by Amber Kizer
“We’ll start easy, learn the movements, then speed it up as practices continue.” Mack and the five horsemen take places around the gym so they can see us and the TV. “Don’t feel like you have to perfect the movement immediately. Just go with the motion.”
“That sounds bad,” I say to Clarice as we spread out.
We do lots of inhaling and exhaling. I like the breathing thing; I wasn’t sure that was a high priority around here.
“People, pay attention: this is embracing the moon!” Mack shouts. A few of the girls giggle.
Lucas is perfectly and completely engrossed in the screen. I’ve never seen such concentration on a manly-boy before.
“Part the wild horse’s mane, people!” Mack shouts.
I try, I really do, but I’m just not horse-mane-parting talented. In fact, I think I’m more like braiding horse’s tail. I’m tempted to find a pen to put eyes on my hands so I can do a puppet show while we breathe and flail.
“I suck,” Clarice says.
“So not,” I say. She’s even lunging in the right place. I could hate her.
“Back to embracing the moon.” Mack doesn’t have to yell anymore. Most of the girls are just swaying to an unknown pop tune. It’s like VH1 in slo-mo.
I so am not kidding: I almost think I’ll jinx myself if I say this out loud, but I don’t suck as bad as some.
“It’s kinda fun, isn’t it?” I ask Maggie when Mack calls us to a stop.
“The running?” She collapses on the ground.
“No, the dancing.” I heave a sigh next to her.
“Dancing?”
“The moony horsey thing.”
“The tai chi.” Clarice gulps from a water bottle.
“Are we done yet?” Maggie asks.
“We’re supposed to stretch while Mack and the other coaches cut ten people from tryouts.”
“What are we supposed to stretch?” I ask, watching the contortionists contort around me.
“Beats me.” Maggie doesn’t move off the ground.
I start counting spit wads on the ceiling while Clarice does some flailing of her own.
I raise an eyebrow at her.
“What? My mom does yoga all the time,” she says.
“Oh.”
“Thanks to all of you for coming out for the soccer team. However, we only have a few places, and based on injuries today, we’ll be cutting ten of you. If your name is not crossed off this list, please show up tomorrow as scheduled for round two.”
“I can’t move,” Maggie mumbles.
“Clarice, go see if we’re done, please?” I ask Miss Perky Yoga Girl.
Clarice wanders over to the crowd.
A couple of girls actually look like they’re going to cry.
Clarice pushes in and reads down the list, then comes back over with a glum expression on her face.
I applaud. “Good acting. That way no one will know we want to be cut.”
“We’re not.”
“We’re not what?” Maggie sits up, groaning.
“Cut.”
“There must be a mistake!” I cry out. Way too loudly because Lucas comes over to us.
“You guys don’t want to stiffen up. You’d better stretch it out or tomorrow you’ll hurt like hell.”
“Tomorrow?” Maggie squeaks.
“At practice.” He waves and walks toward the locker room.
“It’ll be harder to stay in tomorrow, right? We’ll be cut for sure.” We hobble toward the locker room. “Right?”
No one answers me.
I can barely move my arm to reach the ringing phone. I am dying. There’s no explanation for the pain and the more pain. I tried the WebMD symptom checklist. Right now it looks like I have early-onset Ebola, or a skin-freezing thing that’ll kill me slowly. If I start bleeding from my eyes and pores like I’m in a horror film, I have Ebola. “What’s up?” I ask Adam.
“You sound terrible.”
“I’m dying.”
“Oh. Didn’t you have soccer tryouts today?”
“Yes, and I didn’t get cut.”
“That’s bad?”
“Did you know there’s running involved?”
He laughs. “I’d heard that rumor. But why are you dying?”
“I’m in terrible pain, my skin is all itchy and with every breath it gets harder to move.”
“I can cure you.”
“How? Ebola has no cure.”
“I guess not, but you don’t have Ebola.”
“No, it might be this other one.”
“Gertie, it’s called exercise. You’ve heard of it before.”
“I thought fat killed you, exercise made you live forever. Those asses! I’m having a cheeseburger with extra fries on Saturday. If I’m still alive.”
“You’ll live.”
“If it’s not deadly, why is it so—” I moan instead of scratching an itch on my thigh.
“Painful?” Adam finishes my thought. He’s such a good friend.
“Why do people do it? You have an in with jocks, what gives?” I’m truly curious why this is supposedly addictive.
“It gets easier the more you do it.”
“So does puking, but you don’t see me all bulimic.”
“It doesn’t hurt as you build muscle up. Trust me, by the end of the season you won’t even remember how this feels.”
“That’s right, because they’ll be cutting me at practice tomorrow.”
“They will?”
“Yes, there are only so many slots and we’ve figured out we have to be part of the seriously uncoordinated group to get cut.”
“Really?” He says this like he knows something.
My antennae try to stand up, but they don’t get past flaccid interest. “Why? What have you heard?”
“Well, I don’t know if you want to know this or not.”
“I do. I swear I do.”
“Tim said Lucas came home all happy because the coach was talking about seeing so much potential in the girls.”
