Training Ground

by Kate Christie

  “Who’s Elizabeth again?” Ty asked, grabbing a handful of almonds from the bowl on the kitchen island.

  “Wash your hands,” their mother said without turning around as she pulled a bottle of sparkling grape juice from the refrigerator. “Elizabeth was one of your grandmother’s sisters.”

  “My hands are clean.” Then he snickered. “Sort of.”

  Emma didn’t want to think about where a thirteen-year-old boy’s hands might have been. Really, she wasn’t going to miss living with her brother now that he’d left cute little boyhood behind. No mixed-floor dorms for her, either. Not that her parents would let her live with guys anyway.

  “Tori says most of the girls on the team get apartments together by sophomore year,” she said, heading back to her potato-peeling station at the kitchen sink.

  “Tori says,” Ty mimicked. “So tell us, Em, does that Jamie girl know she has competition?”

  With their mother’s back turned, Emma felt that giving her brother the finger was a solid choice.

  He didn’t agree. “Mom, Emma flipped me off!”

  “No I didn’t.” She made her voice sound bored.

  “Yes you did!”

  “Well, you have to admit you kind of deserved it, Ty,” their mother said.

  He stared at them both open-mouthed. “That is so not fair!” And he flounced out of the room.

  Her mother closed her eyes briefly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m supposed to be the grown-up here.”

  “Then you probably don’t want to hear that I did flip him off,” Emma admitted, trying not to smile.

  “I already knew that.” She paused. “Your brother does have a point, though, however crassly stated. You’ve been talking about this new girl quite a bit. Is there anything you want to share, honey? Anything at all?”

  Emma stared at the potato in her hand, drawing the vegetable peeler quickly across its brown, nubby exterior. “Um…”

  Her mother wiped her hands on her apron and drifted closer. “Okay. So I’m a peds nurse at a large urban hospital. Do you know what that means?”

  Emma leaned against the kitchen counter, facing her. “For the purposes of this conversation? No.”

  “It means that I see parents on a daily basis faced with the possibility of losing a son or daughter. It means that even when your brother is at his pre-pubescent worst, or when you make it clear you’d rather be anyplace but home on Family Soup Night, I know how lucky I am because you and your brother are healthy and safe. But most of all, it means that there is nothing either of you could do or say—or be—that would make me stop feeling lucky.”

  Emma stared down at her hands, knuckles white from her grip on the peeler. “Even if I’m not who everyone thinks I am?”

  “Are you more worried that you’re not who other people think you are, or that you’re different from who you thought you’d be?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Then, before she could overthink it, she added, “I like girls. As in, like like them.” She watched her mother’s expression but it didn’t change at all. “Why aren’t you surprised? I mean, look at me. I wear make-up. I paint my nails! What self-respecting gay girl does that?”

  “Do you think you’re gay?” her mother asked, head tilted. “Because there are other options.”

  “I don’t know.” Emma tossed the peeler into the sink, flinching as metal struck metal. “Seriously, I don’t have any idea. I just know it’s been there a while and I keep waiting for it to go away and it won’t. It effing won’t.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Her mom slipped an arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer. “I’m sorry this is hard for you, but you don’t have to have all the answers right now. You’re still growing, and who you think you are now might change a dozen times in the next few years.”

  She groaned. “Change sucks. I want to know what I’m doing.”

  “I know. Flexibility has never been one of your strong suits. Sorry—you get that one from me.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “But I promise, the not knowing does get easier. Anyway, you’ll figure out what you want eventually. You’re your father’s daughter in that regard. Once you decide you want something, you don’t let anything stand in your way.”

  Emma leaned her head against her mother’s. “So you don’t hate me for not being completely straight?”

  “Well, now that you mention it…”

  “Mom!”

  Her mother cupped her cheek and gazed into her eyes. “I told you, Emma, I love you and your brother. That’s it. Besides, you’ve always had a good heart, and that’s what matters most in my book.”

  She released a breath. “Huh.”

  “Huh what?”

  “I totally didn’t believe Jamie when she said coming out isn’t as hard as you think it’s going to be.”

  “Her parents know about her, don’t they?”

  “Of course. She’s so brave about everything. I wish I had even a miniscule amount of her courage.”

  “You do. It may not always feel like it, but trust me. I know a brave kid when I see one.”

  Emma thought about all the nights her mom came home from work exhausted from fighting to repair a child’s broken health. Neither of her parents had chosen easy work, but it was necessary work. It was work that had meaning of a sort that playing soccer couldn’t. Still, being an athlete only lasted a decade or so, if you were lucky. Assuming she lived to an average age, she would have half a century after soccer to do something truly meaningful. Look at Mia Hamm and Julie Foudy. They hadn’t even retired yet and they were already using the fame their soccer careers had garnered to launch altruistic and charitable initiatives.

  Not that she was comparing herself to Mia Hamm or Julie Foudy. More like Carla Overbeck.

  “What are you smiling about?” her mom asked.

  “Soccer. Naturally.”

  “See? There you go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gay girls are supposed to think about sports a lot, aren’t they? Maybe you’re not such an odd duck, after all.”

