As we leave the caf, Em and JoJo are walking ahead of me and Cassidy. I lean toward Cass and whisper, “Should we just ask JoJo if she’s into girls? I mean, she’s so open about everything usually … it’s freaking me out that she hasn’t talked to us about this at all.”
Cass whispers back, “Maybe she’s testing us to see what we’ll say or something?” She shrugs. “I dunno, Kels. Maybe she isn’t sure yet? I don’t want to make her feel pressured to, like, come out or something, you know? But then she talks about how hot some girl is and I don’t know what to say! Maybe we should ask her? But what if she isn’t and then we make her feel weird because we thought … ugh. I don’t know.”
I feel bad talking behind JoJo’s back—literally—but I really want to figure this thing out. The three of us have been having the same conversation for months now, but we haven’t actually said anything because we don’t want to screw it up and make JoJo feel uncomfortable. I mean, JoJo is our bestie. She could talk to us about anything and we’d be there for her, but she isn’t talking to us about maybe being gay at all—except for the random comments. I hate thinking she’s worried we won’t understand or something … but like Cass said, I don’t want to push her if she isn’t ready.
“Me neither. So, better to wait, then, right? Oh—there’s the bell.” I wave to Em and JoJo and head down the hall to class.
On Friday, practice is canceled because of rain. The fields are a muddy mess, and the guys’ team takes over the gym. I’m sort of hoping we get assigned to watch and cheer them on. Jordan face time is always a bonus, and I haven’t exactly been hanging out with him this year as I planned (gazing at him longingly doesn’t count), but Coach Cantwell tells us to take the day off.
I go to meet Em by her locker and am intercepted by Keith Mayhew, my number one fan. Since school started, he has displayed an uncanny ability to pop up whenever I’m by myself or to corner me after any class we have together. I guess it should be flattering … but it’s actually kind of creepy.
It’s not that there’s anything so wrong with Keith—well, his eyes are sort of uneven. Okay, okay—I’m being shallow and ridiculous. Keith is nice and kind of funny and a good guy in general. Maybe it’s because he’s always been so obvious about liking me? No. It’s more like … I dunno. He’s no Jordan Rothman—let’s leave it at that.
“Hey, Kels, where’re you heading?” he starts, sidling up next to me. “It’s really coming down out there, y’know? Hope you’ve got an umbrella. You want me to lend you one? I’ve got an extra in my locker, y’know, because my mom told me—”
“Thanks, Keith,” I say, trying to be pleasant yet escape at the same time. “I’m actually meeting Em and she’s got one, so I’m all set. But see you later!” I dash off and grab Em, who is waiting for me in front of her locker and texting James. We decide to detour to Antonio’s Pizza, which is the unofficial after-school hangout.
Off we trudge through the pouring rain, both of us huddling under Em’s giant golf umbrella and trying not to fall into any puddles. Of course, by the time we make it inside, I look like a drowned rat anyway.
I get a slice, fill up my cup with Dr Pepper, and look for a table. I spot Ana sitting with Lexi and some other girls from the team, and then Lexi calls out, “Hey, Kelsey! Over here!” and flashes her giant smile right at me.
This is sort of surprising, since I’ve said about three words to her since she arrived. (None of which were the ones I wanted to say, namely, “Go back to where you came from, and take your evil Bradley-ness with you!”) Maybe she’s just excited because her beauty will be even further showcased by sitting next to me in my current incarnation as a mud creature?
Em gives me a look, like, See? She’s nice!
Whatever.
As we dig in, Lexi asks, “Hey, Em, can you believe how much work Dr. Shanman gave us for Monday? Some of us have lives, you know?”
“I know—I was hoping to maybe visit my boyfriend this weekend,” Em sighs, blushing on the word boyfriend as usual, “but I’ve got a paper and so much other stuff …”
“Oh, you were gonna visit James? That’s awesome! I mean, sucks to cancel, but—”
Um, what? How does Lexi know about James? What is going on in this math class, exactly? I’m about to say something like, “So, have you made out with my future husband Jordan Rothman lately?” when I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. I turn my head and am greeted by a horrible sight: Julie Nelson, looming in all her scariness directly above me.
