by Amber Kizer
Not that I really want to be with him in a room that has a bed. I so don’t want him to be thinking I came to dinner so he could jump my bones with Daddy’s approval.
“Ready?” He’s already shutting his door and moving. My answer obviously isn’t too important here.
I smile. I should have put gloss on my teeth like Miss America so my lips slide easily. They’re kinda sticking. He doesn’t open my door but walks up the walk without me. I scramble to catch up.
“Hey!” Stephen calls as he throws open the front door and grabs my hand, dragging me in. Or rather, I follow, because I’m afraid he’s going to dislocate my fingers if I stop the forward momentum.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, Dad, traffic was nuts,” Stephen replies.
Traffic? What traffic? And hello—not a great start to the evening.
“We’re at the table. Come in, come in.” His mom is wearing a black suit that looks like it was sewn on. Can she breathe in that? Her hair is a reddish brown I’ve only ever seen on television actresses or news anchors. And it doesn’t move.
“I’m Ms. Hudson, Stephen’s mother, but you remember me as homecoming chauffeur, I’m sure.” She shakes my hand like she’s trying to crack walnuts.
“Gert. Garibaldi. Stephen’s …” I trail off. I glance wildly around, hoping he’ll help me, but he’s already sitting down.
“We know. That’s my husband, Mr. Blasko. And his mother, Mrs. Blasko. Stephen’s brother, Walt, is at a Boy Scout event. He’s going to be an Eagle Scout.” She head-bobs around the table. Never once losing the smile. Her smile is terribly unnerving. “Sit.”
I do, because holy buttocks, I don’t want to know what happens if I refuse. I’ve seen South American dictators with less commanding personas than Ms. Hudson.
Stephen isn’t looking at me. It’s like we’ve never even met.
His dad is reading the Wall Street Journal. “Dammit, cattle is up again.”
“Not at the table. We have a guest.” Ms. Hudson glares at him. Mr. Blasko puts down the paper and returns her glare.
“I hope you don’t mind takeout. We rarely cook in this house.” He directs this comment to me, but I have a feeling I’m not the intended recipient.
“I love takeout.” I feel the need to bond with Ms. Hudson. Besides, I know what home cooking can taste like, and it’s overrated.
“So, Gert, our boy here hasn’t told us much about you,” Ms. Hudson says, passing me the container of General Tso’s chicken.
“I want sardines. Where are the sardines?” Mrs. Blasko yells across the table at me, making me jump. I’m the only one who seems surprised by the outburst.
“They’re coming, Grandma,” Stephen answers without even looking at her.
Ms. Hudson is still looking at me, with her eyebrows up above her bangs and her smile gleaming. She’s being too nice. A little odd. I feel like she’s a talent scout I need to impress.
I put a spoonful of noodles on my plate. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”
“Dear, don’t flirt with the truth. Tell us everything.” She puts some iceberg lettuce on her plate and drizzles it with vinegar. She keeps handing me containers but never puts any on her plate.
Am I not supposed to eat anything? What’s the expectation?
“So you and Stephen have been dating officially for a few weeks?” she continues.
“Yes.”
“How’d you meet?” She uses a knife and fork to eat the lettuce.
“Mom, school.” Stephen takes a breath from inhaling egg rolls and noodles. He’s not a very pretty eater.
“School,” I reiterate.
“Where are the sardines? Joan, I told you I wanted sardines.” Mrs. Blasko shouts.
Everyone just ignores her, so I shrug and avert my eyes apologetically.
Stephen’s dad picks up the paper again and mutters under his breath between bites. His mom’s cell phone rings.
“Not at dinner,” Stephen’s dad huffs over a dirty look.
I really want to go home. Now. Forget seeing his room. I just want mine.
“Work. Sorry.” She flips open the phone and moves away from the table. I think she must work for the State Department or something.
“She’s a reporter at Channel Six,” Stephen whispers.
That’s why she looks so familiar.
“Gotta go. Gert, it was nice seeing you.” She grabs her keys and dumps the lettuce in the garbage in one motion.
