Crossing Over

by Stacy Davidowitz

  “Hey, babe,” he said, cracking his knuckles nervously.

  “I’m not your babe.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I’m really glad we’re on the same page.” Wiener pulled a printout from his front pocket. It was a picture from the Rolling Hills website of him and Missi. “There’s someone else.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Melman said. “I sleep next to her.” Melman was happy for them, and if she came across as anything but happy, it was because she was reminded that she also had to break off a relationship that never was. And hopefully she’d do it with more tact than Wiener.

  Wiener swaggered off to meet Missi, and Melman waited a little bit awkwardly in the middle of Canteen, halfway between the counter and the tables, while Totle covered his Rocky Road in whipped cream.

  I wish I like-liked him back, she thought for what felt like the millionth time. That would make her life so much easier, but she couldn’t manage to get her brain and heart to see eye to eye. She’d thought about letting whatever they had fade out naturally, but then she’d heard the guys refer to her as “Totle’s girl” twice, which was two times too many for her to sit around waiting. She didn’t want to end up in a wedding dress ten years down the road, thinking, How did I let this happen?!

  Melman wondered if that was part of the reason she’d chopped off her hair. That, deep down, she hoped the boyish cut would make him run for the hills and she wouldn’t have to go through the trauma of ending things. Too bad Totle, being the awesome guy that he was, told her the look was cool and courageous.

  Come on, heartless heart! Melman yelled at herself now. What’s wrong with you? Give me one reason you don’t want this guy to be your boyfriend! Her heart didn’t respond. It was time to buckle down. She kicked the anxiety reverberating in her chest and tried to remember what Slimey and Jenny had coached her to say. Meanwhile, Totle threw three cherries on top of his sundae and headed over, totally blind to what was coming. Ugh.

  “Thanks for waiting,” he said sweetly.

  “No prob.” He led her to a table for two, where they sat in heavy silence while Melman went at her Moo-Moo’s, barely enjoying it. Finally, she put down her spoon. “Hey . . . so . . . um . . . I like you, Totle . . .”

  “Cool, I like you, too.”

  “. . . but—” Don’t be rude. “Oh! Thanks.” Now get back to it. “I just don’t . . . I dunno.” What don’t you know?! “I think maybe we’re better as friends?”

  He sunk at the shoulders and chewed the inside of his cheek, and Melman, feeling similarly awful, did the same. This was the opposite of what she was coached to do.

  “So, can we go back to being friends?” he asked, meeting her eyes with puppylike hope.

  Of course! Yes! “We were always friends, right?”

  “Well, yeah. But ever since the lake, when, you know, we . . .”

  Kissed. “Yeah . . .”

  “You’ve been ignoring me. No matter what, I don’t want to feel invisible.”

  I’m such a jerk-face. Melman’s heart swan dived to the pit of her belly. He was right—she couldn’t remember saying more than “Hi” since their seven minutes in the canoe. She nodded an apology and then, totally stepping out of bounds from the plan, leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek. “Friends. For sure.”

  His cheeks turned a shade of pink like they did when he played soccer, and his pubescent voice cracked out a response. “Friends, yeah. Cool.”

  “If I wanted a boyfriend, though,” she said as an afterthought, “he’d be you.”

  “Yeah, same,” he said awkwardly, and then the two of them laughed away some of the tension. Totle pushed his sundae toward Melman. She thought maybe he’d lost his appetite like she had, but then he said: “I’ll trade you,” and the two of them swapped bite for bite.

  Refuel, girl, you need to refuel, Melman thought, commanding herself to pass out. It was 12:18 A.M., and not even the whistling snore through Missi’s gapped teeth or the drone of six clip fans could soothe her to sleep. Normally, a full day of camp made her conk out the second she whispered, “Nighty-night, Faith Hiller peeps.” Sometimes she even passed out before her eyelids made it all the way down, which really freaked Jamie out.

  But tonight, almost an hour into her whisper routine, her brain was still running wilder than a rabid raccoon, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Melman hugged her knees to her chest over her comforter, desperate for fresh air. Her random thoughts about co-coaching and the Little Ealings and breaking up with Totle and how her parents were going to murder her over her hair were starting to tire her out, but not in a Time for bed way. In an I’m feeling too many things, and it’s exhausting way.

