“But why? Why is she like that?”
As Mo pauses, Frannie says, “So you do know who we’re talking about.”
“I just don’t see how she gets away with being so nasty,” I say.
“She’s always been popular. People let her make the rules and do whatever she wants.” Mo shrugs.
We don’t say anything for a minute.
“Her friends don’t seem as mean,” I offer.
“Gwen and Joy?” Frannie says. “Yeah, they’re okay. We just try to steer clear in general.”
At dinner that night my father checks in again. “So, how are you liking school?”
“Fine. It seems good.”
“Any troubles with your studies?”
“No.” I give my mother a look.
“And the other kids seem nice?”
“Everyone’s great, Dad.”
Just then, the phone rings and it’s probably my sister Liz calling my mother about wedding details, and then my father won’t ask any more annoying questions because we’ll be alone together and it’d be too awkward.
My mom gets the phone in the kitchen. “Ell, it’s for you.” She’s smiling ear-to-ear as she comes back into the dining room.
“Is it Christine?” I ask, leaping up.
“No, it’s a boy.”
A boy?
“Who?”
“I didn’t ask.”
My stomach flips as I take the phone and walk into the family room. “Hello?”
“Ella? It’s Nate Fontineau.”
Could there be any other Nate? “Oh, hi.”
“I was wondering if you wanted to go to Safeway this weekend for Mr. Dominick’s project, since this part is due Monday.”
“Right, okay. When?”
“How about if I come pick you up on Saturday morning? Around ten?”
“Ten? That sounds good.…”
“You can give me directions to your house in class tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure.” And then we hang up.
I sit back down at the table. My parents wait for me to say something, but I can’t really breathe. How did he get my number? I can hardly remember it myself. Why didn’t he ask me in school? Is it a date? I really need to go to my room to think about this.
“May I be excused? I have so much homework tonight.”
I look at my mother. I know this is killing her. Why can’t I tell her that I’m anxious about softball, and a really cute boy just called so now I’m anxious about that, too?
My father breaks the silence. “Sure, honey. Go ahead.”
I put my plate in the sink, and go through the family room and front hall to avoid going back through the dining room. Anything to save me from having to look my mother in the eye.
When you’re fifteen and your siblings are out of the house, your parents suddenly have all this time and energy to dump on you. As if they need to overcompensate for not always having time for everyone when the house was crazy and there was a line for the bathroom and everyone was fighting over stupid stuff. Now they want to sit at dinner for hours and talk with you. They want meaningful conversations, for you to bare your soul.
Everyone always says that the youngest has it so easy. But no one ever talks about the dark side, about being the one to shoulder your parents’ fears as they start to realize that once you’re gone, they’re on their own. Yeah. It’s what I live with every day.
I IM my friends in Chicago to fill them in on softball tryouts and Nate calling about going to the grocery store for the Marriage Project. No one makes a comment about softball. They only want details about Nate the Great. And I don’t have any stories about cute things he does, only the way he looks and the way other girls treat him—is this the new shallow me?
They ask if I’m liking Texas better and I wonder myself. Because Texas is not what I thought it would be: tumbleweeds and country music, cactuses and southern accents. Sometimes I feel like I could be in any other flat state, like those in the Midwest or Florida, not that I’ve ever been there. Dallas is just a place with new people to meet, and many of them seem to be from other places and haven’t been here very long, either.
The thing I miss the most, aside from you guys, is being able to go places without my mother driving me in the Blue Bomber, I write them. I omit the part about not having anywhere to go yet. I want them to feel sorry for me, but not that sorry.
In school on Wednesday, I’m dying to know if I made the team, but I wait until after third period to head down to the locker room. No one’s there except a teacher I don’t know. She’s talking to Miss Ruby in the equipment room. I slip behind a row of lockers and pretend to be looking for something. The bulletin board is at the end of the row. I try to stand back a ways to read it but can’t see the names clearly. So I take a few more steps and there it is. My name. In alphabetical order. Thirteenth name on the list. Ella Kessler. And Mo’s name is there. And Frannie’s. And Sally’s. Nineteen. Everyone made it.