“When are you coming back?”
“Late.” She slams the door.
“I want sardines.” Mrs. Blasko sounds like a three-year-old.
I stare at my plate.
“And then she kept yelling she wanted sardines and his dad just mumbled about cattle fixtures or futures or something weird.” I try to finish my story over the ever-increasing volume of Adam’s mirth.
“Stevie didn’t say anything?” Adam asks once he gets his breath back.
“Noooo,” I squeal into the phone. I’m staring at my ceiling in utter awe of how horrible that was.
“I’m so sorry, Gertie. Swear I had no idea his mother was Moany Joany from Channel Six.”
Apparently Joan Hudson is a local celebrity. I guess I would have known that if my boyfriend had told me, or I ever watched the evening news. She’s an investigative reporter whose delivery is the stuff of Penthouse breathiness.
“Was it as bad as I think it was?” I ask. Perhaps I’m being too harsh. Perhaps if I squint really hard at a lightbulb, the memory will get fuzzy and warm.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, what was I thinking?” Of course it was that bad. And then it just got worse.
“He dragged you up to his bedroom?”
“Yes.” I don’t even really remember the décor because I was so focused on evading the tongue of death. “And he tasted like cheap Chinese takeout and kept shoving his tongue into my mouth like he was some tentacle-man from outer space.” Let’s not even talk about the hello erection rubbing on my thigh.
“What’d you do?” Adam gulps air. I can hear it.
“I kept asking him about the model airplanes hanging from his ceiling like I cared.” Stephen’s taller than me, so about all I could see while his tongue was in my mouth was the ceiling. The angle was brutal.
“Uh-huh. And you weren’t into kissing him back?” Adam asks like he’s afraid of my answer.
“That was not kissing. That was carpet cleaning.”
“Huh?”
“It was uncomfortable and boring. For buttocks’ sake, I was having juicy conversations about P-3s.”
“What are P-3s?”
“Planes. Very old planes,” I snap.
“Oh. How’d you get home?”
“I made a big deal about my neck hurting, which was actually true, but I pretty much lost it when he started to pull me toward the bed. No way was I leaving my feet.” Visions of having appendages or breasts sucked into the Hoover mouth are going to haunt me for years.
“So, you were into him,” Adam says.
Do I sound into him? I want to be into him. “Not then.”
“Then he brought you home?”
“Yes, and he wanted to make out in the driveway like we hadn’t been doing that for an hour. And it’s a good thing I didn’t eat any food, I would have thrown up all over him when his tongue got my gag reflex. Still, I was hungry.”
“You have a bowl of ice cream?”
I clink my spoon into Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. “Yes, comfort food.”
“Are you going to break up with him?”
The sixty-four-million-dollar question: Am I going to dump him? “Maybe he’s special.”
“Special?”
“Like I wouldn’t dump a guy in a wheelchair if he popped a wheelie, so why would I dump Stephen for popping a boner?”
“We’re not talking about his dick here. His dick wasn’t in your throat, was it?”
I shiver. I can’t even imagine the alternate reality wher
e that might have happened. “No.”
“Let’s recap. He tells you his grandmother is nuts but leaves out the part about his mother being on television and, oh, by the way, anorexic from the sound of it. He doesn’t talk to you at all during dinner. Doesn’t let you finish eating before pulling you up to his bedroom so he can shove his unwanted tongue down your throat—”
“Wait, I don’t know that it was unwanted.” I have to be fair. I like the idea of French-kissing. I just hope it’s not all like this.
“Okay, but he doesn’t check in to make sure you’re having a good time, right?”
“Well, no.”
“Then he gets huffy when you say your neck hurts and you need to go home and you won’t make out with him in front of the prying eyes of your parents. Right?”
“That’s close, yes.”
“And you think there’s something wrong with you, right?” Adam hits the nail on the doorjamb.
“Is there?” I have this terrible sinking feeling that this is the best my dating life will ever be. It will all be downhill from here, until I have fifty cats and wear Lycra on my massive butt.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. Really.”