  She tiptoed past her sleeping cabinmates, trying to avoid the creakiest floorboards, and made it to the porch with a jack wedged between her toes. She yanked it out and tossed it hand to hand, breathing in the humid July air. She was hoping being outside would clear her head, but the last random thought, the one about Totle, still hoarded her attention:

  Why don’t I like Totle? Why don’t I like guys like how Missi likes Wiener and Slimey likes Smelly and Jenny likes Christopher and Sophie likes Steinberg? Am I immature like Jamie and just not ready? Or am I just different?

  In the distance, she could hear the rumble of the counselors’ bus pull in from their night off. Usually they went on a shopping spree at Walmart or binged on pizza at Chipmunks, the local bar. They almost never returned to campus empty-handed, and this time was no exception. But Melman was a little surprised to see Scottie descending Harold Hill holding nothing like clothes or groceries or pizza. She was holding something entirely unexpected: another counselor’s hand.

  Melman recognized her as the tennis specialist who lived in Notting Hill. Her voice always sounded like she was on the verge of losing it, but her laugh on the courts boomed with clarity. She was sporty but thin, with curly brown hair that fell just past her shoulders, and a butterfly spread of freckles. An overhead light cast a long, exaggerated shadow of their two bodies, and then, as they walked closer, the two shadows morphed into one.

  Melman watched them stop at the valley where Anita met Faith, smile into each other’s eyes, and kiss, like really kiss, good night. Goose bumps crept up her stubbly legs. Her stomach did a triple somersault. Her heart skipped a beat, then raced like crazy. Her eyes widened, and suddenly with no warning, her brain came to a skidding halt.

  Oh.

  She picked at her cuticles as Scottie approached the porch. She thought about ducking inside, since she felt totally awkward, but her thoughts were whirling so fast, she couldn’t seem to find the one that told her legs to move.

  “Oi, what are you doing up at this hour?” Scottie asked gently. “Can’t sleep?”

  “Nope,” Melman croaked. She wondered if she’d ever get to sleep again. “Is that counselor your girlfriend?” she blurted. “Sorry, I don’t mean to—”

  “Karin? Yeah.”

  Melman froze. For some reason she hadn’t expected such a straightforward answer. “Can I ask you something?” she asked meekly.

  “Shoot.”

  Melman had a lot of questions, but she didn’t know where to start. When did you . . . ? Are you . . . ? Have you ever . . . ? She settled on something easy-ish. “What were you like when you were my age?” She held her breath, for some weird reason expecting Scottie to say she was just like Melman.

  “I was fat. I wrote a lot of poetry. Dark stuff. Hated sports. Had only a small handful of friends, but was close to them. With my friends, I was very loud. In large groups, shy.”

  So, nothing like me. She tried to sort out if she was disappointed or relieved or neither. “Did you . . . um . . . did you date anyone?”

  “When I was thirteen?! Heck no!”

  Melman let out a quiet laugh.

  “My parents would’ve killed me. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was eighteen.”

  Melman half wished her parents would enforce a no-dating policy. M
aybe that would relieve her of some of the pressure she was feeling.

  “Hey,” Scottie said, plopping down by Melman’s side. “Whatever you’re feeling . . . it gets better.”

  Melman felt a cool breeze cut through the humid air. She breathed in the smell of grass and trees and dew. The night sky was full with stars, she just noticed. As the two of them sat in soothing silence, Melman felt a ripple of relief. She realized she might be immune to some things, but probably not love. She wasn’t crushing on anyone at the moment, and maybe she wouldn’t for a while. Hey, she was only thirteen. But one day, she hoped she’d meet the right person just like Scottie had met the right person, and she’d get to feel the magic like everyone else.

  Scottie went inside to brush her teeth, and Melman finally tiptoed back to bed. “Nighty-night, Faith Hiller peeps,” she whispered as her head hit the pillow. She didn’t fall asleep until five A.M., but when she woke up to reveille at 7:45, she felt rested. A billion questions still whirled through her brain, but at least she had a better idea of which questions to ask.

