Smashed

by Lisa Luedeke

  “Go for it,” Matt said. “When you want to do something, you’ve got more willpower than anyone I know.”

  Matt was right: When I put my mind to something, I did it. I was the master of fresh starts, the queen of turning over new leaves. Sure, I’d get off course, slack off in my classes, party too much, stop doing my homework for a while, but I always made a comeback. Always.

  “I’m doing it,” I said. And I meant it.

  *

  My alarm rang at five thirty the next morning. By five fifty, I was on the road. The rubber soles of my sneakers hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, breaking the silence.

  In front of Westland’s general store, workers pulled up in their pickup trucks and headed inside to grab a quick coffee and a doughnut. BAILEY’S HEATING AND PLUMBING arched across the side of a red truck, and Ron Bailey stepped out, clad head to foot in green work clothes. He looked at his watch and then at me.

  “What you training for at this hour, girl, a marathon?” he said with a slow smile. He was always so nice. I wished now my mother would go back to dating him.

  “Olympics.” I grinned and sped on by.

  I was a bird moving effortlessly through the cool morning air, soaring, on top of my game. By September, I’d be in the best shape of my life.

  The phone call from U. Maine had given me just what I needed: a purpose. For three years, Coach Riley had told me I could get recruited if I worked hard, and she had always helped me whenever I needed her, working with me on my flick until the ball and cage disappeared in the dark, teaching me how to keep my head during a breakaway.

  Once, when I was a freshman and my mother didn’t show up to drive me home from practice, Coach Riley brought me all the way out to Westland herself.

  My mother’s car had been parked in the driveway when we pulled in.

  “Mind if I come in for a minute?” Coach Riley asked.

  “Okay,” I said. The truth was, I didn’t want her to meet my mother. It was bad enough that my mom forgot me, leaving me at the gym like I didn’t exist. But how could I say no to Coach Riley after she’d driven me a half hour home?

  Coach Riley was perfect. When my mom said she’d gotten hung up at work, Coach Riley didn’t say, Then why are you here and not on your way to get Katie? Or, Then why didn’t you just call? No, she just looked from the jug of wine on the counter to my mother’s face to the glass in her hand, taking it all in.

  Then she smiled and said, “You really should come and see Katie play sometime. She’s exceptionally talented.”

  Exceptionally talented.

  I was fourteen years old, and it was the nicest thing a grown-up had ever said to me. Every time I thought about why my dad had taken off and never bothered to call us or tell us where he lived, why my mother was never home long enough to know what the hell was going on with her own kids, why my only brother had basically moved into his best friend’s house, I’d think, Coach Riley thinks I’m exceptionally talented.

  It was something to hang on to. Sometimes it felt like the only thing.

  *

  Alec hadn’t shown up at the beach in the week since my camping trip with Matt. Each day as I dove in alone and felt the cool water rush around my body, relief washed through me. I’d felt connected to Alec, that was true, but it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe Matt was right about him, or maybe I was, but there was one thing I wasn’t confused about: I wanted a full scholarship to a Division I school.

  Nothing and nobody would divert me from that.

  *

  It was time to start playing. I pulled some teammates together and we met at the field a couple times a week, hitting the ball around, practicing corners, scrimmaging if we had enough bodies.

  The first time, practically the whole team showed up. Megan, Cheryl, some sophomores competing for starting positions—even Marcy Mattison.

  Marcy was a skilled halfback, but she had an attitude problem, too, and I worried about her impact on the team this year. With long, white-blond hair, high color in her cheeks, and striking green eyes, Marcy looked angelic, but anyone who knew her knew that was far from the truth. She was the only member of our team who’d ever gotten cards for misconduct—one for foul language and one for mouthing off to a ref—in two separate games the year before.

  And for some reason, Marcy had never liked me.

  Cassie always said she was jealous.

  “Of what?” I’d asked.

  “Of everything,” Cassie replied. “That’s just Marcy.”

