by Score, Lucy
I was already halfway to her when the ref whistled me onto the field.
“Angela! Are you alive?” She was crumpled on the grass, but her eyes were open. She had two perfect cleat marks on her cheek.
“Did I stop her?” she asked, rolling onto her side.
“Like a brick freaking wall,” I said.
One of the EMTs huffed and puffed over to us. She dropped a medical bag on the ground. The team huddled up a short distance away while we made sure Angela wasn’t concussed or missing any limbs.
There was a good-natured cheer when we got her back on her feet to hobble off the field.
Angela stopped and faced the team. “Don’t let my sacrifice be in vain. Win this, bitches,” she said.
Ruby approached and put her hand on Angela’s shoulder. “We will win this for you, Cleat Face.”
“Oh my God. Let’s just finish the game, okay?” I said, slapping an ice pack on Angela’s face.
The ref awarded us an indirect kick for the foul with twenty seconds left on the clock.
I dumped Angela on the bench where she received a hero’s welcome and returned to Vicky’s side.
“This is it,” she said.
“Yep.”
“Do you want a drink?” she asked.
“I don’t think water is going to calm me down.”
Without looking away from the field, Vicky unzipped her fanny pack. “I got tequila minis in here. For emergencies.”
I laughed, loud and long. I was still laughing when our defense took the kick. One of our midfielders got it and fired it up the field to Libby.
“Holy shit,” I whispered. Ten seconds.
Libby worked her fancy footwork around a defender and snuck closer to the goal. I grabbed Vicky’s arm, my fingers stabbing into her flesh. She had me around the neck in a chokehold.
Libby looked up at the goal and then away.
“What is she doing?” Vicky screeched.
Five…four…three…
She kicked the ball, sending it straight to Ruby’s feet at the top of the penalty box. Ruby didn’t bother trapping it, she just swung away with that long-ass leg of hers.
The buzzer signaled the end of the game and warred with the shouts of the crowd. I didn’t hear either. I was too busy screaming my freaking head off because the ball—that glorious, glorious ball—was in the back of the net. The Barn Owls had their W. I had my victory.
Vicky and I charged the field with the rest of the girls. The JV team jumped the short fence and joined us in our ecstatic sprint. We collided, a big, blue pile of screaming estrogen on the goal line. Varsity, JV, first string, second string, coaches, players. For that moment, that shining, victorious moment, we were all one.
Somehow we made it to mid-field and lined up to high-five the Blue Jays.
“Nice game, Coach. Girls looked great out there tonight,” the Blue Jays coach told me.
“Thank you,” I said. I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if I tried.
Then I was being turned around and lifted off the ground.
“You did it, Mars!” Jake swung me around under the stadium lights, and everything was just about perfect.
* * *
On our way out, we were stopped every ten feet by fans. My players were thrilled, their parents were ecstatic, and according to Haruko, the faculty was happy that I finally shoved a W in Coach Vince’s face. He’d left abruptly in the third quarter when it became apparent that a blow-out was not going to happen.
I didn’t know when Lisabeth and Steffi Lynn ducked out, and I didn’t care enough to ask.
“This is so great!” Vicky said, strutting toward the concession stand to see if they had any leftover nachos. “I mean, not only did you get to shove this in that Neanderthal’s face, you also got to show Steffi Lynn how to coach.”
“Why would she care?”
Vicky stopped in her tracks. “No one told you?”
“Told me what?” I looked over my shoulder for Jake. He was in conversation with one of his students.
“She’s the one who took over coaching when their coach died last season.”
“Steffi Lynn is Hitler?” Once again, I realized too late that I needed to have my epiphanies more quietly when a dozen heads swiveled in my direction.
Vicky clamped a hand on my arm and dragged me a few steps away.
“I thought you knew! She went all dictator on them and made Lisabeth the queen of the evil universe.”
“Why doesn’t anyone tell me this shit?” I whined. “I could have done a lot better with this whole ‘Hey, I’m your new coach. I swear I’m not an ass’ thing!”
“Hey, Coach!”
I turned around and found the varsity team lined up behind me making the heart sign with their fingers.
“I think they know,” Vicky said, slapping me on the back.
41
Marley
We won our next match, an away game that Thursday. The girls were clicking on the field, and that was as gratifying as seeing those very nice final scores.
It was a different kind of bus ride home after a win.
I basked in the 4-2 victory to the sounds of happy teenagers who, for once, weren’t at each other’s throats. Things were going well for me. It was a new experience. And while I expected a shoe or a brick wall to drop on me at any moment, I was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.
The cheerleader coach had paid me a visit to ask if I minded if she let her squad get a little more creative with their cheers at our games. The boys team had been throwing garbage at them during games. They were more than happy to switch to cheering for the girls. I was all for it.
Then there was the cute little wrapped package I found on my desk yesterday.
It was a whistle engraved with the words ‘Coach Marley.’ Courtesy of Jake. I had to give him credit. The man was an excellent gift giver.
I tapped out a text and attached a picture of the scoreboard.
Me: Another W in the books.
Jake: Nicely done, Coach. I’m thinking I should take my girl out to celebrate. Bonfire Saturday?
