I can’t. Not when I’m already wearing the “otherness” like a glove.
And without the benefit of pads and helmets, my differences are even more pronounced.
More glaring.
Every eye in here is judging me in my black tank top and the purple sports bra peeking out the back. The elastic is gone on my old shorts, meaning they’re rolled at the waist a few times just so they won’t fall down. And I’m damn certain they realize I’m still wearing softball cleats.
Grey huddles in closer to me, angling his broad back so that it’s harder for the others to watch. Napolitano chews at his lower lip. “What’s your one-rep max?”
“Two hundred,” I lie. Because I have no freaking clue. In the weight room, I just do what my sister says—the weight’s not mine to set.
“Start with a hundred on the bar,” Coach says. “If that feels good, up it on the next round.”
I nod, relieved if not still embarrassed.
One hundred forty-five pounds. Eight reps. No big deal.
But when I glance at my reflection in the mirror at the top of my first rep, that feeling of otherness crushes hard on top of that hundred pounds.
And then another weight: I miss my softball girls. I miss people I know. I miss being a true part of something. I know it’s early, but just this scene alone is enough that I worry I won’t ever fit in here. On this team, at this school, anywhere.
But I won’t know for sure unless I try.
I close my eyes and squat.
Twenty minutes late to the start of practice means it’s twenty minutes I have to stay after practice to make amends.
Luckily, it’s just twenty minutes of running.
Unluckily, the person making sure I complete the laps is Kelly Cleary.
For the most part, she’s sitting on her duff, ignoring me. Playing on her phone. Scratching out notes on her clipboard. Checking her silver-painted nails.
Basically, doing anything other than interacting with me.
Eight laps in and fresh perspiration crowds my hairline and rests under my eyes when the door to the boys’ locker room clangs open. Out comes Jake with a few of the A team guys. Keys stuffed in their hands, pristine sneakers on their feet, and tank tops clinging to hungry muscles. They’re laughing at something that feels a lot like they’re two seconds away from high fives. Still, Jake notices us and waves an arm through the air.
My hand automatically shoots up in response as I scream around a turn. But as it’s returning to my side, I see that Kelly’s hand is up, too. I stop on a dime.
Her eyes catch mine. “That wasn’t for you.”
Ugh. I take three steps, but the second I find my stride again, it hits me.
Kelly brought me my jersey and I had to put it away.
Oh. God.
I stop and turn around. Kelly’s messing with her phone. “Are you and Jake a thing?”
She doesn’t look up. “Keep running, Rodinsky.”
A subtle hint of satisfaction hangs in her answer, her cheeks pinking atop her freckled skin.
Goddammit. Kelly definitely did something with Jake last night that required the removal of his jersey. Wonder how Stacey feels about that.
I step away from her, glance at my Timex, and get back at it.
Two more laps and Kelly stands up and walks away without saying a word. Fine. Whatever. I don’t care. I decide to do a cooldown lap before grabbing my gear and running off to spend my allowance on brother bribery. When I finish and head toward where chain link separates the stadium track from the locker rooms, there’s someone standing there.
Grey.
The sunglasses are back, his hair is wet, and the smell of soap hits me almost as hard as the fact that I must totally stink. He holds a hand up, an iPhone generations newer than mine in his big palm. “Your number?”
I put my hands on my hips. “So you can give me shit for being late between now and this afternoon’s practice?”
“No, so I can make sure you’re not late again.”
He unlocks the phone and hands it to me. I see he’s already filled in the contact information—“Olive Call her Liv or Else Rodinsky.” I’m blushing, like instantly blushing, and I furiously hope he can’t tell postrun flush from heart-flutter flush.
With shakier fingers than I’d like to admit, I type in my number as we meander toward the girls’ locker room.
When I hand the phone back, my fingers brush his. And goddammit, I’m blushing again. But I look back up at him like there’s nothing wrong and my face is always beet red.
“My mom’s waiting,” he says, gesturing toward the parking lot. They must have carpooled; Coach Kitt seems like the type to be in her office at any available moment. “See ya.”
He leaves and my heartbeat slows as I push into the empty locker room. I grab my stuff from my usual locker and fish out my phone, ready to add him the second his text buzzes through. But, to my surprise, I’ve already got a text from a new number.
I click it open and it’s a copy of the team’s day-to-day schedule. And a winky smiley face.
Of course.
11
“HE SAT ON YOU?” ADDIE CACKLES, SHOULDERS quaking. “Like he just thought you’d be a good place to rest?”
“Yeah. Two hundred pounds of Goldilocks and I’m still not sure if I was just right or not.”
Now she’s laughing so hard she chokes midsip on her Dr Pepper. Instant coughing fit. More pop. She wipes her eyes, wetness catching the meager overhead lighting in the oregano-scented dim of Bruno’s Pizza, our favorite carb-delivery supplier. Finally, when she’s not going to cough or laugh anymore, she shoves two garlic knots in her mouth.
Starving, but ironically too exhausted to keep up with Addie in the food department, I spear myself a garlic knot and try to straighten my slouch from an S to an L. But somewhere in the middle, my back muscles seize up and I pitch to the side against the wall of our booth. It’s Saturday night and I’m zonked from my third two-a-day in a row. Honestly, it’s all I can do to stay upright across from Addie. My life’s been a blur of laps, drills, and scrimmages since Thursday.
And I still have a final round of two-a-days tomorrow, right before dinner with my family—a dinner in which I can’t look like I’ve been mentally and physically destroyed for four straight days. And the day after that, I get to trudge my way through my first official day as a Northland student. Yippee.
“So, other than being sat on, how’s it going?”
“Fine.”
Addie’s eyebrows rise so high on her forehead that they graze the baby hairs that have managed to escape her head of tiny black braids. “Liv.” When I don’t say anything else, she blinks slowly, exaggerating her disbelief to the point of animation. “You’re running around, getting tackled by a bunch of boys in tights, and all you have to say when I ask how it’s going is fine?”
“Technically, they aren’t supposed to be tackling me.”
“But they’re sitting on you.”
“Yes, in lieu of tackles.”
“Okay, whatever. Just give me the scoop.”
I wave a hand. “Eh, enough about me. Tell me what’s up with you—how’s the volleyball team looking?”