my room with the daisies, I finish the rest of my homework and page through the softball book again, taking notes as if it’s for a class. I try to picture tomorrow—going through P. E. with Dixon wishing me luck for tryouts, and the boys saying they’ll miss me if I make the team. I imagine what it’ll be like walking onto the softball field with all the other girls who know one another. And then I remind myself that the coach doesn’t know anyone, either. This helps calm me down; it helps me fall asleep, even though I’ve got butterflies in my stomach.
In the morning, I carry the heavy softball book in my backpack so my mother doesn’t find it in my room. During breakfast I tell her, “I’m staying after school for extra help today.”
She looks all alarmed, like the school’s too hard and I won’t get into college.
“Don’t worry,” I say, but I’m pretty worried myself.
“Oh, so now I don’t get to worry or ask questions or know anything about anything?” She’s at the sink with her back to me.
I’m trying hard to remember if my sisters ever tortured my mother like this. Surely someone did at some point.
“Everything’s fine, Mom.”
The drive to school is unbearable. Now I know how she feels when I give her the silent treatment. She doesn’t say a word, and I’m ready to confess everything, but I don’t.
At the lower school drop-off, I make the move she tried last week: I lean over and kiss her cheek to say good-bye.
She ignores my apologetic gesture. “What time should I pick you up?”
“How about six?”
> “Six! Isn’t that a bit late?”
“I could call if I need you to come sooner.”
She sighs. “All right.” And then she looks over at me. “If there’s a problem, Ella, I’d like to help.”
We’re holding up the car-pool line, and one of the traffic-control ladies starts waving frantically.
“It’s not like that, Mom. Really, don’t worry.”
I get out of the car and go with the flow of lower-school kids up the sidewalk. There’s a moment where I almost want to follow them inside, sit in a little chair at a little desk. But then I think about reliving junior high and my freshman year and decide against it.
Instead, I sling my 400-pound camouflage backpack over my shoulder and veer off toward the upper school—where I have to be fifteen and like it.
When I was a kid, I used to take sailing lessons in the summer down at Belmont. My sisters had done it, and loved it, so then it was my turn. I spent my first year as a crew on a dinghy. All we did was tack in and around the boats anchored in the harbor. It was so safe. I learned to pull in the mainsheet and let it out. I learned to read the wind on the sail and duck my head when the boom swung from left to right. I learned to tie all the knots faster than anyone. I was good at just about everything.
Except this one thing. Kind of a big thing. I couldn’t deal with the idea of going out on the lake. The harbor with its stone walls and gentle breezes was like a nest to a baby bird. But Lake Michigan, lurking beyond this peaceful shelter, was a vast, bottomless surge of waves and currents and quick storms. The thought of sailing a tiny boat out there absolutely terrified me.
My second year I graduated to skipper and learned quickly how to shout out directions to my crew, a red-haired girl from my neighborhood who was clumsy and quiet. Every morning, I’d watch the older kids sail the 420s out through the mouth of the harbor right into Lake Michigan. None of them looked nervous or sick. I could hardly stand it.
During race week I won almost every race. The older kids learned my name and congratulated me. The teachers all had high hopes. They told me, “Next summer you’ll go out on the lake. You’ll be a real sailor.”
I never went back.
When I told my mother I didn’t like sailing anymore, she said, “Do you want to try soccer camp with Christine?” She had no clue.
I’ve been thinking about sailing lately. About having a fear of something and being too afraid to face it. It’s not the best way to work something out. I know that now.
Monday drags on forever. My last class before gym is Behavioral Science. It’s my only elective and my new favorite, even though when my father saw my schedule he said, “What happened to chemistry and physics?” Anyway, the teacher, Mr. Dominick, is really young and cute and talks like a teenager. The class is set up in a big circle, a detail that makes me feel old-fashioned because I prefer to be hidden in the middle of a row.
But today I’m distracted from the circle seating. My butterflies are back. In forty minutes I’ll have P. E. and then tryouts. I’m so nervous I hardly pay attention as Mr. Dominick explains the project we’re starting, where you get a partner and pretend you’re married.
Everyone starts laughing and my adrenaline soars because, of course, I’m only half listening, and maybe I picked my nose by accident?
Apparently not. Mr. Dominick goes on about the Marriage Project; everyone will have a job, a salary, and a partner. We’ll have to figure out where we’re gonna live based on how much rent is, utilities (whatever they are), and how much gas it will take to get to work if we have a car—and if we don’t, how much it will cost to take the bus. It’s pretty interesting, and everyone’s talking out of turn, and he’s not getting mad at us. It’s kind of cool.
I pick my job out of his baseball cap: a journalist at the Dallas Morning News. I work for the arts section and get paid $24,000 a year. I get to go to movies for free and I’m rich! Next, the boys pick a girl’s name, and Nate Fontineau picks me. Nate’s one of the seniors in the class and everyone seems to worship him. I think he’s a football player. One of his friends reads Nate’s slip of paper and says, “Dude, you got the new girl.” I’ve decided to reserve judgment until later.