“So? I’m sure there are a few good ones.” I don’t think I’ve seen them show up to tryouts, but they had to be out there. Of course, the sweat stinging my eyes made seeing anything fairly impossible.
“He distinctly mentioned your name.”
My antennae jump. “As in, she’ll make the team? Or as in, I’m sad she’s seeing someone else because I want to date her?”
Adam doesn’t even try to soothe my ego. “He was talking about the team, Gertie.”
“No dating, huh?”
“Not in this conversation.”
Reality dawns. “Oh my God, so that means he thinks I’ll make the team?”
“Uh-huh. Isn’t that good?” Adam trails off to an almost-whisper.
I have to think about this. Well, yes, I don’t like sucking at anything, and yes, this means away game bus rides in the vicinity of Lucas, but … “There’s a lot of running.”
“Gert, did you think you were trying out for shuffleboard?”
“No, but how much running can there possibly be?”
“I’m fairly certain marathoners run more than soccer players.”
“Only fairly certain?”
“Yeah, it’s not really a sport of standing around.”
“Well, it’s going to be if I make the team.”
“That’s the sporting attitude I love.”
“Just being honest,” I huff.
“I need to ask you something.” Adam sounds uncertain and confused.
“Okay, I’m all ears.” Damn, I wish my legs would work. Who needs working legs anyway?
“What do you know about nipples?”
Huh? He’s kidding, right?
“I’m not kidding,” Adam rushes to add.
“I think maybe I misheard you.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m asking about your nipple knowledge.”
“I have a pair.”
“Are they sensitive?”
What are we really talking about here
? My nipples? I don’t think so. “What’s going on? Give—”
“You have to promise not to say anything, but—”
“I’m dying—”
“It’s Tim.” Adam goes quiet.
Oh, no. I know what this is about. “You know it’s perfectly natural to have three nip—” I don’t even get to finish the thought before he cuts me off.
“Gert! He has two.”
“Oh.” That is the only nipple issue I’m aware of. “Go on.”
“We were making out and he took off his shirt.”
Ooo, this is getting good. “And?”
“And he has a really killer body.”
“So what happened?”
“We’re making out and I start playing with his chest.”
Sure, I know what that’s like. Happens to me all the time.
“And I touched his nipples. He started moaning and his breathing changed, so I started kissing his chest and I licked his nipple and he came unglued.”
“As in he came?” Do I really want to know this?
Adam growls. “No, as in freaked out.”
“Why? Did you have nails in your mouth or something?”
“No, he just freaked out that I was playing with his nipples. Total mood killer.”
“Oh.” I so do not know what to say.
“The thing is, I’m sure he liked it. I’m positive he liked it.” Adam sounds sad and clueless.
“Okay, supposing he did like it, could you get him to tell you what happened?”
“No, he kinda shut down and didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh.”
“Are guys’ nipples different than girls’ nipples?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Man boobs and all that.”
“But are they different?”
“As in what?”
“Girls like their nipples sucked, right?”
He’s asking me? Queen of the bad French kissing? I don’t know the answer to this. I will rely on movie knowledge. “I think so.”
“Do you?”
I’m just going to assume he doesn’t care who is doing the touching—because when it’s just me with Maya and the parentals are gone, I do like a little nipple action. “Um, yeah.”
“Me too. But, like, maybe there are differences. Maybe I hurt him and I just think he liked it.”
“Don’t get all worked up. Let me do a little research and I’ll call you back. See if he’ll talk to you and tell you what the problem is.”
“I’ll try.”
“I’ll call you back,” I say, and hang up. Are boy nips different? Aren’t they the same from development? It’s just that they don’t get all boobish unless you do steroids or hit puberty with the X-chromosome cocktail.
I dial Stephen. This is something boyfriends are around for, right? If we’re being honest with each other, then I should be able to ask him about this.
“Hi, gorgeous.” Stephen sounds like I woke him up. “What’s up?”
“I have a question for you.”
“Shoot. Anything.”
“How do you feel about nipples?”
“I like them. Really. Like them. Want to come over? My parents are out. Grandma’s upstairs and won’t bother us.”
Crap, he thinks I’m asking him to play with mine. “Thanks, but I’m not, you know, angling for a make-out invite. I just, um, am doing research for a health class project and asking guys I know about their nipples.”
“Mine?” He sounds deflated in more ways than one.
“Yep, how do you feel about yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do you like to play with them?”
He snorts. “I’m not a girl.” His tone is offended.
“I don’t think you are.” I roll my eyes. “At all,” I add, hoping to soften the offense. “I didn’t mean anything. I’m just asking the question. I’ll note it down as a no.”
“You do that. I gotta go. Grandma’s calling.”
“Okay, sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up quick. That was useless. I ticked off my boyfriend and got no information. I call Clarice. “Hang on. I’m hooking Maggie on here.”
“Maggie, Clarice is on too.” I switch us all to the conference calling that the parentals are now paying for. “I have a nipple question.”
“You have extras?”
“No! Do guys’ and girls’ nipples behave the same way?”
“Oh, you mean are they sensitive and stuff?” Clarice asks.
