Sweet Sixteen

by Brenda Rothert

  I’m relieved, but exhausted in every way. I think it’s more mental than physical. Even though I played well, I feel responsible for our weak first half.

  Though I’d rather be alone after the game, I can’t go home. My dad will want to rip me a new one, and I’m not up for it. So I ride with Sam to the after party, my thoughts wandering to Gin as he talks about the game.

  She made it clear—she’s not coming. But I could see in her eyes that a part of her wanted to. I think she wants popularity more than she’s willing to admit.

  Chapter Nine

  Gin

  I like to think I don’t scare easily, but the sick feeling in my stomach as I linger inside my car in the high school parking lot Monday morning is definitely not from the toast I ate for breakfast.

  When I took the weekend away from my phone and computer, I told myself it was because I wanted to unplug. Spend quality time with my mom watching movies and cooking. But truthfully, I didn’t want to deal with texts and notifications about that stupid after-game party.

  I’m hoping they chose another girl, had their ritual, and have all moved on from Friday morning. I don’t care if anyone at Roper High School likes me—I never have—but I do want to be left alone. After all these years of flying under the radar, making myself nearly invisible, I didn’t like the glares and whispers directed my way.

  If I stay in my car much longer, I’ll be late. With a heavy sigh, I grab my bag, lock my car, and walk toward the front entrance. I keep my head bowed, my hair forming a dark curtain that conceals my face.

  Someone mutters “Fuck her” as I walk up the stairs, but other than that, I manage to make it to my locker and then my first class without drawing attention.

  When I walk into my second class, someone yells “Frigid dyke,” and I feel my face turn hot with embarrassment. It’s more of the same all morning. The one time I look up in the hallway, I see Chase walking in my direction on the other side, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking when our eyes lock. I flip him off so he knows what I’m thinking, though.

  By the time I sit down at lunch, I’m starting to feel numb to the comments. Raj opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

  “You guys don’t have to sit here.” I look from Raj to Lauren.

  “Why the fuck wouldn’t we?” Lauren demands, narrowing her eyes.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. There may be collateral damage.”

  “Ha.” Lauren takes the sandwich I pass her way. “I dare any cunt to approach this table and say shit to you. I’ll cut a bitch.”

  “With what, a plastic knife?” Raj laughs.

  “With my teeth if I have to. What the hell is wrong with this place?”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, my shoulders sinking with relief at finally having my friends near. “So what did they end up doing at the party? Or should I say, who?”

  Raj’s expression turns serious. “You didn’t hear?”

  I shake my head. “I went radio silent all weekend.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” he concedes. “They didn’t pick someone else. Chase said they couldn’t.”

  I roll my eyes and set my sandwich down. “It’s like he wants to keep digging this hole deeper.”

  I’m covering my face with my hands when a male voice sounds next to me.

  “Hey, Gin, you owe me a little something.”

  I raise my face and turn. It’s a football player named John Hunt, and people are watching him with amused grins from nearby tables. He’s rubbing his crotch and leering at me.

  “You’ve already got a little something, John,” Lauren says with a sneer. “It’s called your dick.”

  “Lauren, I wouldn’t even pity-fuck you,” John responds. “You probably go for girls ’cause you can’t get a guy hard.”

  “Go away, John,” I say, my tone weary.

  “Hey, Hunt, get your ass over here!” a deep voice booms.

  It’s Chase, and he’s standing up at his table. All eyes turn to him. John seems to think about it for a second, but then he turns away and leaves.

  I can feel Chase’s gaze on me, and I warm against my will. I don’t know what he’s thinking. If he had good intentions when he tried to give me the rose, he should have smoothed things over by picking another girl and letting this die.

  Instead, I’m still the subject of everyone’s stares and snickers. Even a janitor gives me a long look as I’m pulling books from my locker at the end of the day.

  When I get to play practice, Madison is running through a scene with Aiden, who is playing Prince Charming. I follow along, impressed when she gets almost every word right. Maybe she’s been practicing.

  I need to start working on the castle scenery. I’m inventorying my supplies backstage when a loud voice sounds nearby.

  “There’s the girl with the golden pussy!” Jack Pearson calls out.

  He’s coming my way, and my stomach churns nervously. Of all the assholes on the football team, Jack is the most volatile. He once physically assaulted a teacher who gave him a failing grade that benched him from a game. That teacher wasn’t from Roper, obviously. Roper teachers know better. She “moved on to new opportunities” after that year, according to the school board.

  “Think you’re too good for us, Gin?” Jack stops right next to me, and there’s no one else nearby but a freshman girl who scurries away as fast as she can.

  “Leave me alone.” I use a level tone and then turn back to checking my painting supplies.

  “You like painting, huh?” Jack gets so close that I can feel the heat of his body next to mine. His proximity and his bitter, angry tone make my skin prickle with fear. “We won Friday night, so let’s find a corner and I’ll paint that red pussy white. How ’bout it?”

  I feel close to vomiting, but I can’t let him know he’s getting to me.

  “I’ll pass,” I say, shoving past him.

  I walk over to Mr. Douglas, and I could swear by the look of pity he gives me that even he knows what’s going on.

