Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  Danielle smiles and brushes a piece of hair out of my face, her fingers cool on my hot skin. “Just like you’ll survive cross-country, right?”

  Oh. Shit. I nod, internally kicking myself. I should’ve known that she wouldn’t just forget about that little detail.

  “When’s your first meet? I’d like to go.”

  Double shit. “I don’t know yet. I’ll find out.”

  “Good. And if your Saturday morning race times conflict with Heather’s torture yoga, so be it,” she says with a little laugh and a shrug. She squeezes my hand one last time. “And tomorrow, remember to be yourself and you’ll be fine.”

  13

  THE SECOND I PARK HELENA THE HONDA ON MONDAY morning, Ryan and Jesse barrel out and weave through the rows of cars, hot in pursuit of a couple of colt-legged freshmen cheerleaders.

  No goodbye. No thank-you. No “That’ll do, Jeeves.”

  Boys.

  So I follow the gaudy orange paw prints through the junior-senior parking lot and up to the school’s main entrance. I’ve never actually entered Northland this way, preferring to sneak in the back like a criminal or a celebrity. Based on whose side you were on at the Northland–Windsor Prep game, I’m either or both.

  The weather is beautiful, and at least half the school is still outside on the front lawn, soaking up the clear morning sun, the atmosphere charged by the electric current that lights up the first day of school as much as the last. That little shock of promise and hope that’s threaded through a fresh start.

  And that makes me want to cry.

  I had all of that exactly where I wanted it at Windsor Prep.

  Now I can’t even dress myself properly, because everything that fits me is either old athletic clothes or part of my private school uniform. And I’m not about to beg for new clothes for the school year; we can’t afford that. So I settled on a pair of skinny jeans that I’ve got to roll up at the cuff because they used to be Heather’s, and a tank top that has seen far too many hours in the batting cage. Still, I curled my hair, swiped on some black liner with my daily mascara, dabbed on some cream blush, and smudged on a lip gloss four shades brighter than my summer cherry ChapStick.

  My shoulders droop more than I’d like as I make my way through a crowd of strangers, a familiar voice cutting through my thoughts. “Posture like that makes me think someone punched your pony.”

  Grey is dressed all preppy again, just like he was on Saturday night in a Lacoste polo and khaki shorts. He’s kicked up against a stone pillar, hands in his pockets, rocking his newscaster-surfer look in all its chiseled glory, his shades pulled low against the strong morning sun.

  “Punched? Nice.”

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  I skate past him and catch the door handle. “No offense, but I’d rather be starting school at Windsor Prep.”

  “Why? So you can play fashion face-off with a bunch of girls in the same skirt?” He bumps gently into my shoulder, but there’s no wink. The deadpan game is strong with him this morning.

  “No. So I can play fashion face-off with a bunch of my friends in the same skirt,” I say, even though it feels like a lie. I’ve barely seen anyone but Addie since state.

  “And here I thought we were friends.” Grey’s hand goes flat against the little Lacoste alligator over his heart and he falls with a clang against somebody’s locker. A few girls stop talking and look our way. “That was a dagger, Rodinsky. A dagger. Oh, my heart.”

  “If you’re saying you want to trade the shorts-and-polo number for a Windsor Prep uniform, I do own a sewing machine and about eight skirts I no longer need.”

  The serious planes of his face break. “Okay, nah, I’m fine.” He pushes off the locker and raises his chin. The girls are still staring at him, and that’s when it dawns on me that even though I’m a nobody here, Grey is a somebody. A major somebody of the “hot starting quarterback/senior football co-captain” variety. “Speaking of school, how’s your schedule looking?”

  My schedule just has the names of classes and the room numbers. Not that I know where anything is, other than the locker rooms and weight room. Northland is the oldest school in the county and has been added on to so many times that it’s laid out like a half-full Scrabble board.

  As Grey reads down the line of classes and places, I glance up, ending up eyeball to eyeball with about two dozen posters with faces and names I don’t know, all in various arrangements, all begging “So-and-so for Homecoming Queen!”