  Never subtle, Marcy stood across the field that first afternoon, glaring at me.

  Before, it didn’t make sense, but now she had an actual reason to hate me: Alec. They’d been off and on constantly since freshman year. Off on Alec’s terms—and on on his terms, too. He called the shots. She’d take him back in a heartbeat whenever he said the word. It was truly pathetic. And if a girl so much as flirted with him—and there were plenty who did—that girl was on Marcy’s shit list for life. Apparently, I was now in that category.

  On my nights off, I made dinner for Will and we’d rent a movie or, if it was hot, go for an evening swim. Sometimes I’d fall asleep in the middle of watching something with him and Will would nudge my arm, wake me up, and tell me I needed to go up to bed.

  “You need your rest,” he’d whisper, something he’d heard me say to him a thousand times over the years. He was excited about his big sister getting recruited for an athletic scholarship.

  My mother was more pragmatic. “Try for the full scholarship, Katie. Lord knows we’re going to need it to get you through school.”

  I knew she had one goal: to get me through college. How I got there didn’t matter. Coach Riley telling her I was exceptionally talented hadn’t gotten her attention—but a scholarship? That was something she could understand.

  In the following weeks, I got another call, this one from the coach at the University of New Hampshire, then one from Syracuse, a letter from Holy Cross, and a follow-up letter from Maine. There were times I thought I must be dreaming, that the post office and the phone company had the wrong Katie Martin. How did these people know about me? Coaches from places I’d never been to or seen? I had to look on a map to find out where in New York State Syracuse was. I called Coach Riley and told her what was happening.

  “How do they know I’m a good player?” I asked. “Some of them have never even seen me.”

  “It’s their job to know,” she said. “I’ll be in my office today before you go to work. Come by if you can. I want to show you something.”

  Spread open on her desk when I arrived was a three-ring binder with my name on it, filled with news clippings about me—awards I’d received, all the games I’d played in. Articles from the Portland Press Herald, the Lewiston Sun Journal, and the Greater Deerfield Weekly were all in there, chronologically, going back three years. Every article I’d ever wished my father had seen about me was there.

  “I’ve been saving these since I first saw you play.” She looked up and smiled. “I had a feeling we might need them someday. I made copies this spring and sent them around. I’ve talked to three of the coaches, too. As you know, they’re interested.”

  Stunned, I flipped through the articles. I picked up one from the Portland Press Herald, written my freshman year right after we lost the state championship.

  A freshman, Katie Martin, was Deerfield’s leading scorer in regular season play, and notched the only goal the Eagles scored in today’s tense 2–1 loss in the Class B finals. Martin is one of those rare few who is blessed with the mix of physical and mental skill that makes an exceptional athlete.

  Coach Riley had highlighted the passage in yellow.

  “Wow. Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. It’s been my pleasure.” She grinned. “This is exciting for me, too.”

  “Thanks, Coach Riley. You’re the best.”

  Alec hadn’t stopped by the beach or called since my camping
trip, and I figured he wasn’t interested anymore, which made everything simple. I wrote it off as a summer fling, a fluke that would never have happened during the school year.

  Sometimes I caught myself thinking about him, though. Sometimes when swimming lessons ended, I’d sit in the sand and remember how he looked when he walked into the water, his broad shoulders turned brown by the sun, his blond hair falling in his face as he looked back at me, motioning me to follow. I’d miss seeing his truck pull in just as my classes ended, knowing he was there because he wanted to see me.

  But those things weren’t enough. I had to focus. I didn’t think he’d show up again, anyway. Whatever it was, it was over.

  *

  It was several days later when the phone rang.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” It was Alec, and he sounded excited.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me what? I ran into Megan. I heard you got some big news, that’s what.”

  I told him everything that had happened: the letters, the calls, Coach Riley’s folder, my training routine. The truth was, I was so excited, I would have told the mailman if he’d asked. But Alec was so enthusiastic, it made it fun.