  “I’m going to the paint store for supplies,” I tell him.

  He nods, and I grab my backpack and get the hell out of the auditorium as fast as I can.

  I’ve almost made it to the safety of my car when a male voice sounds behind me.

  “Hey, Gin.”

  I turn, fire racing through my veins as I meet the eyes of the tall, lanky guy walking toward me. He’s walking slowly, because one of his feet is in a medical boot from an injury.

  He’s a junior, and I think his first name might be Ben, but I’m not sure. And of course, he’s a football player. Seems every member of the team has a personal message to deliver to me today.

  “What?” I demand. “I’m in a hurry.”

  His cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. “I just wanted to…I don’t know…I guess, say…I’m sorry for what’s going on.”

  The glare falls away from my face. I’m so shocked by his words that I don’t know what to say.

  “I don’t, uh…think anyone should be treating you this way.” He looks over his shoulder in both directions to see if anyone is in listening range. “I don’t really think it’s right, the whole Sweet Sixteen thing. Anyway…I just, uh…I’m only a peon so it’s not like I can do anything about it. I just wanted to tell you not all of us are assholes. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry.”

  There’s a lump in my throat. I can feel both his sorrow and sincerity, and it was the last thing I expected when I saw him walking toward me.

  “That means a lot to me, actually.” I clear my throat. “More than you know.”

  He nods. “It’s because you’re so strong, you know. That’s why those guys hate you. You’re the only one they’ve ever run across who’s stronger than them.”

  “Hey, Hart!” A deep voice sounds across the parking lot. “Get your ass to practice!”

  Once again, it’s Chase. Ben’s eyes widen, and he turns and hightails it toward the practice field, at least to
the extent his boot will allow.

  I open the door to my car and hear Chase calling my name. He’s running toward me, wearing a worn, cutoff blue jersey and white football pants, helmet tucked under his arm.

  I’m in no mood. I get in my car, lock the doors, and pull out of the parking lot without even looking his way.

  Farnsworth Hardware is a Roper staple. Located downtown, it’s the go-to place for everything from lawn supplies to car parts. It’s housed in an old, crumbling building with shelves from floor to very tall ceiling.

  “What can I help ya with?” a tall, burly man with a dark, silver-streaked mustache asks.

  “I need paint.” I pull out a list from my pocket. “And a few pieces of lumber if you have any scraps to sell.”

  “Right this way.”

  He pulls his green “Farnsworth Hardware” cap down as he leads me to the paint counter. I look through swatches and order the colors and amounts I need.

  “You’re part of that school play, aren’t you?” he asks as he mixes. “Seen you in here a few times buying paint for it.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “They send a boy to carry all this for ya?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’ve got it.”

  “I’ll help you get it all out to your car,” he offers.

  “That’d be great, thanks.”

  “I dated a girl in high school who was in a play once.” He smiles at the memory. “Some Shakespeare thing.”

  “Oh yeah? We’re doing a modern retelling of Cinderella.”

  He grunts his acknowledgment and moves on to the next gallon of paint.

  Once he’s mixed all my paint and rounded up some scrap lumber for me, he sets everything on the counter and puts on a pair of reading glasses, signing on to a computer.

  “Let’s see…this gets billed to the high school’s account, right?”

  “Right. I’m an authorized buyer for the Theater Department.”

  He scans through names on the screen. “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Gin Fielding.”

  He immediately turns from the screen to look at me. “Gin Fielding? You’re that author’s girl?”

  “Yes.”

  He narrows his eyes slightly. “Huh. I played football for Roper, you know. Class of ’79. Best years of my life.”

  “That’s…good.”

  The rolling feeling in my stomach sets in again. I look away, trying to focus on anything but his judgmental stare.

  “Those are good boys on the team,” he says gruffly, setting a paper on the counter with a pen. “They work damn hard to win for this town. Nothing wrong with them blowing off some steam.”

  I scrawl my signature on the paper and hand it to him. “I’ll need a receipt, please.”

  Silently, he prints one off and hands it to me. Then he walks away, leaving me with five gallons and seven quarts of paint and a lot of scrap lumber.

  It takes me seven trips, but I get everything loaded into my car on my own. And even though my sweat gives away my exertion, I don’t let it show on my face. I even smile and wave at the asshole employee on my last trip out of the store.

  This is exactly why I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. But when I do, it’ll be with my head held high. I may be hurting inside right now, but I’ll never let the Roper faithful see it. They’d enjoy it too much.

  Chapter Ten

  Chase

  The Roper YMCA weight room is almost empty. It’s almost eight o’clock on a weeknight, which is my favorite time to come here. I don’t like to lift weights in the high school weight room because I can’t focus with the other guys screwing around.

  “Hey, good game Friday,” a bearded guy says as he passes me on his way out of the room.

  I nod and get in position for bench presses. My shoulders are already worn out from drills at practice, but I feel like doing presses anyway.

  Physical pain and soreness distract me from the thoughts racing through my head. When I got home from practice at dinnertime tonight, my mom had makeup caked on her face. She usually doesn’t wear much makeup, and I instantly knew she was trying to cover up the black eye my dad had given her.