“Really?”
“Really. If I put it to a vote right now—no, we all agree, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Thanks.”
“And Gertie, the tongue thing is great with the right person.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, someday there will be a boy whose tongue you want in your throat. Not to mention his—”
I cut him off. “That’s strangely comforting.”
“Go eat more ice cream.” Adam hangs up.
He always makes me feel better.
Kissing. I’m talking good kissing. Ice-cream-melting, toe-curling, tingling, don’t-want-to-stop kissing. I want some of that.
There are whole websites devoted to the healing properties of kissing. It’s been known to cure cancer and at the very least brighten a clinical depression.
It’s a hobby. It brings people together. I want it. I want the kiss that lasts forever. Okay, I’d like bathroom breaks and neck-sprain breaks and probably occasionally might want to do something else, but mostly I just want the feeling of a kiss that could last me a lifetime. That lost, dreamy, creamy feeling of being in the moment with one other person. With a manly-boy.
I don’t think that’s asking too much. Is it?
“I’m … going … to die.…” My face is so hot it’s melting off my skull. I can hardly breathe. I lean against the auxiliary gym wall like a gargoyle in heat. I don’t care how pathetic I look. I don’t. I’m sure I won’t survive these tryouts and then people will never say a bad thing about me again. Because you don’t say bad things about dead people. Unless they’re serial killers or something. And I’m not.
Tangent: sorry.
“Gert, we just walked over here.” Clarice is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“I’m practicing.” Okay, so I’m not on my deathbed yet, but it’s out there. I can see it coming. “Why are we doing this, again?”
“It’s our only opportunity to be jocks.” Maggie keeps picking at her shorts and T-shirt like she’s never worn anything with fewer than five layers.
“Winter sports, ladies?” What was I thinking? I don’t care about being a jock. I want to ride the away bus with Lucas. I’ve heard things about the away bus. “It’s outdoor soccer in January.”
“Technically this is just tryouts.”
“Maybe we’re not destined to be jocks. Has it occurred to any of us that we aren’t genetically equipped for this activity? Do you even know what a soccer ball looks like?” I ask my compatriots quasi-seriously.
“It’s black and white, right? With shapes on it?” Panic blooms on Maggie’s face for a minute before she quite stoically brings herself back under control.
“Listen up, people.” A lanky guy with calves the size of Montana loops a whistle around his neck. “This is tryouts for girls’ soccer. This is the first year it’s been offered, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy to make the team.” He puffs up his chest like we’re an incoming class of wannabe Navy SEALs. “We have a freshman squad, which will also be the junior varsity squad, and then room for the varsity ladies. My name is Mack. I’m going to be your head coach, but just call me Mack. No mister. Mack. Got it?”
I’m still looking at his knees. They have amazing definition. All sinew and muscle. I will have to take the magnetizing mirror to my knees when I get home. I don’t think mine look like that.
“Where are my student coaches?” Mack asks.
I straighten. This is where Lucas comes in. I begin to panic when I can’t locate him casually. He’s the entire reason I am doing this. He must be around here somewhere.
“Mack. We’re over here.” Lucas and three other guys I’ve never seen in my life part the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. I swear a collective sigh and hair toss moves across the girls like a wave at a football game.
The guys all slap hands and thump each other with their shoulders. A bigger display of masculine preening you’ve never seen—not even on Animal Planet. Not to say I’m immune. I’m not. Look at that smile. That hair. Those shoulders.
“Good to see you.” Mack repeats this strange dance of slap and thump with each of them. It’s that odd hello ritual guys do.
“Who are the other guys?” Clarice whispers to me. We both sneak a glance at Maggie, hoping she’ll have done some research.
Her blank look is not comforting. The guys are skinny. Muscular, but, well, there’s no fat on their legs. On anywhere.
I swallow, doing the math. Unless they’re all brothers, which I know they’re not—the rippling muscle thing must not be genetic. Five guys, not related, plus soccer equals no fat.