  Emma pushed her mother away. “Very funny. Now, come on. We better get back to cooking before Ty returns and demolishes half the Thanksgiving meal.”

  Her mom turned up the radio again. As they moved in tandem around the kitchen, sharing the space comfortably, Emma paused every so often to reflect that she was probably, in fact, the lucky one.

  Chapter Four

  FOR SOME REASON, Jamie had always found it amusing that her therapist had a couch in her office. She had never done anything except sit on it cross-legged, but today, their last session of 2003, she flung herself down on the cushions and pillowed her head on one arm.

  “So doc,” she said, “what’s on the docket today? Get it? Doc-ket?”

  Shoshanna gazed at her evenly. “That would be humorous if I were, in fact, a doctor.”

  “Geez, tough crowd. Happy almost New Year, by the way. Oh, and happy Hanukkah.”

  “Thank you. Now, are you done deflecting?”

  “Me, deflect?” Jamie said, placing a hand over her heart as she sat up and crossed her legs. “Why would I ever do such a thing?”

  “Perhaps because I suggested we use this session to practice some role-playing exercises for your conversation with Emma?”

  “Doh!” Jamie slapped her forehead. “I totally forgot.”

  Shoshanna finally smiled. “I’m sure you did. Tell me, did you give it any thought this week?”

  “Sure, on my way over.”

  That was actually where she did some of her best thinking about the “homework” Shoshanna gave her. If she was being honest, she had always been a procrastinator. She worked best under pressure with a deadline looming—except when it came to soccer. The pitch was the one place where she was willing to put in unlimited work for what could only ever be an uncertain outcome.

  “All right.” Shoshanna nodded. “Let’s hear it then.”

  An hour later, Jam
ie emerged from the four-story brick building to find her sister waiting for her on a bus bench. Shoshanna’s office was above a sandwich shop not far from Cal, and Meg was munching on french fries.

  “Yo, sis.”

  “What’s up?” Meg tucked her book into her purse. “How was the head shrinker this week?”

  “A little more uptight than usual, I have to say. But we came up with a game plan for me to tell Emma.”

  Meg stared at her. “You mean…?”

  “Yep. It’s supposed to be like this big healing step, or whatever.”

  “You don’t have to sell me on the tough guy act. I already know you have more balls than the football team.”

  “American football,” Jamie corrected, elbowing her. “Soccer is the real football.”

  “So I’ve heard. Come on. I found a spot a couple of blocks away.”

  That night over dinner, Jamie announced her plan to tell Emma about France. Her parents exchanged a look, and then her mother said, “That’s a big step. Are you sure you’re ready?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

  “What does Shoshanna say?”

  “She thinks Emma is a good choice for the first time. She’s older than I am and has her shit—sorry, I mean, her stuff together. Plus she doesn’t live here, so if she freaks out and bails on me, which I don’t think she will, but if she does, then at least it’s not someone I have to see every day.”

  “They have a plan,” Meg put in. “She practiced on me in the car. Seems pretty well thought-out—for Miss Seat-of-the-Pants here, anyway.”

  “Hey, now.” Jamie tore a piece off her roll and threw it at her sister, who ducked and reached for her peas.

  “Don’t even think about it,” their mother said witheringly.

  Both girls froze, and their father snickered, which brought the wrathful glare his way. He winked at Jamie, who hid a laugh. Taking one for the team—that was their dad all right.

  “What else do you want to do while Emma is here?” he asked.

  They spent the next few minutes discussing the best spots in and around the Bay to take visitors, the locations they had been bringing out-of-town guests to visit for years, from the Pasadena relatives to her mother’s Colorado-based clan. In fact, Jamie’s maternal grandmother, two sets of aunts and uncles, and five cousins had just left California to return to Denver in time for New Year’s. They traded off at Christmas. Every other year, one side of the family flew to spend the holiday with the other.

  “I’ll probably bring her to practice, too,” Jamie added.

  “Of course.” Her father nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  Prep season had started as soon as club ended—actually try-outs had happened before travel season finished—but Berkeley High Soccer went on hiatus during the winter holiday break. Their last game had been on the Saturday before Christmas and their next one wouldn’t be until the Saturday after New Year’s. Emma would be in town for two practices and their first game back. Jamie couldn’t wait. Even the notion that she would soon be divulging her darkest secret couldn’t dampen her happiness at the thought of hanging out with Emma for five whole days.

  Besides, it wasn’t really a secret if more than a handful of people knew, was it? Her mother had requested permission to talk to her two sisters about Lyon, and Jamie had granted it, specifying that her mom had to wait until the end of the visit, though. That way Jamie wouldn’t have to deal with their reactions for long. Her mother had respected her wishes and even invited her to be present for any conversation that might happen, but Jamie declined. She really, really didn’t need to be there to hear how her mother would describe what had happened. She was pretty sure her mom was equally as happy not to have her there.

  The last day of the family visit, her Aunt Shelly, an older, plumper, and (chemically) blonder version of Jamie’s mom, had cornered her after lunch to give her a hug.