  They let them campaign for honorary titles at this dumb school? And homecoming is still, like, five weeks away—I know because Coach Lee has it highlighted outside his office, the most important game outside of the league championship and anything else we get at state.

  “Spanish first, huh?” Hope rises in my chest that he might be in that class, too, even though he’s a senior—it is an elective, after all. “My class is that way. I’ll show you.”

  “You’re not in Spanish?” I ask, traitorous cheeks pinking.

  “Not that section. But we do have Honors Calc together right after lunch.”

  Lunch—that sounded like an invitation. Thank God. “Awesome.”

  “We can discuss integrals for, like, two straight hours if we want.” At this, he winks, completely oblivious to the fact that the sea of students is parting neatly for him and his broad shoulders. I have people skirting past me, knocking into my backpack in a way I’ve never experienced in high school. Mostly because Windsor Prep doesn’t have nearly this many students, but also because I was so high up the social ladder, my shoulder wasn’t in anybody else’s airspace.

  I start to laugh because though I don’t know him well, I doubt that’s what Grey likes to do for fun, but then suddenly his hand is twined with mine. “Liv, this way,” he says, and then he’s tugging me down a side hallway.

  We’re touching. And not in a shoulder-knock cutesy way.

  Too soon, he lets go. “Two down, on the left.”

  “Cool,” I say, though I’m most definitely not. Between the nerves, the dread, and whatever the heck just happened when we made skin-to-skin contact, I’m pretty sure I should’ve gone without any blush this morning. “Thanks for walking me.”

  “No problem. I’ll play Good Samaritan anytime.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly—

  “Grey?”

  There, filling only half of the doorway with her slender frame, is Coach Kitt. Or, apparently, my Spanish teacher.

  All the annoying color drains from my face.

  “Hey, Mom.” Grey cocks a thumb at me. “Just helping out Liv.”

  Coach Kitt’s red lips smooth into a line, but there’s a hitch at the end, her version of her son’s half smile. “A new favorite pastime of yours.”

  Unfazed, Grey grins wider. “Eh, gotta have a hobby.” His shoulder knocks mine. “Later, Liv.”

  When he’s gone, I follow the stilettoed heels of Coach Kitt into the classroom. A quick survey tells me I know exactly two people in the twenty or so seats. I hope that Coach Kitt’s love of team culture stops at the softball diamond because if we pair up for group projects at all, I now have a one in ten chance of having either Kelly or Jake as a partner.

  They’re sitting next to each other—of course—which adds credence to the epiphany I had on the track, though they aren’t talking to each other at all.

  Kelly is closest to me, cat eyes in finely drawn form as she stares daggers at the notebook in front of her. It’s the same look she gives the clipboard in practice. So, either her eyesight really is as crappy as I thought after she beaned me at state, or she just stares that hard at everything.

  Jake stands out in a bright orange Northland track-and-field T-shirt. He runs hurdles—really well, apparently—because it’s the reason he was in The Kansas City Star spring sports showcase with me way back when we met.

  I don’t glance away quickly enough and he catches me looking.

  Coach Kitt begins to rattle off the names and
bodies start to move, all in alphabetical order. Which means that, sadly, I don’t need to wait until she hits Rodinsky to know exactly where I’ll be sitting at 7:45 AM every school day for the next nine months.

  Right in front of Jake Rogers.

  Because, as Addie pointed out, I have all the luck, my seat in Spanish actually isn’t right in front of Jake.

  Nope, the Rodinsky–Rogers split happened at the end of a row. Which means, because of the snaking layout, Jake and I get to sit next to each other in the back of the class.

  It’s something I would’ve seriously dreamed about five months ago. I probably did dream about it. Possibly while sitting in Mr. Sweeten’s Honors English class, “listening” to him drone on about the merits of The Scarlet Letter. Possibly.

  And now that daydream is a reality.

  Which, despite our history, actually isn’t much of a problem.

  It was just like at practice—not exactly comfortable, but not exactly uncomfortable. It’s fine but awkward. Probably the best scenario, all things considered.