“We’re going to die,” I stage-whisper.
“Uh-huh.” Clarice finally makes eye contact with me. She’s figuring out there will be pain.
“Can we sneak out?” Maggie tugs at the oversized cotton covering her dainty proportions like a crescent roll on a toothpick.
Mack turns back to us. He’s smiling. A really big smile. “Now, we’re going to work you today. Don’t worry if your soccer skills aren’t up to World Cup level, we’ll get there later.”
I have a mental flash: I think I kicked a soccer ball once in PE, in the fifth grade. It hurt my big toe. Why have I blocked this memory until now?
Mack continues. “We need to get a feel for your conditioning, put you through some basic drills, and then tomorrow we’ll get out the balls.”
Oh goody, I will collapse before even touching the soccer ball. That’ll be humiliating.
“We’ll start each practice by running a couple of miles to warm up. The red line is an eighth of a mile. This gym is your new home. We’ll live in here for tryouts. Any questions?”
Do I want to be buried or cremated? Bagpipes or boy band?
I look around at the group of about fifty girls. Some faces I know but most I don’t. I pull Maggie into a huddle with Clarice. “How hard can it be to get cut the first day?”
Relief blooms on their faces. “You’re right. There are lots of girls here. Odds are we’re the least skilled,” Maggie says.
“There’s no shame in giving it a try and being ousted because we suck,” Clarice adds.
Mack announces, “People, let’s do a mile to start. Eight laps, people. Look alive.” He nods to one of the guys, who presses a remote button. Supernova’s latest riff fills the gym with reverberating chords. “Run, run, run.” Mack herds the group in a clockwise motion.
It’s either run or be trampled. I am so not about to die by trampling.
“I’m so sorry!” Clarice screams at us.
“You’ll pay later.” I put my hands around my throat in a mock choke.
We run. In straight lines. Around cones. From line to line. We dodge balls thrown at our heads at alarming speed.
Two girls drop because of t
urned ankles. Another is sent to the nurse because she doesn’t dodge the ball quite fast enough. Someone else slips on sweat and hits her nose on the floor, which means we get a five-minute break while the janitor cleans up the blood.
“I can’t feel my feet.” Maggie pokes her toes with her finger.
“I have blisters on blisters. These shoes are cute, but they suck for support.” Clarice’s sneakers are so trendy they’re never actually supposed to be worn.
“Am I dead yet?” I haven’t sweat this much since—let me think about this—never.
Maggie looks at the clock and groans. “We’re only half done.”
“Okay, people. Mess is cleaned up. On your feet. Don’t want to stiffen up.” Mack smacks the clipboard and blows his whistle in a jaunty little jig.
I’ve been too preoccupied to even notice Lucas until hands appear from heaven to pull us up. I look up, knowing my hair is standing up sticky with sweat and rehydrating product. Let this be a lesson: no gel or spray until after practice.
“Gert, good to see you.” He smiles at me, then at Clarice and finally at Maggie. “You guys are hanging in there. Good spirit.”
I grimace a smile. “Thanks.” I’m too tired to care that my sweat and his sweat have blended on my palm. I’d love to say I’ll never wash this hand, but all I want is a shower, so I’d be totally lying. He jogs away toward other heaps of girls, pulling them to their feet as well.
“Has Mack even broken a sweat?” Clarice leans in.
“He glows like a good mist, I guess.” I squint, trying to find one rivulet on his brow. Just one drop of perspiration.
Maggie rolls her eyes.
“Now for some fun, people.” Mack wheels out an ancient television screen. “This is an unorthodox practice, but Manchester United is rumored to use it for mental acuity, balance and body control. The Chinese have used it for centuries to focus and calm the mind.”
“Math puzzles?” I ask quietly, hoping no one hears.
“Tai chi.” Mack smiles at all of us like we know what that is.
Maggie leans over. “No running.” She twitches her lips like she’d like to smile but doesn’t have the energy.
I smile at her and at Mack. Okay, I can do no running for a while.