Okay, so maybe that’s not a huge deal, but who cares? I MADE IT!
In Behavioral Science, Nate sits across the circle from me, as if I don’t exist, until Mr. Dominick reminds us that we need to sit with our partner for the ceremony. Nate stands to come to me just as I stand to go to him. We look at each other and both start to laugh.
“You? Or me?” he says.
I just want to vault across the room, but I don’t. I say, “You.” Then I realize I’m not sure if that means, you come to me or I go to you.
Luckily, he nods and comes to me. “Who’s wearing the pants in this family, anyway?”
And now I’m happy again, even though I think I’m getting evil glares from every girl in the class. I smile.
“Hey, guess what?” he says. “You’re looking at the new Gaylord Ravenal.”
I stare at him blankly.
“Gaylord Ravenal, handsome-but-troubled riverboat gambler.”
“I…what are you…talking about?”
“Gaylord Ravenal. He wins the hand of the beautiful Magnolia Hawks, played by Alison Finn, by the way. It’s Show Boat, the musical this year.”
“You’re in Show Boat?”
“Have you seen it before?”
“No. But I think my mother knows it by heart. I didn’t know you were an actor.”
“I’m not really. But I’m graduating this year. Football’s over.” He shrugs. “The theater teacher, Mr. Archibald, subbed in English for a few weeks last fall. He thought I had dramatic flair. I thought I’d try something different, you know? Everyone thinks it’s crazy. What do you think, Ella Kessler?”
“Great. I think it’s great.”
As I look at his open, warm smile it dawns on me that he’s the type of person who just has things happen for him. On a whim he tries something and, go figure, it works out. I bet all the drama kids are hating him right now.
“Hey, how’d it go with softball?” he asks.
“Just like you said. Everyone made it.”
“Even Sally?”
“Yes, even Sally.” Much to my surprise. Maybe Coach thinks softball will save Sally.
“She said the coach doesn’t like her. But she says that about everyone.”
I don’t respond.
He looks at me. “What do you think of her? My sister?”
I’ve dreaded this moment and hope we can stick to the realm of softball. “She’s not bad,” I say. “I think she plays outfield, and we did a lot of infield drills, so she may’ve been a little out of her element.” Uncharacteristically, the words keep coming. “Of course, I’m not a great judge since I’ve never played softball before.”
He laughs. “I’m not asking about her athletic abilities. I already know she sucks. I’m her brother. But if she focused on it for one minute she could be a hundred times better than she is right now. No, I was asking what you think of her. As a person.”
I pause. It’s clear he cares about his sister because even though she’s bad—and she really is, way worse than I am—he sti
ll thinks that if she focused, she’d be better. But even I can see it’s not really about focus in her case. It’s attitude. She’s completely bored and lazy and irritated all the time. Still, I find it interesting that he’s asking what I think of her as a person. Maybe it means he’s more aware than he lets on. But does he really think I’ll be honest?
Before I can answer, he says, “Remember, she’s gonna be your sister-in-law. You’re gonna be family.”
I blush. “She’s fine, Nate. I don’t really know her yet.”
“You think she’s a spoiled brat.”
Those wouldn’t have been my words exactly. “No, I—”
“She is. And she can be rude and obnoxious. You should hear her at home. It drives my mom crazy. Of course, Mom drives her crazy, too.” He shakes his head, laughing. “But she’s all right, Ella. You’d like her if you got to know her.”
I hardly think so.
And then Mr. Dominick interrupts, and it’s time to exchange our wedding vows. We have to face our partners and hold hands. I could die. I’m about one inch from Nate’s face, and even he seems a little embarrassed. His hands are warm. I have to look down. When I look up again everyone has their attention on Mr. Dominick, so they don’t have to look into their partner’s eyes and see into their souls. I turn, too, and quietly repeat the words we’re supposed to say. Everyone cracks up. After the till death do us part, Nate squeezes my hands then lets go.
