by Emma Kress
“What in the world does that—” Kiara starts.
“Girls,” Miss Eldrich says, her hands braced on her desk, “watch your tone or you will end up in ISS right alongside your friend. And then you can forget today’s game.”
Silence.
I don’t even know what just happened. I’m on that spinning ride at the state fair, plastered to the walls when the floor drops away.
Ava and the others storm out. But I’m stuck to the wall.
The dean’s nails just click away at her keyboard. It’s not just that she doesn’t get it. She refuses to get it.
I search for words that will convince her, change her mind, but all the words have disappeared. I just don’t get how she won’t listen to us.
Finally, I take a step toward the door.
“Miss Alamandar?” she says, not looking up from the computer.
“Yes?” I squeak, and I’m grateful the others don’t hear.
She leans toward her computer like she’s reading something. “Zoe, right?”
I nod.
“Let me give you some advice.” She turns to me, clasps her hands on her desk, and tilts her head. It’s a wooden pose, like she ordered it out of an educational catalog along with her ridiculous posters. “You’re a good girl. I can see that in your record.” She nods at the screen. “That will take you far in life. You know what won’t take you far?”
I shake my head.
“Hanging out with the wrong crowd.” She leans forward. “Dylan Johnson is the wrong crowd. Trust me on this. You’ll thank me one day.”
“Dylan”—I clear my throat—“is a member of our team. A good member. She—”
She waves her hands at me. “I’m glad Dylan’s found some extracurriculars this year that don’t involve her fists. But in my experience, people don’t change all that much.”
She glances at the clock. “Better get a move on, Miss Alamandar.”
SEVEN
AS USUAL, THE BLEACHERS ARE empty except for a handful of parents, Sommersville’s varsity team, and us. On the field, our JV team is playing before us and they’re getting their asses handed to them. I can’t stand to watch. I walk around the side of the stadium and lean against the cinder blocks.
We need to be great out there. This is our first test and we have to pass. Even without Dylan. I want to go to UNC Chapel Hill. It’s that simple. And that huge. Sure there are other good Division 1 schools, but UNC Chapel Hill is consistently number one and a top academic school. Besides, it’s far away from here. But I need that scholarship. When Coach reached out to them, they said they couldn’t come to Syracuse just to see me. But they did say they’d send a recruiter to States. So the whole team needs to be perfect.
* * *
Coach is talking, but my heart’s loud in my ears and then we’re cheering and charging the field.
The whistle blows, but we’re too fast. A bump of the ball on turf sends it flying and our bumps are slaps and our slaps are punches and our passes fly far and our shots coast wide.
I command upfield, while Ava directs near the goal, but it doesn’t matter. Our reddened faces are everywhere and nowhere. My feet burn on the hot turf. The scoreboard ticks up for Sommersville, while we stay zeroed out.
“You want pillows, girls? You’re sleeping out there!” Coach yells her voice hoarse from the sidelines, and I holler too, but the words don’t matter because nobody’s listening.
It’s last year all over again.
I dive for the ball—hard—ripping my knee across the turf. It hurts like hell but I jump up because it wasn’t enough. They got the ball.
The halftime buzzer rings, and we drag ourselves off the turf. Coach slaps her clipboard. “I could play better drunk at three a.m.—hell, my grandma could play better. What’s going on out there?” Her gaze lands on my knee. “Ouch, Zo. Looks like the turf is beating you too.”
Which is when I notice—and feel—the way the turf just sandpapered off my skin. To distract myself while Coach cleans my turf burn with saline, I glance up at the stands. At least there’s not a ton of people to see us get yelled at. And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I’m not sure if I should yell right along with her or just nod like I have a clue. It was easier being captain before we played any real games.
Ava crouches down next to Coach while she finishes bandaging my knee. “It’s not fair, Coach. Dylan should be here.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe we’d win if Dyl were here.