  Though I’d appreciate it if he randomly forgot his cologne for the rest of the school year because—hot damn—that’s distracting.

  Now it’s hours later and I can still smell it, after sitting through two other classes where I knew exactly no one. And now I’m standing at the entrance to junior-senior lunch, paper sack in hand, scanning the room. It’s filled with hundreds of faces, but I’m only looking for one.

  But of course I spy Mr. Cologne first. He’s sitting with Kelly and some girls I recognize from softball games. In my previous life, that would’ve been my table to curate.

  I don’t linger long as a familiar tan arm shoots up, hand open as casually as if it had just thrown a perfect spiral. Grey, calling me to a table by the windows.

  As I get closer, I recognize other faces at the table, mostly as people I’m used to seeing in football gear—Topps, Chico Sanchez, Zach Tate, Trevor Smith, and, interestingly, Nick Cleary. I suppose twins don’t have to do everything together, but separate lunch tables wasn’t something I was expecting. Also unexpected: The only girl at the table is a brunette in a cheerleading uniform. I haven’t seen her before, but she smiles at me like we’ve been best friends since macaroni necklaces.

  “O-Rod,” Topps says by way of greeting, beard even more striking when paired with a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase I LIKE TACOS.

  “Good one, Topps,” Grey says, aiming for a lazy fist bump across the table.

  Topps raises a bushy brow. “What do you mean?”

  “O-Rod. Like A-Rod. And she even plays third like him,” he deadpans, the corners of his lips curled. “It’s clever.”

  “I didn’t make it up. It’s her actual nickname.”

  Grey kicks out the chair next to him. It puts me between him and Nick, and directly across from the cheerleader, who is still smiling—and stealing Topps’s fries while he attempts to explain his lack of cleverness. It also puts me within Grey’s wingspan, as he’s got both arms splayed out and curled around the chairs on either side of him. Chico is on his left side—and not looking weirded out by the manspreading—while I’d be on his right. “Your nickname is O-Rod? How did I not know this?”

  I slide into the chair and pull it up, conscious of his forearm making contact with my upper back. To cover for the flush I feel creeping up my cheeks, I sock him on the shoulder. “You didn’t ask. Topps did.”

  Grey lifts his chin in appreciation. “Nice work, Topps.”

  “Now, I’ve got a question for you, Topps,” I say, popping open my water bottle. “What’s your actual name? Clue a girl in.”

  “Tobias James Topperman,” the brunette says with a giant grin crowded onto her elfin face. She’s got huge brown eyes that make her look like Bambi—in a good way. “And I’m Lily Jane Mack.”

  “My Lily Jane,” Topps says with a smile, squeezing her shoulder with a bear paw. Said by anybody else, the “my” there would come across as misogynistic bullcrap, but with Topps, it’s somehow sweet and endearing.

  “Nice to meet you, Lily Jane.”

  “Likewise, O-Rod.” She leans in. “Don’t let the uniform fool you. I’m not like she-who-must-not-be-named.”

  “Oh.” Frost settles over my skin as it dawns on me that I’d forgotten Stacey was on the cheer squad.

  The chill spreads with further realization that—yet again—these people at Northland know a heck of a lot more about me than I know about them. All of them know about Stacey. And all of them know about why I’m here.

  No use in denying our shared understanding, as much as I hate it. I match Lily Jane’s smile, or at least I try to. “I’m fine with giving her the Voldemort treatment.”

  “Me too.” Grey raises his knuckles to me in an offer of a fist bump. I offer my fist back, but as I do, I catch Nick and Topps in a whisper, both their eyes glued to Grey.

  And I wonder what else I don’t know.

  14

  I’M HIGH AS A FREAKING KITE AS GREY AND I WALK TO the only class we have together. Honors calculus—with Coach Lee as our instructor, as it turns out. Lily Jane, Topps, and Nick are in the class, too, which is awesome because it wasn’t pleasant feeling so alone in my earlier classes.

  We pile into the classroom, Grey in front of me, which is much more enjoyable than sitting next to Jake, and pull out notebooks in a shuffle. Grey immediately wrenches around in his chair until he’s facing sideways, the sling of his body oh-so-comfortable, both myself and Coach Lee now in his sight line.

