“The women are going to kick Sweden’s ass, but your boys are going down!”
“They are not,” Jamie said, though she knew there was a good chance Manchester United would carry the day at Old Trafford. “I still don’t understand how you can root for Man U. It’s like being a Yankees fan.”
“We can’t all be champions of the underdog.”
“Why not?”
“Because we can’t. Anyway, what do you think about watching both games live?” Emma asked.
“The guys kick off at seven.”
“And?”
“And it’s my only day off all week? I was planning to get up for the women.”
“Aw, come on,” Emma cajoled. “It’ll make the time before the US game go so much faster. Pleeease? Think of it as an early birthday present.”
“Your birthday is like a month away.”
“Duh, that’s why I said early.”
“Fine,” Jamie grumbled. “I’ll set my stupid alarm. But you’re not getting anything else for your birthday.”
“Right.” Emma snorted.
“Excuse me?”
“You know you can’t resist sending me stuff, dork.”
“I think you overestimate your charm, nerd.”
“No, I just know how much you like giving presents.”
That was true. Jamie had sent Emma two care packages so far, one for a national team tournament in Texas and another to mark the start of her senior year. In fact, Emma’s birthday CD was already burned and waiting to be mailed.
They chatted for a little while longer, and then Jamie’s sister Meg poked her head outside to tell her it was time to set the table for dinner.
“Have fun tonight,” Jamie said.
“You too. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early.”
“Cool. See you…”
“…Later.”
They always hung up the same way. If it was late, they wished each other sweet dreams, and if it was earlier, like now, one would start their standard farewell phrase and the other would finish it. Jamie couldn’t remember exactly how the tradition had started, but it had become habit by now.
“How’s Emma?” her mother asked as Jamie entered the kitchen, humming the chorus from Avril Lavigne’s “Mobile,” one of the songs she’d put on Emma’s birthday CD.
“Great. They won their game, too.”
“Good for them,” her mother said politely. She attended most of Jamie’s games, but unlike her husband, she wasn’t exactly a sports fan.
As they set out napkins and silverware, Meg asked, “What did your long distance girlfriend have to say?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I am capable of being friends with a straight girl. Homophobic much?”
Meg shook her head. “Don’t play the homophobia card just because you don’t like what I’m saying. You have to admit, you talk to her more than you do any of your other friends. I bet you already have a plan to talk to her tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. There are two games on so we had to make a plan.”
“You had to?” Meg enquired as their father walked in, open laptop in hand.
“Yes, we had to. The World Cup starts tomorrow.”
“No wonder she hangs out with you. No one else she knows could possibly be as much of a soccer junkie.” A newly minted senior herself, Meg had wondered aloud more than once why Emma would want to bother with a lowly sophomore.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jamie commented.
“Last time I checked, addiction is pretty much always a bad thing.”
“Meg, leave your sister alone,” their mother said, “and Tim, you know the rule. No computers at the table.”
He glanced up, glasses sliding down his nose, and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, honey. I wanted to show Jamie something. It won’t take long.” He set the laptop on the sideboard and waved her over. “I think I found the shirt you were looking for, kiddo.”
“Really?” She stood next to him, gazing at the web page open to eBay. “Is the back blank?”
“According to the images. Take a look.”
“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” her mother asked.
“It’s an online auction,” he replied, “so no. What do you think, Jamie?”
She touched his arm. “It’s perfect. Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he said, and started typing.
#
A few hours later, Jamie sat outside on her friend Ari’s patio, nursing the same mostly full wine cooler she’d held all night. Since France, she couldn’t bring herself to drink beer. Even the smell was enough to turn her stomach. Inside the house, the party was going on without her. There were more guys than she remembered from past team parties, and more weed, too. The cloud inside had been a bit much, as had been the coupling off of her teammates with male soccer players she barely recognized after a summer spent traveling for club tournaments and the Olympic Development Program. Girls didn’t change all that much over such a short period of time, but guys were different. Their faces, torsos, voices, even their hair was constantly evolving now that they were all in high school.
The lyrics from “Mobile,” her current favorite song, came back to her again. Everything really was changing around her, and she felt like a mobile, spun out of control by feelings she couldn’t always name. How much of it was France, and how much a normal part of being a teenager? Not that she would ever know. What had happened couldn’t be taken back. The images began to replay in her head, as they still occasionally did when she paused in one place too long, and she shook her head, hoping motion would help.
Lights from the pool area blurred in her vision. This property was unreal. Ari’s father was a venture capitalist, her mother a partner at a corporate law firm in the city. Their house in the affluent Claremont Hills neighborhood was a “modern monstrosity,” according to Jamie’s mother—all concrete and glass panels that seemed destined to rain death upon the house’s occupants when the next major earthquake struck.