“Hey, Julie, what’s up?” I say, trying for nonchalance.
“Hey, guys,” she greets the rest of the table. “I just need to borrow Kelsey for a sec, ‘kay?”
I shoot Em a look of despair—don’t let me be borrowed by Julie Nelson!—and push back my chair. Lexi continues yammering on about Em and James, which I guess makes sense. I mean, it’s not like I can give Em any good advice about boys, seeing as the only ones I come into direct contact with are either unappealing (Zifner, Mayhew) or ignoring me (everyone else).
I trudge behind Julie to a table in the corner, sit down, and watch her blot pizza with a napkin for about a lifetime. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out to see a lovely text from my mother about dishes in the sink and how she’s not my maid. Thanks, Verizon, I think, for making your phones so user-friendly that even the elderly can send text messages. I put the phone on the table and weigh the pros and cons of dramatically clearing my throat to get Julie’s attention. (Cons win. I sit in silence, waiting.)
Finally, Julie glares at me haughtily and announces, “Well, Kelsey, I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is that Katie Stolting broke her ankle last night and she can’t play for the rest of the season. But the good news is that I think you’re the perfect person to replace her, especially since you’re sooooo excited about your team and all. I suggested it to Coach Cantwell, and she said that it was absolutely the best possible idea.”
She takes a huge bite of pizza, gulps it down, and looks at me with a nefarious gleam in her eye. “No need to thank me. Your obvious excitement is thanks enough.” She smirks at me for a second, then her face hardens back into its usual glare. “You can go away now.”
I sit there, still stunned. Julie growls, “I said go back to your little pals. My friends sit at this table, freshman.”
I manage to push my chair back and stand up. I’m about two steps away from the table when she calls my name again. I turn back to see what else she could possibly have to add.
“I forgot to say congrats,” Julie purrs, smiling spitefully, “GOALIE.”
7
I continue my slow march back to my table. Katie’s a junior, like Julie, and got stuck on the JV team because she’s one of only three people who plays the position almost no one ever wants to play: goalie. And now I’m supposed to take over? How could Katie break her ankle at night in her own house, I’d like to know? Was she practicing Irish dancing on the stairs or something? Why is she such a klutz??
I suddenly realize that if I don’t leave Antonio’s immediately, I’m going to start crying. Which is so not like me, but I can feel a stinging behind my eyes and my throat starting to close up.
Em is looking at me across the pizzeria like, What’s going on? I take a deep breath and go back to my original table to get my backpack. Lexi, who has somehow managed to eat all of her pizza without getting a single drop of grease or sauce on her white T-shirt, asks, “Kelsey, what happened? You look awful!”
Well, that certainly makes me feel less like crying. This just gets better and better.
I smile as best as I can and say, “Oh, you know, the dragon lady just needed someone to sharpen her claws on.”
A few of the girls laugh, but Em looks concerned and starts to get up. “What happened? Do you want me to—”
“Yeah, I’m just gonna head out, so I’ll talk to you guys later, okay?” Em can always tell when I want to be alone, and she sits back down. I grab my bag and walk as quickly as I can to th
e door. When I get outside, I start to run, because the tears are definitely coming. Of course it’s not even drizzling anymore, so I can’t let them out and pretend it’s just rain. But I don’t want anyone—especially Julie or Lexi—to see me cry over a stupid thing like being goalie.
This is the cruelest thing Julie could’ve done to me—force me to spend every game stuck inside the net, trying not to get smashed by goal shots whizzing toward me, cloaked in the stench of sweaty (and in this case, used) goalie armor. I don’t know how to guard the goal! And forget reeling in Jordan Rothman or anyone else on the guys’ team—they’ll think I weigh three hundred pounds and have a sweat-gland disorder. I’ll probably develop a chronic case of backne. Or have my face caved in by a rogue ball. Then I’ll have to get complete reconstructive surgery, end up looking like Mickey Rourke, and no one will know I’m on the team at all.