Oh, boy.
Culpepper had two kinds of bonfires. The high school kind where underage drinking and sex happened. And the adult kind where overage drinking and bullshitting occurred. I’d never actually been to an adult bonfire here. It was one of those moments when I had to take a mental step back and wonder when the hell I’d turned into an adult. And when the hell would I start feeling like one. Inside, I was still an overgrown, wounded teenager who had no idea how to function in the real world.
“Are you texting your boooooyfriend?” Phoebe asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Maybe,” I said.
She screwed up her nose and studied me. “Have you ever thought of like, I don’t know…trying?”
“What?”
“You know, like makeup, hair, shoes that don’t have to be tied? Something above and beyond moisturizer and deodorant?”
“Is Phoebe talking to you about making an effort?” Natalee’s head popped up over the seat.
“Hey, we were going to tag team this. Remember?” Morgan E. groused, sliding in next to the sleeping Vicky.
“What are you guys talking about?” I asked, not sure I really wanted an answer.
“Okay. Obviously Mr. Weston is into you, and that’s great. But you’re still kinda sad-circling around.” Natalee said, brushing her fringe of glossy black hair back from her face.
“Sad circling?”
“Remember that antidepressant prescription commercial with the sad circle?”
“Yes,” I said carefully. Was I a cartoon frowny face with a rain cloud over my head?
“That’s you,” Angela said, appearing one seat back in the aisle.
“Look. We know in the nineties, it was cool to be all apathetic and stuff. But that was a long time ago,” Morgan E. explained.
“Yeah, like a hundred years,” Angela snorted.
“Thank you for that, Angela.”
She smirked at me.
“What are you trying to say?”
“We think if you made an effort with your appearance, you’d be happier,” Phoebe insisted.
I wasn’t a stranger to makeup or hair products. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d dressed in nice pants and pretty shirts and worn mascara every single day. But it had all seemed pointless given my current circumstances.
I was just passing through. Just filling in. My fake boyfriend didn’t care what I did with my hair.
“Isn’t this sending the wrong message? Making yourself artificially prettier to be more attractive to other people?” I argued.
Natalee scoffed. “That’s adorable. And so wrong. You don’t make an effort for other people. You do it for yourself.”
“Duh,” Morgan E. added.
Okay. That was a lot different from my high school days. Everything everyone did back then was for the approval of other people.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I waved a hand in the air and then pointed at Natalee. “You’re telling me you don’t spend forty minutes every morning on your hair and makeup to look good for boys?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin with that erroneousness.”
I wondered if erroneousness was a word.
“First of all, it’s closer to an hour. Looking my best makes me feel my best. Guys don’t notice whether you have a smokey eye or the right shade of lip liner. They notice when you’re confident. Which serves a two-fold purpose,” Natalee instructed.
“If you’re confident,” Ruby said, popping up in the aisle, “you’re more attractive and interesting, and it’s harder for assh—jerks to mess with you.”
“True story,” Angela agreed. “If you’re confident, you’re not an easy victim.”
I had a blinding and horrible flashback of my entire high school career compressed into one montage of victimology. I felt a little sick.
“Where are you guys learning this stuff?” Was there a new class that schools started teaching after I graduated? And could I audit it?
“On the gram,” Morgan E. announced.
“The gram?”
“Instagram. You know, ‘doin’ it for the gram’? Hashtag true self. Hashtag beautiful you.”
“Instagram. YouTube. They’re full of role models. You want to learn to contour your face? How to get the best clothes haul at Target for back-to-school? How to respond to bullies without losing your soul? It’s all there,” Natalee said.
The rest of the girls nodded.
“Basically, we’ve been talking, and we think you can do better,” Morgan E. said, laying a hand on my shoulder.
Vicky snored.
“Better than Jake?” I asked.
Their raucous laughter woke Vicky. “Whaz happening? Whaz going on?”
“We’re making over coach,” one of the girls explained.
“Oh, thank God. I was going to start stuffing makeup samples in her gym bag,” Vicky announced.
“Not better than Mr. Weston,” Phoebe clarified to me. “There is no better than Mr. Weston. Better than what you’re doing now for yourself.” She bounced on the seat and grinned at the rest of the girls. “Sooooooo…”
“You’re going to meet us at Ulta Saturday morning, and we’re making you over,” Natalee finished, clapping her hands.
Libby poked her head up between two of the girls. “Did someone say Ulta? I have coupons.” She grinned wickedly.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
Jake: I’m taking your silence as a “Yes, Jake, I’d love to go to the bonfire with your handsome face and hot body. I’m looking forward to it so much that I’m going to buy you a present just for inviting me.”
“I think she should get a haircut,” one of the girls said, pulling my brown, blah, nothing-special tresses out of their ponytail prison.
“I’ve got a board on Pinterest with some potential styles.”
“Oooh, let me see,” Vicky demanded. “Do you think she could pull off bangs?”