  “Fifty-two seconds!” Steinberg announced. The Catskillian Cup Championship game against their decade-long rival, Camp Sacajawea, was tied, 3–3, and they were nearing the end of their thirty minutes of overtime. Camp Rolling Hills had the honor of hosting for the first time ever, and a four-foot-high shiny trophy was displayed on a table on the sideline. Steinberg was determined to bring it home . . . down the road to the Social Hall. With some help. It was probably heavy.

  Per TJ’s request, Eddie the Handyman had installed bleachers for both teams. Camp Sacajawea had delivered a bus full of fans, and Rolling Hills was excused from their second and third activity periods to dominate them in the spirit department.

  So far, they were kicking butt. At first, they chanted softly, “We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?” Camp Sacajawea upped the volume with “We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?” Then Rolling Hills amped it up big time—“We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?”—until Camp Sacajawea dropped to negative levels of sportsmanship, screaming over them, “WE’VE GOT IT ALL! WE’VE GOT IT ALL!” The spirit battle was off the hook.

  Steinberg was praying his guys would feed off the energy in the crunch time. If neither team scored in the next—he checked his stopwatch—thirty-one seconds, they’d have to do a shootout. Rolling Hills had a killer defense and an even better offense, but a slippery-fingered Sampson in goal. Sacajawea had a mediocre defense, a killer offense, and a keeper with calloused, dry palms. Steinberg feared if they didn’t score now, the Catskillian Cup would end up in their opponent’s hands.

  Meanwhile, Melman was running up and down the sidelines with the intensity of a war general. TJ was biting his cuticles nervously, and every few seconds or so he’d throw his finger pointedly at a player and bust out insightful coaching like “C’mon, Kumbhani!” or “Pass it, Goldman, pass it!”

  Time was truly running out. Score, guys, score! Steinberg pleaded with desperation, holding up his whiteboard, where he’d diagrammed his plan. It was the “soccer play for dummies” version of Chaim’s genius emergency formula:

  At least Sophie thought it was genius. She was in the bleachers behind Steinberg wearing a T-shirt with I THE MANAGER ironed across her chest. She was chanting chants like “Lis-ten to Steinberg, he will blow your mind-berg,” all the while shaking her octopus-tentacled hair. She was like Ursula from The Little Mermaid, if Ursula were a kind, but possessive, psychotic cheerleader. Still, he’d never had a cheerleader cheer for him, especially at a sports game, and it felt kind of sweet.

  “Nineteen seconds!” Steinberg shouted. Garvey dribbled up the sideline and passed to Kumbhani, who passed to Price, who went to take the shot . . . and was body-slammed to the ground. Sacajawea #12 stole the ball while Price stayed down, his shoulder visibly out of its socket. Ouch, Steinberg thought, wincing for him.

  The ref blew the whistle, and everyone took a knee. It was so silent, all that could be heard over Price’s moaning was TJ on the walkie-talkie calling for help and the guys’ heavy, exhausted breathing.

  Steinberg went to toss Totle his inhaler so that he could share it with whoever needed a puff, but TJ caught it midair on the jog over to Price and tossed it back with a Think of a better plan look.

  “We need a runner,” Melman said to Steinberg, wiping her sweaty forehead with the sleeve of her Rolling Hills T-shirt. “Price is our runner. The only person faster is Sampson.”

  Is that true? Steinberg wondered. On the 100-yard dash, he remembered Sampson clocking in at 11.9, but then he passed out from low blood sugar. Running hard during drills even made him puke sometimes. It made sense that everyone preferred him to stay in goal. But now . . . ? Steinberg faced Melman. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  She shrugged a yes. “He can pass out, vomit, whatever . . . as long as he sprints up the field first.”

  So, then who would go in goal? Steinberg wondered. Chaim slapped him across the head with his answer. That’s it!

  Steinberg was just about to share his idea when the rumbling of the Captain’s golf cart interrupted him. She skidded onto the field with Nurse Nanette in the passenger seat. TJ helped Price into the back. The Captain stepped on the gas, and they were quickly on their way to the infirmary. Maybe even the hospital, who knew?

  TJ conferenced Steinberg with his eyes. Steinberg swiped the whiteboard clean with the end of his shirt and scribbled his solution. TJ slow-tilted his chin like he was mulling it over. Steinberg held his breath, awaiting his answer, which for a kid with asthma was a challenge.