Coach sighs as she stands. “Girls, I spoke with the dean, and with Coach Jeffers. There’s—”
“Coach Jeffers the football coach? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Well, Lance Kupperton is one of his players and Dylan did attack—”
We erupt. Kiara stomps her cleat. “It wasn’t her fault, Coach. Everybody’s always blaming Dyl, but she was just standing up for herself.”
I look at the stands again. Last thing I want is for people to think we’re throwing a temper tantrum because we’re losing. “Sure, Dylan’s a hothead, Coach, but it was Kups’s fault,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ava asks.
Kiara glares at me.
“I was just trying to say it wasn’t her fault!” I look at Coach. “We did the right thing too. We went to the dean but she didn’t listen. Which I still don’t get. I—”
“This may be your first taste of injustice, Zoe, but it’s not mine,” Ava says, her voice low. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
It hurts worse than the turf burn.
“Wait.” Coach holds up her hands. “I’m missing something. What happened?”
“You know what guys say to us on game days?” Ava’s voice is quiet.
Coach looks at each of us, then shakes her head. But her cheeks redden. She knows. She just doesn’t want to know.
“When we walk down the halls in our kilts, it’s like an invitation,” Sasha says.
“They whistle, they hoot.”
“I got, ‘That skirt looks good on your legs but it’d look better on my floor.’”
“Gross.”
Coach shakes her head. “I’m sorry. But that doesn’t excuse Dylan’s behavior. Fighting is not how you resolve things if you want to be on this team.”
Which was exactly my point. But then again, the dean didn’t listen when we tried to talk to her. I turn to look at Ava but she doesn’t look back.
“So,” Coach continues, “maybe we should stop wearing the uniform on game days?”
“No,” Kiara says. “Because then they’d win.”
“What we wear shouldn’t give them permission to act like dicks,” Ava says. “Besides, I’m proud to be on this team. Kiara’s right. It’d be like hiding. They’d win.”
Quinn pumps her stick in the air. “Illegitimum non carborundum!”
I just stare at her. “What?”
“It means ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’”
Coach sighs at her.
“What? It’s in the Harvard fight song. I mean, it’s Harvard, Coach.”
Then Coach looks over our shoulders. We turn and see Dylan. Still in her uniform.
“Hey, guys.” She gives a weak wave. “I know I’m not allowed to play tonight, but—” She looks softer, quieter. “Well, it’s better than just going home.”
I walk over and grab her hand, pulling her into the huddle. “I’m glad you came.” And right here, I feel like a real captain. Even if I’m still stinging from Ava’s words.
Kiara throws her arm around Dylan and smooches her on the cheek until she laughs.
“What’s the score?” Dylan asks.
“It’s 0 to 2.” Cristina pouts.
Dylan steps back. “Wait. We’re not winning?”
I shake my head.
“They’re that much better than us?”
“No,” Coach says. “They’re not.”
“Well, fuck that!”
Coach throws her hands up.
“Sorry, Coach.” Dylan laughs. “I mean, fock them!”
“Yes.” Coach’s eyes crinkle up like she’s trying not to laugh. “That’s so much better.”
We do our cheer and race out to the field, but I can’t stop thinking about Ava’s words or the way Dylan’s parked on our bench instead of running on the field.
We lose, 1 to 2.
And I’m further away from States and my scholarship than ever.
* * *
When I get home, I don’t feel like cooking dinner or doing homework. So I head to Dad’s room instead. He’s watching Sports Forum. His legs are propped up, but he doesn’t look great.
“Hey. You doing okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.”
Liar. I cross my arms. “Where is it this time?”
“Upper back.” He sits forward but his mouth tightens and he stops. “I can’t seem to—”
“Want me to try the acupuncture cups again? That seemed to help last time.”
He sighs. “You don’t mind?”
“Nah,” I say. “I live to torture you.”
I help him sit so we can wrestle off his T-shirt and reposition him, facedown. I place the cups on his back and attach the tube to the vacuum gun. With every pull, his skin gets sucked up a little more into the cups. It’s supposed to suck out all the toxins and increase blood flow. It’s kind of gross but also kind of cool. I move them gently, up the suction, set the timer, and wait.