Just another day in high school.
After classes I go to the locker room as an actual member of a team for the first time. Christine, Amy, and Jen are gonna give me such a hard time and call me a jock, but they’ll be proud of me, too. And they’ll love the Nate the Great wedding update.
In the gym, stacks of boxes line the wall. A sign written in Magic Marker reads: SOFTBALL TEAM—MEET HERE FOR UNIFORMS. And a few people are already gathered. I sit down, and one of the younger girls, a ninth grader, says, “Hi, Ella.”
“Hi,” I say. “Are we getting uniforms already?” It’s a stupid question, but I’m trying to make up for the fact that I don’t remember her name.
Her eyes widen. “Yeah. The uniforms are kind of a joke around school.”
“How come?”
“You’ll see.”
Frannie and Mo waltz in and find a spot beside me. I’m beaming; I can’t help it. I’m just so happy that someone wants to come and sit down next to me.
“Here we go,” Frannie says, as Coach walks in with her clipboard.
“First, I want to congratulate everyone. I truly believed that everyone who showed up for tryouts was worthy. So, be proud of that.”
We’re all nodding, smiling, hip to the situation and cool with it. Except for three obvious no-shows: Gwen, Joy, and Sally.
But Coach doesn’t dwell. She starts pulling out purple socks and caps from the first box. “Inside the hat is a number written in black,” she says. “The stirrup socks also have a number on the inseam. Take one of each, and when I call your name tell me the number on the hat first, and then the socks. Okay? Everyone got it?”
She goes alphabetically. Kim Adams. Gwen Arden (not here yet). Maureen Bartlett (new friend). Virginia Dalmeyer. Marcie Egan (twelfth grader). Sally Fontineau (also MIA). Tammy Haljun. Karen Hernandez (the ninth grader whose name I now know and will try to use in our next chat). Frannie Howard (other new friend!). Kat Hunter (the best player). Joy Jaffee (not here, either). Holly Keith. Ella Kessler…
When she gets to the end, she asks us, “Anyone know where Joy and Gwen and Sally are?”
Nicki Porter, who seems to be a friend of Sally’s, says, “They don’t change in the locker room.”
“Where do they change?”
“They think it’s gross.”
“Thank you, Nicki. Where do they change?”
“In the library bathroom, I think.”
“Okay, moving right along. Next box.” She opens it and pulls out a pair of white polyester pants with a purple and green waistband. Yikes. But not too bad. “Please take your size.”
By four o’clock Sally and company are still not here.
“Last box has the shirts. Those of you who played last year and had a number already, please take it. Twelfth graders first.”
Kat and Marcie, who were voted co-captains last year, dig through the box for their old numbers as Coach holds up one of the jerseys—purple with a small green number over the left breast—and then turns it around to show off the back. The larger number is underlined by a colorful, cursive Lady Peacocks.
I gasp. I don’t mean to, but it’s horrible. Just awful. It may as well be sequined.
“I had the same reaction.” Coach tries to comfort me. “I asked for some new ones, but unfortunately the uniform budget went to the new baseball squad.”
“What scares you more, the rainbow colors or the fact that they call us Lady Peacocks?” Frannie asks.
Mo chimes in, “Technically, we should be peahens.”
“You live with it,” Kat Hunter says, tugging her jersey from the box, “it makes you stronger.” And we all start giggling.
I end up with number five. Frannie says she always wanted two, but it didn’t exactly run in her size.
“Girls like me get numbers in the forties and fifties,” she says.
Coach taps Frannie on the head with her clipboard. “Girls like you hit the ball out of the park.”
It’s the first time I see Frannie speechless. And maybe even blushing.