“I think so,” Maggie says.
I ask, “Clarice, what’s your older sister say?”
“Guys are total freaks about their nipples. I don’t know why, but some guys won’t let her touch them and some guys like it way more to have her suck theirs than she likes them to work hers.”
“We’re talking nipples here?”
“Yes, nipples. There’s a variance in sensitivity, but it’s not a girl/guy thing. Depends on the person.”
I’m almost astounded by Clarice’s knowledge of this subject. I choose not to dwell. “So, why would a guy freak out if he liked tongue action on his chest?”
“Maybe he doesn’t think he should?”
The light comes on. “Oh, that makes sense.”
Maggie adds, “Maybe he thinks it’s cuz he’s a guy and only girls like their boobs played with.”
“Do you really like that?” Clarice asks.
“Why?” I ask, deflecting the idea that I have any experience with this. Which I don’t.
“Well, I just always get the feeling Spenser is trying to open a jar of pickles when he’s touching my boobs. It doesn’t do anything for me.”
“Have you told him?” I ask, all sex-therapisty.
I can hear Clarice shrug. “Told him what? Maybe it’s just me.”
“If he’s twisting and stuff, maybe he thinks you like it, but doesn’t know what else to do,” Maggie says.
I am about to ask Clarice why she hasn’t shared this with her older sister when Maggie jumps back in. “What’s the guide say?”
Of course. With it hiding under my bed, I tend to forget I have it. “Good idea. I’ll bring it to school tomorrow and we can check it out at lunchtime.”
“Maybe you could make a copy of the breast section and drop it in Spenser’s locker,” Maggie suggests.
“Nah, that’d be too clingy. We’re not having a relationship.”
“Why is that clingy?” I ask.
“Cuz it presupposes he’ll be touching my boobs again, and benefriends don’t make that kind of commitment.”
“But won’t he?” I ask.
“I don’t want to stop making out. But who knows.”
“Like he’s going to give up the opportunity to practice opening pickle jars!” Maggie snorts.
I bite back a snort of my own.
“Ha, ha!” Clarice doesn’t seem to find the humor. “Does this mean you’ve been playing with Stevie’s nips?”
“No, it doesn’t.” The idea makes me slightly nauseated because of his reaction to my question.
“Oh.”
I can hear their wheels turning. “What?”
“It’s Tim, then.” Maggie all but nods over the phone.
“Adam having boy trouble?” Clarice sounds cheered by this.
“Just breast trouble,” I say.
“I thought being gay he got out of the whole breast issue.”
“I think that’s the problem.”
We chat a little more, then hang up. I root around under my bed to find the guide’s hiding place. Mike gave me The Guide to Getting It On for my sixteenth birthday. It’s the best book ever. But I don’t want my parents to see it accidentally. I think it might cause a coronary in one of us.
I dial Adam, pull out the guide and flip to the breast section.
“He says it’s because only girls like their nipples sucked and he’s gay, not a girl.”
“Okay, I’m so making a copy of this chapter for you.”
“Why? It
says he’s not a girl?”
“Kind of. Basically it says some girls don’t feel anything when their nipples are messed with, some it hurts and some like it. Same with guys. It’s all the same nerve endings.”
“Really?”
“Really. That’s what it says.”
“So he’s not a girl.”
“No, he’s just blessed with good nerves.”
“Well.”
“Maybe you should volunteer to have him suck yours next time so he can be assured you don’t have to be a girl to like it.”
“In the name of science, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Gertie. Oh, and if you tell anyone we had this conversation, I’ll have to kill you.”
“So I shouldn’t send this e-mail to the whole student body?”
“Ha, ha!”
“Bye.”
“Gert, can you come down here, please?” Mom calls up the stairs.
What does she want now? “Coming,” I yell back in her general direction.
I meander down the stairs, taking my time. Must not appear too eager to please. I look from one face to the other. Both my parents are seated and perky in the living room. Uh-oh. My stomach clenches and I feel slightly nauseated. Though that could have a direct correlation to moving my body, which resents me fiercely for it now. My mom and dad have that we-need-to-have-a-conversation look about them.
“Dinner ready?” I try not to hobble too much. Stairs are tough.
Mom waves her hand at a chair. “Not quite. We wanted to talk to you first.”
Dad turns the game on to mute. “We like that you’re playing soccer for your school.” He’s all scary intent, like this is the first thing I’ve ever done he can understand.
I blink and it takes a minute for his words to sink in fully. Oh, oh no, back up. “I’m only trying out. We won’t know until after tomorrow who makes the team.”
Mom bobs her head. “Right. But we want you to know how much we appreciate this new interest of yours and we want to offer you—”
“A deal,” Dad finishes for her. “We pay your car insurance and gas until the end of the season.”
“In case you make the team, we didn’t want you to worry about having to hold a job down too.” She must sense my panic. It’s not the work idea that panics me; it’s the running.
Dad flicks a finger toward me. “Your grades can’t slip.”
“Right, we don’t want your GPA to fall, because we’re so proud of you.” Mom tries to soften his dictum.