  “That is so cool,” he said. “And it definitely calls for a celebration. There’s a big party on Friday in Bethel. What do you say we make it your night?”

  The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think.

  “Sounds great.”

  8

  Alec was at my door at eight o’clock sharp.

  “I brought you something.” He pulled a large pink rose from behind his back.

  “It’s beautiful, thank you.” My cheeks burned. The only time a guy had ever given me a flower was for the homecoming dance.

  “I stole it from my stepmonster’s garden,” he said. “You’ll know she noticed it was missing if you never hear from me again.”

  My mother had arrived home earlier that day. She’d filled the cupboards with groceries, washed her uniforms, packed herself some clean clothes, and then started cooking lasagna, macaroni and cheese, tuna casserole—anything she could label and put in the freezer for us. I’d been hoping she’d leave for her eleven o’clock shift before Alec arrived, but she was in no rush, and when she’d heard Alec was picking me up, she said she wanted to meet my “new boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Mom,” I said. But she’d already decided in her head that he was.

  When Alec walked in, she was in the kitchen wearing shorts and a T-shirt, her long dark hair falling loose past her shoulders, just like mine. These days, I was used to her running out the door in her nurse’s uniform, hair pulled back and pinned up, her face stressed. But tonight, as she loaded up the refrigerator, her hair swung across her back like a teenager’s.

  “This is my mother. Mom, Alec.”

  My mom turned and looked up, smiling.

  “Wow, you look too young to be Katie’s mother… . Sorry, Mrs. Martin. It’s nice to meet you.” He reached out his hand.

  My mother was blushing now and smiling, and I was about ready to die from embarrassment. “You could be sisters,” he was saying.

  “Well, I wasn’t very old when I had Katie. Not that I encourage that.” She caught his eye. I’m only thirty-seven, she liked to remind me . I had you when I was still in nursing school. As if I didn’t already know that.

  “We should get going, Mom.”

  “Let’s at least put that lovely flower in some water before you go,” she said, and took it from my hand, glancing at Alec as she moved across the room for a vase.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  *

  JUDD AND PEG OSBORNE the sign read in script; under the names were two small, painted chickadees.

  Alec hadn’t mentioned a trip to his house before heading to the party. “Did you forget something?” I asked.

  He stopped his car, a vintage BMW he’d been working on over the summer.

  “I thought we’d swing by here for a cocktail first. Peg and Judd are out for a few hours. I know tequila’s your favorite, and margaritas are a bitch to mix in the car,” he added.

  “How do you even know that?”

  Alec looked at me sideways. “That tequila’s your favorite? I think everyone knows after Cheryl’s party last April.”

  Oh God, I thought, color rushing to my cheeks. My friend Stan had been mixing margaritas that night and they’d tasted like heaven, but after a few of those, the night had been a blur. All I knew was that Cassie had taken me back to her house and helped me into bed.

  I didn’t want to think about that night. “You can make a margarita?” I asked.

  “The best.”

  Inside their new house, a shiny oak bar stretched along one side of a room filled with overstuffed couches. French doors, through which I could see a patio and the large inground pool, lined the far wall. On top of the bar, in neat little rows, were the smallest bottles of alcohol I’d ever seen. They were like tiny toy soldiers with black tops and fancy labels, each filled with a shot or two of transparent or golden brown liquid. I picked one up and studied it.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “Those? They’re from airplanes. My dad collects them when he flies, then refills them at home. They’re great for traveling—or school.” He grinned. “Here, take one. My dad’s taught me everything—which is why I know what to do with this.” Alec reached under the bar and pulled out some full-size bottles.

  “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a bright blue bottle shaped like a banjo.

  “Blue curaçao,” he said. “I’m going to make you a special margarita, one the color of that swimming pool.”

  “A blue margarita?”

  “Exactly,” he said, mixing. “See?” He finished and handed me the glass.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Taste it.”