  And as I’m writing the date at the top of my notebook, the bell rings, bringing with it a flush of last-minute classmates. I glance up as the last person files in: Jake. Again.

  He grabs a seat next to Kelly—who is here, too, because of course—and a pleased little look crosses her face as she arranges the pens and notebook on her desk.

  I don’t care. I swear.

  “Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Lee says, underlining his name with a careful swipe of marker. “I do hope that though this class is directly after lunch, you will make an effort to be on time.” He pauses, making eye contact with Jake for what seems like forever. I bite back a smile. Jake is soooo screwed tonight at practice, at least if he survives whatever weights workout Napolitano has already devised. “I expect all my students, but most especially my honors students, to take mathematics seriously.”

  He stops his speech with an appraising glare—as if to see if we’re up to the task. After one last sweep across our faces, Coach Lee is apparently pleased enough to continue. He turns back to the board and yells out a name. “Topperman.”

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “You take mathematics seriously, do you not?”

  “As serious as I take my strawberry pop.”

  Considering he and Lily Jane just shared three cans over lunch, I’d say he’s actually very serious about math.

  “What’s the difference between algebra and calculus?”

  Topps seriously freaking strokes his beard like a philosopher. Still, I’m literally holding my breath for the guy because that is most definitely not an easy first-day-of-school question, but Lily Jane is smiling at him like he’s a freaking rock star. When he answers, I see why. “They’re partners in crime. Calculus finds new equations, algebra solves them.”

  Coach Lee writes Topps’s definition on the board and when he turns around, it’s with a smile like I’ve never seen. “Our district mathletics champ, ladies and gentlemen.” Topps takes a little bow from his desk, cheeks bright pink. “We’ve got forty-six minutes remaining today, so let’s see what new equations we can find.”

  The rest of the day is a blur of faces and assignments and new, poorly planned classroom locations, and my mind is toast by the last bell. I head straight from my last class to the athletics wing, the team’s prepractice trip to the weight room so heavy on my mind that I don’t notice the mass of boys huddled near the line of coaches’ offices.

  That is, until one of them peels off the pac
k, takes off down the orange-and-white checkered tile, and wraps me in a bear hug so strong that we plow into a nearby set of lockers. A metallic noise pings through my skull as it bounces off the empty steel box. The rest of me is stationary, pressed between a locker and this person. Who I now see is Ryan. A screeching, shaking Ryan.

  “VARRRRRSSSSSITTTTY,” he whisper-screams into the crook of my neck, where his face has landed.

  I realize the mass of boys is gathered around a bulletin board above the drinking fountain and that nearly every one of them is wearing adidas from head to toe.

  Jesse was right. “Duuuuuudddde. Your sister is kind of an asshole.”

  I’ve been so wrapped up in my own student-athlete drama at Northland High that I completely—and I mean completely—forgot about the team announcements today.

  Football is a sport that needs bodies and cuts no one, the pecking order decided in a much more fluid A team and B team scenario of varsity and JV, plus the catchall C team. Soccer, not so much—there are far more bodies than spots. Tryouts matter, and if you’re cut, you’re not playing. Considering Ry’s placekicking doldrums last week, I should’ve been on pins and needles all day, and instead I’m half-clueless and pinned to a locker.

  I am a total asshole.

  “Varsity?!” I whisper-scream in response. “I thought the coach hated you.”

  Ryan pulls back, cheeks flushed. “Turns out Coach Parsons is of the Danielle Rodinsky-Simpson ‘the more I hate you, the more I love you’ school of coaching.”

  I mock-punch him in the gut. “Harsh, man, harsh.”

  “You’re right, not fair to Coach Parsons.”

  I shake my head and run a hand through his hair. “I’m so proud of you, Ry.”

  He raises a brow. “Any chance you might want to express that pride in a double-dip waffle cone from Happy Cow postpractice?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Good, because I’m going to need all the calories I’m gonna get. Tonight’s going to be killer.”