I expect Gwen, Joy, and Sally to be hanging around the field when we get down there, but they’re not, and Coach doesn’t mention it. We have a short practice, lots of running and hand-eye drills. She has all of us wearing our new baseball hats and I love mine. I just love it. It fits perfectly. I realize practice is fun today because I’m no longer worried about making the team. And also, of course, because Sally Fontineau is nowhere to be found.
Maybe she and Gwen and Joy have decided to quit the team. I can only hope.
After I change, I rush to the lower school to wait for my mom. She’s usually right on time, but if I get there a few minutes early I can pull my books out and pretend I’m studying so she won’t worry about me.
Today there are two little boys waiting in my usual spot. One of them is clearly a lower schooler, but the other one looks like he could be in sixth or seventh grade. They quit fooling around when they see me coming, as if I’m a teacher or something.
I sit on the curb in front of them and get a textbook from my backpack.
The younger one says, “I’m hungry.”
“Rocky’ll have something in her bag for you. Don’t worry.”
“I’m thirsty, too.”
The older one ignores this comment and looks over his shoulder. “Here she comes.”
An old, dirty white station wagon with fake wood on the sides, nearly as decrepit as the Blue Bomber, rolls up. In front are two high-school girls. Even from this distance I can see they’re all brothers and sisters.
I get off the curb before they run me over and step back onto the sidewalk. The girl in the passenger seat looks up for a second, then back at whatever she’s reading in her lap, but I catch that she’s beautiful, with dark, shiny hair and light eyes like the brothers’. The driver puts the car in park and comes around the front to help the boys in. She nods at me, and I nod back. She’s wearing black jeans and red high-tops. It’s a cool look.
“Rock,” the little one says. “Thomas told me you might have a snack in your bag.”
“I might,” she says. “Put on your seat belt.”
She slams the door and gives me another nod. I smile this time, because she’s the big sister but she sounds like the mom, and I think that’s neat since I’ve always wanted little brothers and sisters. Especially brothers.
From the driver’s side she reaches in for her bookbag, surfaces with a few granola bars, and tosses them in the backseat. Before she gets in, she catches my eye over the top of the car. “You need a lift somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, no. Thanks. My mom’s gonna be here any minute.” I don’t feel like I have to cover up the ugly truth with this girl.
She looks as if she’s about to duck into the car and take off, and at that moment I have two distinct feelings. One is that I wish I could drive, too, even if the car was the Blue Bomber. The second is that I don’t want her to leave.
And the funny thing is, she doesn’t. She says, “I think I saw you.”
“I’m sorry?” I’m not sure I heard her right.
“Playing softball. You’re on the team, right?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you from the library. I have to stay late because my sister’s on the ninth grade debate team and my brothers do this after-school program. The new coach looks halfway decent.”
“Uh, yeah. She seems really nice.” I’m not sure where all this is going.
“The old one was pathetic. She had no concept of how to run a practice. So everyone just ignored her. When it came to a game, she didn’t know how to judge the other team’s strengths and translate that into our game, you know what I’m saying? Basically, she couldn’t coach.”
Who is this girl?
I glance down at the sister who is shaking her head slightly. Rocky sees this and adds, “Theresa hates when I talk about softball.”
“Did you play on the team?”
Her pale green eyes flicker. She looks beyond me. “I did. In eighth and ninth grade.”
“Did you not like it?”
“No, it just cut into my schedule. I needed to change my priorities. You have to have your priorities, right?”
“Right.”
“Rocky,” one of the little brothers calls.
“I should go,” she says. “I’m Rocky O’Hara, by the way.”
“Ella Kessler.”
“Okay, well, good luck this season. And keep working on that arm, Ella. It’s getting better.” She climbs into the car, and they rumble out of the parking lot.
I’m slightly annoyed by that arm comment, but curious, too, in a way. She sounds like she might know about softball. But she stopped playing in ninth grade. How good could she be?
Throwing Like a Girl Page 4