The sportscasters argue about which play was better and which team will win. They yell. They tease. And every other minute they dissolve into laughter. It makes me think of Ava. Everything was fine before we actually had school and games. Maybe any team can be great when there’s no contest.
When the timer goes, I release the suction. His back is covered in perfect red circles, but it seems to help. A little. At least something I did today helped someone. Because talking to the dean sure didn’t. Talking at the huddle sure didn’t. I never liked speaking up before, but I felt like I was supposed to as captain.
Maybe I should just shut up for good.
EIGHT
THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL sucks. Practice sucks. Coach punishes us for the loss with planks and push-ups, sprints and squats. With each bend, the little scrapes on my knee break open again. And the whole time, I ignore Ava and she ignores me.
Great season, Cap’n.
Tonight’s a Rebels night, which means my mom’s best friends will arrive with a ton of food, so at least I don’t have to make dinner. Upstairs in my room, I try to finish the mountain of homework Mr. Mac assigned, but I just keep thinking about Ava and Dylan and how unfair it is that Kups got away with everything and how, at this rate, we’re never going to get to States. I put down my pen and knock on my parents’ door.
“Come in!” sings Mom. She’s changed out of her scrubs and put on jeans and an old sweater of Dad’s. She adjusts it in front of the mirror. Dad’s got his earbuds in while he watches Sports Forum. I crawl onto the bed and rest my cheek against Dad’s chest, listening to the faint music from his earbuds, letting my head rise and fall with his breathing, while I half watch the show and half watch Mom.
“How do I look?” She twirls in front of the TV and grasps the bottom of the sweater like it’s a dress and does a curtsy.
Dad laughs. “I had no idea my clothes could look that good.”
She waves him off. “You haven’t worn this in years. It’s mine now.”
The doorbell rings. Mom squeals and runs downstairs. More squeals. A lot of squeals. Dad and I look at each other, and he turns up the volume on the TV. It takes a lot to cover up the Rebels. I hang with Dad until I think it’s safe to go down and grab some food. Because yes, they may be noisy. But they also know how to eat.
As soon as I round the last step, two bright blurs spin around the corner and squeal.
“Zozo!” Aunt Jacks throws her arms wide, bracelets rattling. She dribbles chardonnay on the tile and nearly decapitates Aunt Ruth behind her. Jacks is short for Jacqueline. Jacks has too much volume, too much spice, too much everything, for a name like Jacqueline.
Aunt Ruth shoves past her to get to me. “Oh baby girl, you look beautiful.”
“Not that looks are everything!” Aunt Jacks sings.
“Not that looks are anything!” chorus my mom and Aunt Maya from the kitchen. The peals of laughter mix with the clatter of dishes. They must be at least a bottle deep in that wine.
Aunt Ruth pulls me in, and not for the first time, I think about how there’s something to be said for big boobs. I have to duck since she’s shorter, but Aunt Ruth gives the best hugs of anyone I know. She pulls back and presses her hands against each side of my face, studying me with her brown eyes, and I squirm under her gaze. Aunt Ruth always knows what I’m thinking.
“Oh give it a rest, Ruth,” Aunt Jacks says, “you’re squeezing her head like it’s a tit in a mammogram machine.”
Nice. At least Aunt Ruth lets me go.
“Something’s wrong,” she declares, crossing her arms over her belly. Half of her seems worried and the other half victorious. “Ha!” She turns to Aunt Jacks. “I always know!”
Aunt Jacks drapes her arm around me, spilling more wine. I eye the glass, tilting against my shoulder. I grab for it with my other hand. “Now, now,” she says, “no wine for you.”
I shake my head, guiding her toward the kitchen. “Just looking out for you, Aunt Jacks. I wanna make sure more ends up in your mouth than on the floor.”
She guffaws.