  Luckily, the ref blew his whistle. “Let’s go, Rolling Hills! Waiting for a sub,” he said impatiently. TJ had to decide STAT.

  Steinberg watched him eye the golf cart in the distance. Maybe Steinberg’s plan would epically fail. Maybe it would supremely triumph. Either way, the Captain would not be pleased. TJ knew it, too.

  Steinberg drew in a breath of defeat in anticipation of TJ’s veto, but TJ surprised him. “Hey, Sampson! You’re Center O!” he called, then turned back to the sidelines and scanned Melman toe to head. Since she’d helped warm the team up, she was already wearing her cleats and shin guards. The Rolling Hills T-shirt she had on was the uniform. Her boyish cut was boyish enough, in a pinch. She was all set.

  TJ’s eyes met hers with coachlike determination. “You’re in.”

  Mission Melvin complete!

  Steinberg watched Melman light up even brighter than when they’d ceremonially burned the Princess Bethany dress in a campfire two nights prior. She threw her arms up in celebration, pulled her goalie gloves from the elastic waistband in her shorts, and gave Steinberg a Thank you pound.

  Steinberg knew better than to celebrate too early. Even the greatest of plans could go awry (cough, cough, Kiki 2.0 AND Mujina). But even if Sampson regurgitated his breakfast, or the Captain shamed TJ (accidentally, over the PA), or they lost the Catskillian Cup for cheating on a rule that was totally unfair in the first place, seeing Melman happy made it all worthwhile.

  You can do this, Melman coached herself.

  The Rolling Hills crowd jumped to their feet, on top of the bleachers, dancing and screaming and clapping: “Mel-man! Melman! Mel-man!” She’d heard chants for Bethany and plenty of chants for Melvin, but it made her heart swell to the size of three Big Macs to hear chants for her, as herself.

  Melman slapped clammy hands with Sampson on the way to their new positions and took her place in the goal. She raised her arm to let the ref know she was ready, even though she wasn’t ready—she was minutes away from getting a grip. But she wasn’t about to let her freaky jitters stop the momentum of the game. Not with less than twenty seconds to go.

  The whistle blew, and a Sacajawea player stormed toward her. Melman checked herself. Knees: bent. Palms: out. Heart: chugging like a speeding train. Gimme all you got, she told him with her stance.

  Me
lman watched him gear up for the shot, his shoulders pointed northeast. I know where you’re headed, ball, she thought as she leapt, extending her arms to the far-right corner. Thankfully, she’d anticipated correctly. The ball flew smack against her forearms and bounced to the ground. She scrambled to it just in time. The Sacajawean performed an air kick.

  The crowd went wild with a wave that spread from one end of the bleachers to the other and back again like a contagious rash of spirit.

  “Nine seconds!” Steinberg hollered. Melman might have saved the team from a loss, but she hadn’t earned them the win. It would all come down to Sampson’s sprint.

  Melman punted the ball all the way down to the opposite goal, and Sampson ran faster, faster, faster, past their midfield, past their sweeper, and let the ball bump down off his chest.

  “Three seconds!”

  Sampson passed it to Totle at the opposite corner of the goal. Totle did a hip fake, defensive pullback, drag and scissor, and then kicked it right between their goalie’s legs.

  “Score!” Melman cried, leaping so high, her fingertips brushed the goal’s crossbar.

  The ref blew the whistle twice and waved his hand in the direction of the Rolling Hills’ side of the field. Game over! Catskillian Cup! We won! Steinberg rules! Totle rules! Sampson rules! Everyone rules! The crowd must have understood it, too—they were screaming themselves unconscious.

  After the Rolling Hills team lined up to slap palms with the spitty palms of the sore-loser Sacajaweas, TJ cued the bleachers. The Rolling Hills fans charged the field. The Faiths lifted Melman, the Hamburgers lifted Totle, Sophie tried to lift Steinberg all by herself, and Sampson went to the sidelines to puke.

  Balancing on their cabinmates’ shoulders, Melman and Totle grabbed each other’s hands and yelled “Victory!” like they were in the greatest sports movie of all time. But as they were lowered down—well, sort of accidentally dropped—they both remembered what their handholding could mean, and bashfully let go.