by Ally B
Since then, the entire team has worn one green sock and one white sock in every game against McArthur, for good luck. The popularity only spread to the student body last year when St. Paul had claimed the reason they lost to McArthur was that not everyone had their mismatched socks on.
I pull my socks over my leggings and tie my hair half-up, shoving a pair of gold hoops into my ears and head down the stairs.
I hear Max’s footsteps coming up the front porch stairs.
“Phoebe! It’s game day!” he shouts, banging on the door.
“Max! I know!” I say, opening my door as I pull my backpack over my shoulder and grab my phone. “Excited?” I ask him as I snatch my keys from the bowl next to the door before running to the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he answers, sounding more nervous than usual.
“You guys are going to be fine,” I reassure him, opening the fridge and pulling out my water bottle and run back to the entry. “You’ve got this.”
I’m the one rushing him out of the door for once.
“I just feel like winning this season would really put me over the edge for Stanford, ya know,” he says nervously, tapping his foot as I lock the door.
Inside the vehicle, I see his knee bouncing, as he sits beside me, way more quiet than usual, while I buckle my seatbelt and double-check that he’s done the same.
“You’re going to kill it. And we’re going to stop at Dunkin’ to get you some breakfast because I know you forgot to eat. Okay?” I ask him as I back out of my driveway.
“I don’t want to be late,” he says.
“Max. It’s 7:16. We’re good,” I tell him, stopping beside Mr. McCoy’s house yet again.
“I just don’t want to blow this game for everyone.” He shakes his head.
“Hey, you aren’t responsible for the whole team. Just you.” I remind him.
“Thanks, mom, but you know I’ll always feel like it’s my fault,” he huffs as the single light in our tiny suburb turns green.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I tell him.
“Me too,” he laughs.
“Do you want both or just the flatbread?” I ask him as we pull up behind a black Jeep Wrangler.
“Both, pretty please,” he fakes batting his eyelashes.
“You got it,” I tell him, pulling forward and placing our order.
Once I get the total, I nod to the little Orbit gum container we’d turned into a swear-jar when I’d gotten my license and ask, “want to grab the change?”
Max digs through the jar and hands me the twenty-three cents just as the woman at the drive-through opens the window and holds out her hand.
I give her the bills from my wallet and the exact change before the window closes sharply behind her.
“You good with having the radio on?” Max asks.
“Of course,” I tell him, staring at the window as I wait for the woman to return.
He turns the music up from its atypical near-silence that only comes on game days, and an ad for a car dealership begins to play.
“My favorite song,” he says sarcastically as the woman hands us our food.
I quickly give Max the bag and pull out of the drive-through, turning toward school and allowing him to peel back the muffin wrapper and set it on the console.
We pull in at 7:32, and as usual, Max is in a hurry to get inside.
I follow him out of the car, throwing my backpack over my shoulder and hanging my lanyard around my neck before grabbing my muffin. I find myself at a near run to catch up with him as he makes his way toward the door.
Filing into school behind the other students, I can’t help but smile when I see everyone decked out in their game-day green, whether their shirts read football or soccer, it’s hard to find someone not wearing school colors.
We arrive in Wilson’s classroom before anyone except Violet, who’s freakishly punctual to everything.
She knows better than to bother Max as he shovels oatmeal into his mouth while staring blankly at the smart board in front of him.
Ava clearly doesn’t know any better.
“You going to win the game for us tonight?” She asks sweetly, sitting in the empty seat in front of Max’s.
I watch as Max scrambles to swallow his oatmeal, and Violet and I share a glance of amusement as he tries to ready himself to talk to her.
“That’s the plan,” he says in a voice much cooler than his usual. “You coming?”
You coming? As if Max would, in normal circumstance, ever structure a sentence like that.
“I’m thinking about it.” She smiles, looking down at the desk, nibbling on her lower lip.
“Hope to see you there.” He runs a hand through his dark brown curls, his signature ‘haha-look-at-how-good-my-hair-is-I’m-so-cute-and-I-don’t-even-have-to-try’ move.
And it works.
Every.
Single.
Time.
“Yeah, me too,” she says, standing and walking back to her desk on the other side of the room.
“Maxy has a crush.” Violet sing-songs.
“Nah.” He waves it away.
“Nah?” I raise an eyebrow. “It’s worse than we thought.”
“We need some oxygen and an ugly selfie, stat.” Violet uses her best doctor’s voice.
“I’m going to ask Wilson if I can move seats,” Max says matter-of-factly.
“You won’t,” I scoff. “Unless you want to go and sit next to Aaaa-va.”
“You’re a brat,” he tells me.
“And you look like a five-year-old when you pout.” I shrug.
“Are you planning on winning your game tonight, Mr. Sanchez?” Mr. Wilson speaks up as he places a piece of paper on each desk. He’s wearing a light green button-down shirt with his jeans today, showing his support in his own quirky way.
“I sure hope so,” Max answers before taking another bite of his oatmeal.
“Me too,” he says, moving on to the next row of desks.