When we enter the kitchen, there’s an Everest-size mountain of yum waiting for me: piles of grapes, wraps, cookies, brownies, chocolate-covered something s, apple pie, and cheese. Which reminds me of Ava and her cheese obsession. Which pisses me off all over again. I still don’t get how I became the bad guy.
“Help yourself, Zo,” Mom calls as they head into the living room. “We’ve been grazing for a while now.”
The four of them curl into their favorite spots—the same spots they probably chose twenty years ago when they started meeting once a month. None of them are related, but they’ve always been my aunts.
I carve a thick slice of apple pie and pop it into the microwave. On Rebels nights, I always eat dessert first. The hum erases their voices, but I watch them like I have for years. The way they tuck their feet under themselves, lean in to one another, and break apart with a laugh.
The timer sounds, and I scoop some of Uncle Bob’s vanilla ice cream beside the steaming pie.
“You went for my pie, didn’t you?” Aunt Maya calls from the overstuffed chair.
“That’s what she said!” Aunt Jacks howls while the others laugh and shake their heads.
Mom waves me over. “Come here.” They all echo her.
I sink onto the rug next to the coffee table, careful not to bend my bandaged knee, and take a scoop. I close my eyes at the bite. “Oh wow, Aunt Maya. I would live in this pie if I could.” I take another forkful.
Maya sits back and smiles, always a sucker for baking compliments. “Darnell and I went to the orchard and picked the apples ourselves.”
“I wish I could eat like that,” Jacks says, watching me like I’m an animal in the zoo. “When I eat that much ice cream, shit shoots out of my ass like a geyser. I—”
“Really?” I put down my fork and raise my eyebrows.
Aunt Maya swats Jacks.
Mom pats my shoulder. “Big Bob’s ice cream has powers. Besides, she has to eat a lot to keep up with her training.”
I didn’t realize she’d noticed.
“Something’s wrong with her,” Ruth declares, still staring at me, “and it’s not her ice cream.”
The Rebels trip over one another to ask me what’s wrong.
“Nothing,” I mumble. I like the Rebels. But sometimes they’re so attentive it’s overwhelming. It’s like being tumbled around in a washing machine of love.
“Boy trouble?” Ruth asks.
I think of Kups hurting Dylan yes
terday and getting away with it. Yeah. Boy trouble.
“You can’t say that,” Aunt Jacks says. “You have to say romantic troubles.” She leans forward. “Because if you want to discuss your sexuality with us, Zoe, you can.”
“I’m not gay,” I say to my apples and ice cream.
“That’s fine, honey,” Aunt Jacks says, “but have you tried it?”
Mom busts out laughing.
“What?!” Jacks cries. “Compulsory heterosexuality is bullshit.”
Mom holds up her hands. “Agreed. But maybe don’t tell my kid to have sex?”
Maya clicks her tongue. “Well, she’s going to have sex whether you like it or not.”
“And all I’m saying is, she should figure out who’s the most satisfying.” Jacks grins. “I mean, from personal experience—”
I put down my fork loudly. “Ohhhh kaaaay.”
“They went too far, didn’t they?” Aunt Ruth holds up her hands. “Zoe’s sex life is off the table.”
I blush.
“Nothing should be off the table.” Jacks slaps the coffee table, bracelets jangling. “That’s how they get you—by attaching shame to it. What’s next? We can’t talk about racism? Sexism?” She dunks a carrot into the hummus. “Status quo exists on a foundation of assumptions. We must question the assumptions.” She takes a bite before the hummus meets the carpet.
“I’m fine with questioning—as long as nobody dares question me.” Aunt Maya laughs.
“Tyrant.” Aunt Ruth coughs into her hand, then smiles.
“Wait,” I say, surprising myself. “What does questioning assumptions mean? Like, I know what it means. But—”
“What does it look like?” Ruth asks.
I nod.
“I think”—she looks at the others—“it looks like not letting a wrong thing happen even if that wrong thing has been done for centuries.”
I push the puddle of ice cream around my plate, and the Rebels are quiet.