As she watched, two guys and a girl wandered out of the house and made their way to the pool, where they wrestled around until, predictably, all three ended up in the water, laughing and shrieking. It was warm out, but it wasn’t that warm.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she texted Emma: “How’s your party? Mine’s not quite my style…”
She waited a few minutes, but no answer. Maybe Emma was coupling off even now, taking advantage of her newly single status. No doubt there were guys lined up waiting for a chance to hook up with her. After all, she was cute, smart, and a nationally ranked soccer player headed to the opposite coast to play for a storied athletics program. Some of the biggest names in American women’s soccer had graduated from UNC. Personally, Jamie couldn’t imagine moving to the East Coast for college, but then California offered significantly more opportunity than Washington as far as collegiate soccer programs went.
Still restless, she texted her sister: “Where are you?”
A minute later her phone lit up: “Becky’s.”
“Can you come get me? Please?”
“Of course. When and where?”
“Ari’s. Is now okay?”
“Be there in fifteen, James.”
“You rock.”
Jamie set aside her unfinished wine cooler and made her way around the side of the house to the front porch. She was lucky to have Meg as a sister. Some of her friends had older brothers and sisters who picked on them or, almost as bad, pretended they didn’t exist. But even before France, Meg had looked out for her. Since Jamie had given their parents permission to tell her what had happened in Lyon, Meg had been even more attentive. They had a deal that if Jamie was ever someplace that made her uncomfortable for any reason, Meg would find a way to come pick her up, no questions asked.
Ten minutes later, Becky’s ancient Datsun chugged to a sto
p in front of Ari’s house.
“Hey, loser,” Becky said as Jamie slid into the back seat.
Meg smacked her best friend in the back of the head. “My little sister is not a loser. She is awesome. For a sophomore. Right, James?”
“Whatever you say.” She fastened her seat belt. “Thanks for rescuing me, guys.”
“You’re welcome.” Becky winked at her in the rearview mirror as she pulled her beater car away from the curb and guided it downhill toward the city.
“You okay, kiddo?” Meg asked, watching her from the front seat.
“Fine. Wasn’t in the mood for the ultra-hetero make-out session, though. What were you guys up to?”
“Working on a song. It’s almost done.”
“Awesome. Can’t wait to hear it.”
“Actually, you could pay us back,” Becky put in. “You’re good with computers, right?”
“Sure.”
“We were wondering if there’s a way to record electric piano tracks directly to my Mac.”
“I don’t see why not, depending on what kind of line out the piano has. Let me take a look and talk to Dad. I bet there’s something out there that would even score the music for you.”
“I told you she’s not a loser.”
“Yeah, yeah, your sibling bond is the envy of us all.”
Meg glanced back and smiled at Jamie. “No lie, homey.”
Jamie nodded. “True dat, yo.”
Becky huffed. “Stop with the white girl appropriation of Black English! Otherwise I’m going to make you both get out and walk.”
“Touchy, much?” Meg said. “You know, your brother calling you an Oreo is not our fault.”
“Oreo?” Jamie echoed.
“You know, black on the outside, white on the in?”
“What does that make him then? Double stuff?”
The two girls in the front seat cracked up. Becky’s younger brother had never been thin, but since joining the middle school football team the previous year he had bulked up substantially.
“Nice one, sis.” Meg held up her hand for a high five. “But all this talk of cookies is making me hungry. Who’s up for ice cream?”
“I am!” the other two called out in unison.
They parked downtown and walked to Ben and Jerry’s. The line was out the door on this, a warm Saturday evening, but they didn’t mind. Becky and Meg sang their new song for Jamie, she told them about her game in Central Valley strip-mall hell, and they all agreed that the crowd at Ari’s was way too fast.
“Julie Hanford was totally snorting coke in the downstairs bathroom,” Jamie told them as they paid for their ice cream cones.
“I don’t ever want to hear about you doing anything like that,” Meg said, staring at her.
“As if. Hard drugs and soccer do not mix, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Good,” her sister said, and tugged her closer for a second. “Make sure you remember that.”
“Yes, Mom,” Jamie said, rolling her eyes.
They took their cones to go and walked around downtown Berkeley, taking in the sights. College kids and Silicon Valley yuppies mingled with tourists, hippies, and Rastafarians on this warm weekend night, and every once in a while the scent of weed drifted past. Jamie loved people-watching in her hometown. San Francisco was fun to explore and only a short BART ride away, but to her mind, you couldn’t beat Berkeley.
Jamie’s curfew was earlier than Meg’s, but the older girl didn’t complain as they finished their cones and headed home to Elmwood. When Becky grumbled about babysitting sophomores, Meg gave her a look that Jamie recognized as their mother’s infamous no-sass-allowed stare. All at once, she could see her sister a few years down the road with kids of her own. And she wondered—would that be her someday, too? Being queer meant she wasn’t automatically expected to pine after the white picket fence and two and a half kids. Which was just as well—at the moment, she couldn’t imagine going on a date with anyone, let alone settling down and starting a family. When you’re working on surviving, it’s hard to picture a future where you might be responsible for the lives of others.
Becky dropped them in front of their house and tooted her little car’s horn as she drove off. They headed up the front walkway together, Meg’s arm around Jamie’s shoulders.