Why does Julie hate me so much? Is this really all because of one stupid comment in the cafeteria when I was actually trying to be nice?
I run all the way to the subway station, swipe my MetroCard, and by the time I’m on the train I’ve pulled myself together again. Well, except for the fact that my life is ruined. But other than that small detail, I’m fine.
What are the chances someone else will suddenly volunteer to be goalie? Like, ten percent, maybe?
Sigh.
8
I get home and am still so keyed up that I can’t sit to do my homework or watch TV or anything. Dad is making a scary meat marinade in the kitchen and Mom is staying late at work, so I decide to be a caring big sister and see what Travis is up to in her room.
I find her hunkered over the family laptop; before I have a chance to see if she’s making a Justin Bieber fan page or what, she sticks her tongue out at me and kicks the door shut in my face.
Well, that’s lovely.
You know, sometimes it’s like Travis and I live on different planets or something. Until I was about eleven, we used to have a blast together having sleepovers in each other’s rooms, making cookie dough and eating it instead of baking it, hiding our parents’ pillows in random places around the house. Dumb stuff, but still really fun at the time. Now we barely talk anymore unless she’s barging into my room or whining about something. I don’t know what she has to complain about, since pretty much everything goes her way all the time. Her only challenge in life is learning her multiplication tables, for crying out loud. And she slams the door in my face? Incredible.
I reach for my phone to call Cass, who I know will cheer me up by going off on how wretched Julie is … but it’s not in my pocket. I search my backpack and come up with nothing. What the eff? Then I suddenly realize I left it on the table at the pizzeria. Crap. Luckily it’s locked—like I’d really leave even a chance for someone to read my texts—but this means I have to turn around and go all the way back to Antonio’s.
I contemplate leaving it till the morning and running in before classes start, but if someone takes it, my parents will kill me and say I’m not responsible and that I can’t have another one. Then if I say, What about safety? they might give me one of those lame walkie-talkie things that Travis has, and then I will have to heave myself into a sewer to avoid being permanently ostracized at school. So I have no choice but to go now.
I yell to Dad that I’ll be back in half an hour and walk three blocks back to the Seventh Avenue station to wait for the Manhattan-bound F train. I sit on a wooden bench and open my English book—The Scarlet Letter—to the dog-eared page and get about a paragraph in when I hear my name being called. I look up and see a guy across the platform waving at me.
Oh. My. God.
It’s Jordan Rothman. He’s making a gesture to me like “up and over,” and I realize he’s going to go up the stairs on his side, cross over, and come down to meet me on my side.
I quickly run my tongue over my teeth to make sure there’s no oregano stuck in them—oh, God, why didn’t I check the mirror before I left home?—and before I’m even sure, he’s there, plunking down onto the bench next to me.
He’s still in his soccer uniform and he looks so hot I can’t even deal. What is it about guys who play soccer? They have the best bodies, period. Jordan smells like some kind of spicy men’s deodorant, and his hair is a little sweaty and flopping over his forehead. He’s grinning in that sort of sly way he has and his laser-beam eyes are focused directly on me.
I am dying. Totally and completely dying on the spot.
I somehow manage to smile (naturally, I hope) and say, “Hey, Jordan, what’s up?” In my head I’m thinking, Are you as happy as I am now that Jemma has been banished to parts unknown? Oh, and by the way, do you want to marry me?
He says, “Nothing.”
Hmm. Not much of an opening there. Why’d he come over here if he didn’t have something to say?
“That’s cool.” Oh, brilliant reply, Kelsey. Perfect.
He points to my book. “Man, I can’t believe you’re actually reading that. Ever heard of CliffsNotes?”
“Yeah, it totally sucks,” I say, even though to be honest I kind of like it. Um … is this going somewhere? Not that I wouldn’t be happy to just sit here and stare at him until the train comes. Or forever. But still …
“So, anyway … me and my bro are having a Halloween party when the ‘rents are out of town. You should come. Bring your friends or whatever.”