  “Wow,” I said, sipping. It was hard not to drink fast. “That’s amazing.”

  “An amazing drink for an amazing girl.” He lifted his own glass and clinked it against mine. “Here’s to a free ride to the college of your choice.”

  *

  The two margaritas at Alec’s house had left me feeling giddy, unstoppable. Suddenly I was beautiful and brilliant, talented and funny. I looked great and I felt great and I was going to college on a hockey scholarship. I was as full of myself as I could get.

  We pulled up to the party and Alec opened my car door, then put his arm around me as we walked up the long dirt driveway. He stopped once, wrapping his strong arms around me, pulling me in for a kiss. For a moment, everything around us disappeared.

  “You like that,” he whispered. “Later,” he said, taking my hand. “Let’s go to the party first.”

  Cars were parked everywhere: up the driveway, on the lawn, in front of the garage. I’d heard that somebody’s twenty-something cousin owned the house and didn’t care who came. The kids scattered across the lawn and deck ranged anywhere from fifteen to midtwenties, but one drunk guy looked about my mother’s age. And he kept staring at me like he wanted something.

  “Loser,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Give it a rest, buddy—she’s jailbait,” Alec yelled to him. The guy put his arms up, palms out, as if to say What did I do? and stumbled away.

  Inside, the sour stench of beer slopped on linoleum mixed with the sweat of bodies pushing toward the keg on the counter.

  “I’ll get us some beers,” Alec said, and disappeared into the fray.

  I looked around and didn’t see any faces I recognized right away. Wait, that was the back of Megan’s head, and Cheryl’s, too, I was sure.

  And there was Marcy, her unmistakable white-blond hair free from its braid and falling down her back like spun gold—walking proof, I thought, that beauty is only skin deep.

  “Meg!” I hollered. “Cheryl!”

  The bass vibrated the floorboards under my sandals. There was no way they would ever hear me. I pushed my way through the crow
d, moving in their direction.

  “Hey.” I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hey, you!”

  I turned my head and found myself face-to-face with the drunk guy who’d been watching me before. A lank piece of greasy hair fell across his forehead; his breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. I couldn’t believe he was at a party with kids half his age—and what was he following me around for?

  “I know you,” he said.

  It was a lame line by anyone’s standards. “No you don’t.” I turned and started pushing through the crowd again, but he grabbed my arm. Furious, I pulled it away. “What’re you doing?”

  “Sorry!” He pulled his hands back, palms toward me again. “I’m a friend of your father’s.” He smiled, revealing teeth stained a yellow brown. “Tommy Martin, right? I met you when you was this high.” He held his hand about three feet in the air. “You haven’t changed a bit, just taller. Remember me? Wade Dwyer. I been to your house, over to Westland.”

  I did remember him now—his name, anyway. As a kid, I’d thought his name was funny. Wade. It had made me think of the ocean.

  “How’s Sandra … I mean, your mother, doin’? She was always something.” He shook his head, grinning. “We went to school together, your mom and me. What’s your name again?”

  “Katie. She’s fine.”

  “Gosh, I haven’t seen them two in years. How’s your father?” His face clouded over slightly. “I heard they split up, your parents. Your dad lives up to Bangor now, somebody said.” He looked at me expectantly.

  My heart dropped. “Who said that?”

  “I don’t know. Why? Where’s he livin’ now?”

  My mind went blank. I looked at him, then turned away and started moving through the crowd as fast as I could, not even looking where I was going. Wade called my name behind me. He was following me and I had to lose him.

  I knocked into somebody’s beer, sending a golden wave over the top of the cup.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  Wade, I should have said, you know more about it than I do. But how could I say something like that? Shame welled up inside me, twisting my stomach in knots. My father obviously cared more about other people than he did about us—they knew where he lived, and it was right here in Maine all this time! I felt humiliated for ever thinking he was out there, in trouble, unable to reach us, maybe even dead. For ever thinking he loved us at all.