The rest of the period goes by quickly. Wilson instructs us to fill out notes and tells us we don’t have any homework for the weekend except to ‘support the student athletes at their crucial games,’ and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.
Spanish is just as uneventful. Velasquez gives us homework, though.
“Hey,” Graham says, dragging his metal stool over to the counter and pulling out his lab packet.
“Hi,” I say.
“‘Sup,” Max says, somewhat passive-aggressively.
“You ready for tonight?” Graham asks Max.
“I hope so,” he says shortly, digging for his own packet.
“So, how are you today?” I ask Graham, diverting the attention from Max’s game-day irritability.
“I’m good. Slowly realizing that Environmental Science here is awful.” He shakes his head.
“Not like your class in North Carolina?”
“Not at all. The teacher is a little bit insane,” he says before taking a sip of water.
“Yeah, Miss Reeves can be a bit much to handle,” Max contributes. “I had her for a plant science elective freshman year for like two weeks before I dropped it.”
“Yeah, the rest of the year will be interesting,” Graham says, slowly looking up from his lab packet to me.
Pavo
The Peacock
The lunch table is surprisingly quiet, probably due to the lack of Jackson, which allows Violet and Kendall to start up a conversation about the party at Jackson’s house after the game.
“Clara is home for the weekend to see her boyfriend, so she told me she could pick us up if we wanted to leave our cars there,” Kendall explains to Violet.
Her older sister, Clara is just like any cool older sister from every Disney channel TV show we grew up watching, so naturally, she’ll be the one to rescue the drunk-off-of-two-White-Claws girls in tube tops and bring them home to sleep off their hangovers.
“I think Phoebe would have a lot of fun tonight, don’t you a
gree, Max?” Violet asks.
“Phoebe has her grandpa’s birthday party tomorrow morning, wouldn’t want her to feel like shit for that.”
“As much as that sounds like the rager of the century, I still feel like you would really enjoy Jackson’s tonight,” Kendall says. “Right, Tommy?”
“Yeah.” The boy answers between mouthfuls of food.
“Maybe,” I finally speak up. “I’ll have to see what time the game ends. I can’t drive after nine.”
“Boo. Worst excuse ever. Clara can pick you up, too.” Kendall says.
“I’ll see how I’m feeling,” I tell her.
I can feel Max’s foot against mine under the table, and I shake my head subtly to tell him that I’m okay.
“You’re no fun,” Kendall huffs, shoving a forkful of salad into her mouth.
The rest of the lunch period is full of game-talk between the boys and the pillaging of Max’s red lunch bag, except for his Goldfish, of course.
“When do you guys play against McArthur on their turf?” Violet asks.
“The fourteenth, I’m already dreading it,” Riley huffs. “You guys coming?”
“Of course,” Violet says.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Kendall adds.
And I chime in my typical response, too. “I have work.”
“You suck.” Max throws a Goldfish at my face, and I roll my eyes.
“You can’t take it off?” Kendall asks.
“That place has a solid four employees. I can’t tell them no.”
“Let me know if they’re ever hiring,” Violet says. “My parents are on my ass about how expensive dance is getting.”
“Yeah, if you work from three to nine, you won’t even have to worry about dance.” Jackson butts in.
“Oh, boo you.” Violet sticks out her tongue.
“Dance is just now getting expensive?” I ask her.
“They’re talking about college auditions and stuff. They’re trying to push me away from going to school for dance. They want me to be a doctor. Dance isn’t stable.”
“So, you have to pay application fees?” Jackson asks.
She nods and begins listing expenses as if she’s heard it a hundred times, “and flights to get to auditions, and the hotels when I get there, and shoes, and leotards, and everything else under the sun.”
“You should just be a doctor,” Riley suggests sarcastically.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Nakamura,” Violet says flatly. “I hope you’re better at playing soccer than encouraging your friends to follow their dreams.”
“I second that.” Tommy snickers.
The bell rings before Riley can respond, thankfully.
The rest of my classes are a blur of people ignoring instructions to talk about the soccer and football games.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal if it were just school spirit, but the focus is primarily on Jackson’s party afterward. It helps Max’s nerves knowing that people are talking about the party and not one of the most important games of the season, though.
By the end of seventh period, Mr. Osborne gives up on any attempt to teach and assigns the lesson for homework, which is actually worse, but no one cares, except me.
Vi and Kendall
Meet at mine after school. - Vi
Get ready for the game? - Kendall
Yes ma’am. - Vi
I show the phone to Max and pout, “why can’t you watch the game and play at the same time?”
“Because, unfortunately, you’re going to have to ‘people’ on your own someday.” He places his hand on my arm, faking sincerity. “When you’re at Princeton staring through your little telescope and ignoring everyone around you, you’d be mad at me for being glued to your hip and having helped you through every social situation in your life thus far. Think of these situations as little test flights.”
“You’re a douche.” I roll my eyes at him. “And it’s not a little telescope. It’s huge.”
“That’s what she said.” I hear Jacob mutter under his breath in front of us.
Max and I elect to ignore him.