I seriously can’t believe this is happening. It’s like the worst day of my life just became the best day of my life. Jordan Rothman just climbed a flight of stairs with the sole purpose of inviting me to a party? If the floor of the subway station weren’t so disgusting, I think I’d totally faint.
Clearly this is some kind of sign. This year is going to be amazing—I knew it! Sure, the goalie thing is a bit of a hiccup, but I think getting my first real kiss from Jordan on Halloween will totally make up for it. Ah, sweet romance!
The train blasts into the station, so I shout to Jordan that I’ll definitely plan to be there and manage to board the train without doing anything ridiculous like falling over with joy. I’m so psyched that I can’t even read my book during the ride but just sit there staring at an MTA safety poster and imagining what it will be like to be alone with Jordan in the dark.
After envisioning about ten fantastic scenarios, I get off the train and practically float all the way to marvelous Antonio’s, where I retrieve my phone from the darling, thoughtful cashier and turn around to go home again. Life is so delightful, I can’t even believe it.
It isn’t until I’m on the train again that I suddenly think, Hey, I wonder what Jordan was doing in Brooklyn? He lives on the Upper East Side.
Weird.
9
Julie Nelson is Satan incarnate. If I thought I hated her before I was goalie, it’s nothing compared to now.
You know that dream where you have to complete a task—say, piling up rocks or something—but no matter how hard you try, you can’t finish it? That’s what soccer practice is like for me now. I stand for three hours a day, defenseless inside a giant net, while twenty girls kick hard rubber balls at me. And when I’m not doing that, I have to practice falling so I can (presumably) catch ground balls. Want to know what happens if you repeatedly fling yourself onto the ground? Your body is transformed into one giant bruise. I think I’m single-handedly supporting the Advil company at this point.
It’s horrible.
As if my broken body and spirit aren’t punishment enough, I still have to run at the start of practice, which makes approximately zero sense, since all I do is stand there watching my teammates dash around the rest of the time.
It was during our first game, which happened a mere ten days after I was given the news that my soccer career had been basically terminated, that I got to reevaluate a very important rule of the game: If, as goalie, you actually manage to catch the ball—which I miraculously did, exactly one time—the players on the opposing team are allowed to try and take it from you by kicking it out of yo
ur grasp. This is a rule I liked a lot better when I was on the other side of the net. All I could do was curl myself around the ball and hang on for dear life in a heap on the ground as a million cleats began swishing toward my head.
Oh, and by the way, you know what makes it extra easy to hang on to a slippery round ball? Padded gloves. Nothing like giant sock-hands to really give you an edge on the field.
After the game (we lost, of course), Coach Cantwell came up to me, thumped me on one of my mangled arms, and hollered, “Great reaction during that goal catch, Kelsey! Keep it up!” Keep what up, exactly? Following my fight-or-flight instinct?
I am so not cut out for this. I wonder if I could sign up for Ecology Club instead? I like nature….
On Thursday afternoon (also known as Day Thirteen of Goalie Hell), I’m in my last-period English class. Keith Mayhew, my not-so-secret admirer, has spent the entire period distracting me from learning about Puritan adulteresses by covertly sending me funny text messages that I read under my desk.
I’ve just finished scrolling through a quite well written and incredibly rude limerick Keith texted about our teacher when the bell finally rings. I shove everything in my bag and make a break for the door, but there’s no escape—Keith is right there as he always is after this class, trotting alongside me to my locker.
“So, Kels, y’know, you psyched for the game today? I bet you guys win this one,” he says, with about a hundred times more enthusiasm than I feel. “Just don’t think about the pain, y’know? Just throw yourself out there. That’s what I do! Y’know?”
Incidentally, Keith runs track. And unless there’s a new hurling-objects-at-sprinters category that I’m unaware of, I’m pretty sure I do NOT know.
Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters Page 4