  “I am so sorry, sweetheart,” she said, her voice thick. “If I could, I would track that bastard down and cut off his—”

  “Okay, Aunt Shelly.” Meg had practically forced her way between them. “I think Jamie gets it. But maybe tone down the vigilante talk. Not sure that’s helping anyone.”

  Jamie, who hadn’t realized her sister was watching the interaction, gave Meg a grateful look and patted her distraught aunt on the arm. “Love you, too, Aunt Shelly,” she’d said, and backed away.

  That conversation had come up in her session with Shoshanna.

  “What if Emma responds in a similar manner?” the therapist had asked.

  “She won’t,” Jamie said.

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s more sensitive than that.”

  “Does that mean you think your aunt is insensitive?”

  “Not exactly. I guess I mean Emma listens to me more. Like, she can read me.”

  “How can you be so certain? You haven’t seen her in six months, and then it was only for a few hours.”

  “I just know. Only being able to talk on the phone and write emails, you get to know someone in a different way. And Emma pays attention. She always has.”

  “What about you? Do you think you pay attention?”

  Jamie had frowned. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  Now as she and Meg cleaned up the kitchen after dinner, she tried not to worry about Emma’s visit. She was so excited to see her, but what if Shoshanna was right? What if she had built up an image of Emma that didn’t exist? What if Emma really did respond like her aunt, or worse, pulled away in disgust? Her gut told her that wouldn’t happen, but then, her gut didn’t have the best track record. Sometimes people reacted to things in ways you least expected, as she well knew. Being an out, dykey tomboy in high school wasn’t always safe even in the twenty-first century, even in liberal, progressive Berkeley. She had learned not to travel alone, which, given she was on the soccer team and friends with the skater crowd, was easy enough to arrange most days.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Meg said as she rinsed a plate and handed it to Jamie to dry.

  She rubbed the old, soft dish towel decorated with faded Christmas wreaths over the Fiestaware plate she still thought of as the “new” set they had bought a few years ago to replace the 1980s table settings their parents had received at their wedding.

  “I was thinking about Aunt Shelly. Not sure I ever thanked you for intervening at the best possible moment.”

  “No problem,” Meg said, and elbowed her. “I got your back, kiddo, and don’t you forget it.”

  “I’ve got yours too, you know, if you ever need me.”

  “No offense, but I kind of hope I don’t.”

  “I feel you, my sister.”

  “Right here, James.” Meg pressed a soapy fist to the front of her Berkeley High Orchestra sweatshirt. “Right here.”

  As a now nearly sixteen-year-old, Jamie was embarrassed to admit that back in middle school, she had worried about being seen with her sister because she was a self-avowed orchestra geek. It wasn’t until she’d gotten to high school and realized how valued the various musical organizations were that she’d relaxed her social biases. The Berkeley Community Theater was located on Berkeley High’s campus, and since the late 1960s had hosted music greats like Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison, The Grateful Dead, Bruce Springsteen, and David Bowie. Not bad for a public high school.

  Besides, Meg was super talented. Even Jamie could recognize that, and she could barely hold a tune. But the fact she didn’t make music herself, good or otherwise, didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate those who did.

  They were almost finished with the dishes when their father wandered in. “Hey, kid, feel like shooting baskets?”

  “Totally.”

  “Oh, I see, don’t ask me then,” Meg said, rolling her eyes.

  He paused. “Do you want to join us?”

  “No, but it’s nice to be asked.”

  “Drama queen.” Jamie flicked her with the end of h
er dish towel.

  Meg whirled around and pointed the sprayer in Jamie’s direction. “Go ahead,” she intoned, squinting Eastwood-style. “Make my day.”

  Jamie and their dad both sidled away, giggling. Then they turned and hoofed it toward the front door, yelping as water struck them in the ribs.

  “You’re going to have to clean that up,” Jamie called back to her laughing sister.

  “So? It was totally worth it.”

  “She’s crazy,” Jamie said to her dad as they pulled on sneakers and headed outside.

  “Your mother and I prefer to think of her as spirited.”

  The sun had set hours before, but the street lamp and the spotlight on the side of the house lit up the short driveway where the portable basketball hoop resided. Almost no one in their neighborhood, one of the older residential areas in Berkeley with leafy trees and bungalows galore, had garages. Where one might have stood on their property was, instead, a small shed that her mom had long since converted into an art studio.

  They warmed up, tossing the ball to each other for shot after shot while sirens and car horns sounded in the distance. Her dad was pretty good. He’d played in high school in rural Indiana and had harbored dreams of walking on at Cal. While that hadn’t happened, he had played intramurals all four years. When she was younger, he’d coached her rec basketball team. Softball, too. But then they’d gone to see Mia Hamm, Michelle Akers, and the rest of the ’99ers play a friendly match in LA, and that was it. Jamie knew what she wanted. To become the best of the best, she understood that she would have to focus on soccer and only soccer.

  Her dad had taken her defection to a sport about which he knew little incredibly well. He ribbed her occasionally, but if he resented her abandonment of his favorite sport, he didn’t let on. In fact, he was the one who drove her to most of her practices and games, the one who took photos and video footage, the one who cheered her on no matter what.