“I’m glad you called, kiddo.”
“Me, too.” Jamie rested her cheek against her sister’s ponytail. “But you know, I am taller than you. Maybe you should stop calling me kiddo.”
“Perish the thought!” Meg flicked her shoulder.
“Ow.” Jamie rubbed the spot, laughing as they climbed the front porch stairs.
“Oh, did I hurt the big, strong jock?”
“You’re such a bully.”
Their parents were in the living room reading as they walked in. Or their mom was reading, anyway. Their father had his laptop perched on a wooden lap desk and was typing away as usual. He looked up and smiled when he saw them.
“Hi, girls. Did you have a nice night?”
Meg nodded. “Ice cream and songwriting—what more could anyone ask?”
Their mom was frowning at Jamie. “I thought you were playing mini-golf with the soccer team.”
She shrugged, toying with the zipper on her hoodie. “We got done early so Meg and Becky came to get me.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” their dad said, his eyes on Meg.
“No problem. What are big sisters for?”
There was a brief silence in the room, and Jamie could almost hear the thought circulating: Big sisters looked out for little sisters, the same way friends were supposed to watch out for friends. Chocolate ice cream and lime-flavored wine cooler rumbled in her stomach, and she swallowed back an alcohol-infused burp. Nothing a little CBD oil couldn’t fix.
“Anyway,” she said, and headed for the stairs, “I have to be up early to watch soccer with Emma. Good night.”
“Good night,” her family echoed.
She would have bet good money they were going to discuss her emotional state the second she was out of earshot. Sure enough, as she creaked about the second floor of their 1920s Craftsman, she heard the low murmur of voices below. She could have eavesdropped through one of the heating grates in the hall floor, but honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what they were saying.
Her evening routine took only a couple of minutes—the perks of being a tomboy. Brush her teeth, rinse her face, smooth down her hat-head, and voila. Dressed in boxers and an old YMCA soccer shirt, she slid between her sheets and reached for the pen case in her bedside table. The vaporizer her buddy Blair had given her looked like a pen and, even better, didn’t leave any telltale scent behind. She drew it out and puffed once. The effects were almost immediate. As the cannabis oil hit her bloodstream, her shoulders relaxed, her face softened, and even the tight knot in her stomach eased. She smiled a little and put the pen case away. Thank the gods for medicinal marijuana.
She was closing the drawer when her phone’s alert sounded. Her smile softened as she read Emma’s text.
“Sorry, forgot my phone was on silent! Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Jamie typed back.
“Party here was lame too. Left with Dani and Sian and rented a movie. You?”
“Went for ice cream with my sister and Becky.”
“Ooh, even better! Jealous…”
“Next time I see you, I’ll take you out for a cone. Or are you a cup person?”
“Cone all the way, and you’re on. Now go to bed. You have to be up early.”
“So do you. Go USA!”
“Go USA!!!!! Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams to you too.”
Jamie turned off her phone and lay back in bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark constellations she and her father had hung on the ceiling years before. Why did she feel closer to a girl she’d only met two months earlier than to the classmates she’d known since kindergarten? Maybe it was that she’d met Emma after Franc
e. She couldn’t see how Jamie had changed, not the way her Berkeley friends could. And here she’d thought coming out the previous year would be the hardest thing she’d have to face.
She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. Emma was right. They had to be up early. As the usual flood of memories tried to hijack her brain, she took a calming breath and reminded herself that she was safe; memories couldn’t actually hurt her. To distract her mind, she mentally listed the twenty women on the US World Cup squad, including college and pro teams. Then she tried to remember Arsenal’s starting line-up, overall record, and current standing in the first division of the EPL. When that was done, she was still awake, so she pictured Emma in her house in Seattle. Emma had emailed a few photos, and while the house was nothing like Ari’s, it was significantly posher than Jamie’s. The view out over the water toward islands and mountains was incredible, and Jamie wondered if she would ever see it in person.
Wondered, too, if this friendship could possibly last when their lives were so different. Emma was leaving for college in less than a year. When she was in North Carolina, would they keep emailing and texting? Would they still get up early on weekend days to watch TV together? Somehow she doubted it. But she would take what she could get for now. Her friendship with Emma made her feel calm, normal even. It gave her hope that someday she would be able to fall asleep without the vaporizer.
Small goals, she reminded herself. It was always best to start small.
#
The day before she turned seventeen, Emma received a phone call from the manager of the under-19 national team. There was a training camp scheduled for the third week of November at US Soccer headquarters in Los Angeles. Was she interested in attending?
“Yes,” she said quickly, even though the timing wasn’t ideal. Mid-November marked the end of her high school season. If they made it to states, she risked missing part of the tournament, possibly even her last ever high school game(s). But this was the next step on the road to—she hoped—playing for the senior side. She couldn’t say no. She didn’t want to, anyway, even if it meant possibly letting down the girls she’d played soccer with her entire life.
Training Ground Page 3