42
Marley
I sucked wind through three whole miles and felt like an Olympic champion when my parents’ house came back into view. Autumn descended with its traditional unpredictability. Pennsylvania entertained a very long winter and summer punctuated with a day or two that could be considered a life-affirming spring and cozy, crisp fall. Some of the leaves were starting to change color on the maples, but other trees had already surrendered, dumping their still green foliage to the ground.
Pumpkin spice and baggy sweaters were everywhere even though the temperatures were volleying between the 40s and the 70s.
I hosed off quickly in the shower, grabbed the closest clean clothes, and then stopped and glanced in the mirror.
Effort.
Okay, fine. I could make some. I didn’t have to dress like I was always ready for a nap or a workout.
I dug out a pair of jeans and did a happy little shimmy when I realized they were loose around the waist. Unless I was mistaken, this was the pair I’d had to lay down on the bed and zip myself into last winter.
And here I was standing up and not choking like a stuffed sausage. Huh. Imagine that.
Rifling through the clothes I’d shoved carelessly into the closet when I’d unceremoniously crash-landed back here, I found a cute cashmere blend sweater with three-quarter sleeves. I’d treated myself to it when I’d gotten my last job. The job that was going to be my big break into adulthood and importance. I winced at my naïveté and dragged the sweater over my head.
Dang. Not bad. Was it my imagination, or was my back fat a little less noticeable now?
Fully in the spirit now, I found a pair of ankle boots that made me think of tough chicks that rode motorcycles. I nodded at my reflection. Not bad at all. Maybe my team was on to something.
Speaking of, I had a makeover to get to. God, I hoped they wouldn’t talk me into dying my hair pink or something.
* * *
The entire varsity team greeted me at the door of the cosmetics store, and I had a moment of unadulterated panic. What if this was some kind of cruel joke? What if they were going to shave my eyebrows off and make me up to look like a new drag queen. New drag queens didn’t have the deft touch that experienced ones did.
“You ready for a new you, Coach?” Natalee asked gleefully.
“Uh, maybe?”
Morgan E. gave me the once over. “Solid effort on the clothes,” she said. It sounded like a compliment.
“Thanks.”
I was surprised and a little relieved to see Libby there. I considered hers to be a friendly face. I felt I could trust her. If she were here, that probably meant the team wasn’t about to exact some complex, humiliating revenge.
“How’d you get here?” I asked her as we trooped inside.
She stuffed her hands into her sweatshirt pockets. “Angela picked me up.”
My face must have given me away.
“Don’t start getting all dewy-eyed. We’re on the same team. She lives a couple blocks away. We’re not BFFs and braiding each other’s hair, so relax.”
“I’d like to point out that we’re not on school property, and you can’t give us detention for swearing or not listening to you,” Ruby announced, leading the way toward the back of the store.
“Understood.” Did that mean I could swear, too? I definitely did not have the vocabulary of someone shaping America’s future. “I’d also like to point out that please remember I’m low maintenance.”
“Low maintenance doesn’t have to mean absolutely zero fucks given,” Morgan E. shot back.
* * *
There were aisles and aisles of makeup, skin care products, hair tools. Artful displays of charcoal face masks and fake lashes caught my eye.
I was officially in over my head. At their mercy.
Ruby stopped at the entrance to the in-house salon and faced me. “Do you trust us?” she asked.
I looked around the circle. No one looked like
they were choking on laughter or trying to cover up nefarious intent.
“Yeah. I guess so,” I said finally.
“Good,” Angela said. “Because we’ve picked a haircut for you.”
“Lemme see.” Oh, God. Was it a pixie cut? I didn’t think I had the bone structure or the hair product to pull one of those off.
Sophie S. crossed her arms. “We want you to trust us with your hair.”
I swallowed hard. It was just hair. It would grow back. Unless they used some kind of next-generation Nair that ate through my scalp. Oh my God!
My team wanted to know that I trusted them. Hair grew back.
“Okay,” I decided. “I trust you.”
They went from serious negotiators to giddy teenage girls in a heartbeat, clapping and squealing.
“Coach, this is Wilma. Wilma, this is our coach. We want you to do this to her,” Natalee said, holding up her phone to the six-foot-tall South American beauty sporting purple eye shadow and one skinny silver braid in a sea of thick, highlighted curls.
Wilma studied the screen, then me, and then the screen again. Her eyes narrowed.
“This is doable,” she decided.
She looked like she could be an authority on things like not ruining a person’s psyche with a bad haircut, so I decided to just go with it. “Let’s get this over with,” I sighed.
Wilma whirled the cape around me and pushed me into a chair.
“We’re going to get started on your makeup look,” Phoebe announced, and the girls dispersed.
“Oh, God. This has the potential to go horribly wrong, doesn’t it?” I asked Wilma.
“Darling, you will leave here better than you arrived. Now, how do you feel about defuzzing these caterpillars?” she asked, running a pink-tipped fingernail over my eyebrows.
* * *
Wilma spun me away from the mirror, presumably to prolong the torture. But at this point, it wasn’t necessary. I was resigned to my fate. I’d never had a relationship with my hair. It existed. I existed. We were two separate entities that were completely apathetic toward each other. There wasn’t much Wilma could do that I would either a) notice or b) really, truly care about.