“I know I’m a douche, but you’ll miss me.”
“You wish.” I huff as the bell rings. “Don’t lose.”
“Thanks for the words of encouragement, coach.” He chuckles, gathering his books in his arms.
“You’re going to be great. Don’t overthink. I’ll see you there.” I smile.
Shaking his head slightly, he smiles, “be sure to mouth lots of things I can’t understand from the bleachers.”
“You couldn’t stop me if you tried,” I tell him as we reach the door. “Have a good game.”
“See you after!” He shouts as we go our separate ways in the noisy crowd of green.
I bee-line toward the student parking lot and make it there before most of my peers. I shove my keys into the ignition and manage to make it out before the bright yellow busses, heading for Violet’s house.
I’ll preface this by saying that Emerson is full of money.
Almost everyone who lives here has too much of it, but there are varying degrees.
My neighborhood isn’t the poorest, but it’s also not the richest. Middle to upper-middle class, if you will. Kendall lives just a few streets down from Max and I. The rest of our friends live on the other side of the town.
I use the term upper-middle very loosely because I would definitely argue that Violet is on the lower end of upper-class. Her parents are radiologists, and her grandfather is involved in oil in a way that she once attempted to protest.
In front of his house.
Alone.
When she was seven.
Violet lives in a gated community with a bunch of old retired doctors and lawyers next to a golf course. About two miles down the hill on Smith Street sit the residences of Jackson Cruz and Jacob St. Paul.
Jacob’s parents own a bunch of sports bars in the area, so the boys typically go to the Emerson location after games. Therefore, St. Paul’s house can’t be the party house because his parents are usually home.
Jackson’s mom is a pilot, and his dad is an anesthesiologist, which means his parents are both gone most of the time. On top of that, his older brother goes to a college nearby and buys everything for parties that a bunch of seventeen-year-olds can’t.
Perfect.
I’m stopped at Violet’s gate before being quickly allowed in by the guard working it. The looks from Violet’s neighbors are always priceless as my rusty, bright red RAV4 drives slowly past their McMansions toward Violet’s at the top of the hill.
I park next to Kendall’s car, grabbing my water bottle and phone before heading up and ringing her doorbell.
“Come in! We’ve got work to do!” Violet flings the door open before running up her stairs.
I close the door behind me, nearly running to match her pace as she sprints up the right side of her two-sided staircase.
She finally stops sprinting when she reaches her room.
Kendall is standing in front of her bathroom mirror, curling her long blonde hair when I arrive. Violet’s granite countertop is littered with a million different makeup products, and she’s quick to sit me down on a stool in front of her mirror.
“What are we feeling?” She asks me.
“Don’t you guys feel weird being the only ones ever dressed up for games?” I ask her as I stare in her giant, gold-framed mirror.
“We aren’t dressed up, and it’s not for the game.” Kendall laughs. “It’s for the party. We have to be there right after the game to help the boys set up. Therefore, we have to prep now.”
“They can’t handle putting out a few red solo cups and hooking their phone up to a speaker?” I ask as Violet scans the countertop for some makeup product.
“Absolutely not.” Kendall shakes her head. “I don’t think Jackson even knows where his speakers are.”
“You two act like you’re middle-aged housewives taking care of your useless misogynistic husbands.”
<
br /> “She may as well be.” Violet refers to Kendall. “And I’m just in it for the ride. If I go to college to be a doctor, I’m going to be busting my ass, and if I do dance, I’m not going to be allowed to have any fun. Trying to get as much out of high school as possible before I succumb to a lifetime of misery. Do you want me to straighten your hair?” She asks me.
“There are other options than just dance and doctor, you know?” Kendall says, scrunching one of her perfectly curled ringlets in her hand.
“There’s a great thing called a double major. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it?” I joke.
“Double major means death. That’s what my neighbor’s daughter did, and she dropped out because she hated it so much.”
“She dropped out because her double major in business and art turned into cannabis studies and distillation,” Kendall corrects her.
“Is distillation a major?” Violet asks.
“No, Vi.” Kendall huffs.
“Do you want your hair straightened?” Violet asks me again, this time more annoyed.
“I’m good, Vi,” I tell her. “But you should double major. They’re paying for school anyway, right?”
“I just don’t want to stretch myself too thin,” she says, applying mascara to her already perfect long black lashes.
“I really think you’ll be able to handle it,” Kendall says, setting the curling iron down onto the counter.
“I really don’t want to think about college tonight,” she says defiantly, picking up Kendall’s discarded curling iron. “You’re coming, right?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to leave my car somewhere and worry about getting it back,” I half-lie.
“That’s why you leave it at Kendall’s before the game, Clara takes us to the game, then you get a ride with Tommy to Jackson’s and stay the night at Kendall’s after Clara drives us home,” Violet says, clearly having a well-thought-out plan.
“I have to be at my grandpas' by one,” I add.
“And you will. You’ll have your car,” Kendall tells me. “If you’re sure you don’t want to go, we’ll stop bugging you about it, but I feel like it’ll be good for you.”