I have noticed he tries to be really funny making jokes about his job—he’s a golf pro—and I’m the only girl who doesn’t laugh and fall over myself. But don’t get me wrong. Nate is cute. He’s got light brown, straight hair sweeping across his forehead and pretty blue eyes, almost like a girl’s with long lashes; plus he doesn’t blink a lot, as if he doesn’t want to miss anything, and that’s how I always feel.
Mr. Dominick tells us to rearrange ourselves and sit next to our partners. Nate doesn’t get up to come to me so I stay right where I am, too.
The other girls are staring at me as if to say, What are you, a show-off?
Mr. Dominick saves the day. “Nate, I’m not sure you’ve met Ella Kessler. May I introduce you?”
“Thanks, Mr. D, but I got it.” Nate gets up, casually tucks his books under his arm as if he’s carrying a football over the goal line, and walks over to me. “Ella, I’m Nate, your fiancé. Is this seat taken?”
“No,” I whisper, trying to be casual back to him. He’s sort of being nice.
“Good. Fine. Now that everyone’s settled, let’s get down to business,” Mr. Dominick says. “Tomorrow we’ll have the wedding.” Embarrassed laughter until Mr. D holds up his hand for quiet.
“Don’t worry,” Nate whispers. “We probably won’t have to kiss at the ceremony.” He smiles and looks me right in the eye.
I can’t look away. I wonder if my sister Liz felt this way about Kevin, her fiancé, when she first met him.
Suddenly he says, “I was only kidding.”
“I know.” Too fast.
When we’re left on our own to talk about the project, Nate says, “Where’re you from?”
“Chicago.”
“Wow. The Windy City.”
I don’t mention that everyone says that.
We begin filling out a questionnaire about our phony lives that has to be turned in by next Friday. Nate asks me, “Are we planning on starting a family?”
I open my mouth. Nothing.
He just laughs.
It’s all so crazy. We’re supposed to go to the grocery store together and pretend to buy food for a week that’s within our budget. How is this gonna work? Does this mean that my mother will have to drop me off at Safeway in the Blue Bomber? Please no.
“You’ve been staring out the window ever since you started here. Are you bored, or do you hate school?”
He’s noticed me. For a week. I give him a half smile.
He says, “Ah, she smiles,” and I feel prickles all over my scalp.
“Actually I’m nervous about something.”
“Aha! I’m good at nervous. What’re you nervous about?”
“Trying out for softball.”
“My sister plays softball,” he says.
I imagine myself becoming best friends with her and sleeping over at their house.
“Did you play sports at your old school?” he asks.
“No. That’s the problem.”
“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Spring Valley takes everyone. They have to. It’s the passive-aggressive way of private schools. If you suck, it’s up to you to quit. So they never have to deal with the parents that say, hey, you cut my kid!”
His hair falls in his face and as he jerks it out of his eyes, I get a soapy whiff of him.
I have no response.
“I’m just saying, don’t be nervous. You’ll make it.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I mutter.
Before P. E., I get my backpack out of my cubby and take a drink of water. I’m so parched I can hardly breathe without coughing.
Dixon greets me in class with a friendly swat on the back. “Nervous?” she practically screams at me.
“A little.”
One of the guys in class glances at me.
“She’s trying out for softball,” Dixon says to him.
He offers a “Good luck,” but it’s kind of halfhearted, as if playing a sport makes me a traitor.
After class I’m on my own…which, when you think about it, is really where you are in life, even if you have a million friends and a family who loves you and a cute boyfriend and big boobs and good hair. You still have to be brave enough to do things like go out on the lake in a tiny little boat.
Now me, I’m still waiting on that one.
In the locker room there’s a really nice old lady who hands out towels and other equipment. Her tag reads MISS RUBY, and since this is Texas, I’m not sure if Ruby is her first or last name.
“What can I do you for?” Miss Ruby asks with a friendly twang.
“I’m trying out for softball today, but I don’t have a glove.”
“Oh, I don’t have anything like that back here,” she says. She hands me a towel and a lock. “Coach Lauer will probably be able to help you out. Don’t you worry.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The rows of lockers are cluttered with girls changing for different sports. No one seems to be staring at me, and I’m grateful for that until I realize I don’t know where I’m supposed to go next. I spot three girls with brand-new softball gloves heading out the door, so I follow them at a slight distance, silently grateful for this, too.
We walk across the entire campus—away from the track, the tennis courts, and the other fields by the parking lots. I have this sinking feeling that maybe these girls don’t know where they’re going, either. Maybe they’re freshmen pretending to know where they are. I used to do that all the time.
When they disappear over a crest between the upper school and the library, I jog a little to catch up. And there, down the sweeping, dried-out front lawn of the school, is the softball diamond, unlined and overgrown. Off to one side sits a dilapidated set of bleachers. Steel beams and cranes are casting their shadows over the “field” from a partially constructed building just beyond it. Could this be right?
Throwing Like a Girl Page 2