  Wrong as it is, I was mad at her. Her fucking eye was so swollen that no makeup could cover it up. How dumb does she think we are? She wouldn’t even look at me, probably because she knew what she’d see on my face.

  Rage. That’s what I feel toward my father. All I want when I see her after one of his drunken episodes is to find him and tell him to give someone his own size a go for once.

  He doesn’t hit his kids. Only Mom. And afterward, she’s the one who feels ashamed over it. He doesn’t have the decency to feel remorseful.

  Seeing her only added fuel to the fire inside me. I’m pissed off about all the crap Gin’s been getting. I told the guys after practice that anyone who so much as looks at her wrong is getting an ass-beating from me, and I meant every word. The “favor” I did her has turned into a fucking disaster.

  I knock out all my presses and move on to skull crushers. I’ve been here for more than an hour, but I’m in no hurry to leave. My dad was at the bar when I got home earlier, and I don’t think he’ll be home before ten.

  He’s been on my ass about committing to a school, but I put him off every time. I should’ve done it by now, and I know he’s right that some schools will sign other players and I’ll lose my shot at a scholarship with them, but I’m just not ready.

  Part of me wants to get as far away from him as I can, but another part wants to stay close to my mom and sisters in case they need me. I don’t know how to choose.

  I wipe the sweat from my face, toss my towel into a hamper, and walk out of the weight room to hit the water fountain. There’s a large indoor window that looks into the pool from the hallway, and I glance through it.

  There’s only one person in the pool, and she’s wearing a modest, dark one-piece. She’s doing the backstroke, water splashing onto her goggles and white swim cap.

  She’s graceful, her long, lean limbs not the build I’m used to seeing in swimmers. I stand off to the side and watch her as she switches to freestyle. I’m mesmerized by the smooth rhythm of her strokes in and out of the water.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring when I shake myself out of the spell I’m under. Just as I’m about to head for the water fountain, the swimmer climbs the pool stairs and slips off her goggles. I crane my neck, trying to get a look at her face, when she pulls off the swim cap and black hair falls around her shoulders.

  Gin. My pulse races at the realization. The girl I can’t seem to look away from is Gin.

  She’s not wearing dark, baggy clothes or a scowl. There’s no black eyeliner. No clunky boots.

  It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, and what I see is beautiful. She grabs a towel and dries her face, and as she walks toward the locker room, I get a good look at her.

  Gin is gorgeous. I can’t believe I’ve never seen her this way. Without that dark hair hanging in her face, I can see all of her for the first time, and it’s making my breathing shallow.

  A wave of shame washes over me. I blew it with Gin before I even knew I wanted a chance with her. I asked her to have sex with me and my teammates and got offended when she said no. She must think I’m a real asshole.

  The realization hits me suddenly. I wish I could take it all back. I wish she didn’t know who I really was. I wish she didn’t hate me.

  When she turns to look out the window to the hallway, my pulse races. Our eyes lock.

  I’m expecting another middle finger salute, or at the very least, a dirty look. But she just holds my stare, water dripping from her hair and suit onto the tiled pool deck.

  Something’s happening to me. While standing on the worn-out carpet in the hallway of the Roper YMCA, I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before. It’s intense. Heat floods me and longing consumes me.

  I want to go in there right now. I want to run through the men’s l
ocker room and out to the pool, where I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I’ll tell her I get it. She’s not just some girl. I’ll get on my knees if I have to and ask her how I can make this right.

  I can’t, though. If I walk away from this window, she’ll disappear into the women’s locker room, and the moment will be gone.

  She glances down at the floor, then towels off the dripping ends of her hair. I will her to look back up at me. I need to memorize her face like this—clean and fresh and completely uncovered.

  I step so close to the window that my breath starts to fog up the glass. I stop breathing, just waiting for her to lift her chin.

  Finally, she does. She holds my gaze as she wraps the towel around her waist. My tongue darts out to moisten my lips, my mouth dry.

  What the hell is this feeling I’m having? There’s no more drive to lift weights and bring on physical soreness to mask the stress inside me. If she’ll just keep looking at me, just like this, everything will be good.

  She moves to walk toward the locker room, and it’s all I can do not to pound on the window and make her look at me again. I don’t know what she’s doing to me, but I know I don’t want it to end.

  When she gets to the locker room door and grips the silver handle, I take in her long, fair-skinned legs. Who knew she was hiding those under the cargo pants she wears?

  She turns then, looking at me over her shoulder. I have to force myself to breathe.

  I wish I could decipher what’s going on in her eyes right now. What’s she feeling? What’s she thinking?

  She slips into the locker room, and my heart sinks. The moment is over. I miss the feeling she gave me already.

  I could wait for her in the parking lot, but I don’t want to do or say anything that will ruin the moment we just shared. It was just a look, but it did something to me. She did something to me.

  Does she know? Could she see it all over my face? Is that why she didn’t look pissed at me for the first time since before the rose?

  I don’t even need to know the reason. No matter how unlikely it is, I have a flicker of hope that maybe she’ll stop hating me. I’m not letting anything ruin it.