I asked Coach to order me the largest they had, but these things are made to be formfitting. Even twiggy Mena Patel’s shirt is tight, and I would have thought a toddler size would be blousy on her. There are only a few uniforms left to pass out, and part of me is hoping that mine is missing from the order, so I can play in my Zoo tee.
“Lah-HEE!” yells Jessa, drawing everyone’s attention to Nasrah Abdullahi, who looks like a Nike ad. She keeps her legs covered, so they’ve given her black leggings instead of the short-shorts, which make her already long legs look a mile high. The shirt just barely rounds the curve of her butt, and even the sleeves hit the exact right spot on her wrists. Everything fits her perfectly, like the designers at Custom Team Gear, Inc. had chosen her as their model of what the ideal player should be in every dimension and then sewed a uniform around her. She happens to be wearing a plain black hijab instead of the teal-and-yellow one she sometimes wears, so it looks like part of the uniform, too. She looks like a professional athlete.
If I was on the other team and that girl walked onto the court, I think I’d forfeit. I’m glad she is on my team.
“Walsh! Try your uniform on, make sure everything fits.” I grab the bag, trying to feel hopeful. Everyone else looks so good in their gear. The rest of them are taking selfies, posting group shots, and sorting through the socks—there is some argument about whether we should wear the maroon or gold ones tomorrow—so I slip into the locker room instead of changing in the gym like everyone else.
Behind me, Coach is saying, “Ladies! Let’s get to work! Change out of those jerseys so we don’t sweat ’em up before the game tomorrow.”
Alone in the locker room, I hold up the jersey. 18! My number is 18! It’s just a coincidence, but my birthday is May 18. I love the number 18. The fabric is slippery, like the edge of my old blankie, and I love the way the gold 18 stands out against the maroon. The oil slick design on the arms looks scientific, like some engineer calculated the mythical viscosity of color to determine how they’d flow if forced together.
But it looks . . . small. Smaller than the tops that are already packed into the “outgrown” bins in the basement. Smaller than anything I’ve put on in a long time. Smaller than I’d be if I only had one giant boob. Much smaller than the space I need for two of them.
But I really want to wear this uniform, more than I’ve ever wanted to wear anything else. I hold my breath and slide my head through the neck hole and my arms into the sleeves.
And that is as far as it goes. The shirt bunches at the level of my armpits. I tug and unroll it to pull it over my chest, but it is not going anywhere easily. This fabric must be for some industrial use. It is not as stretchy as you’d think.
I press one breast in and tug that side of the shirt down, then work on the other. I get it over the cups, but it is pulled so tight the Kennedy is warped; the lowercase n’s are as big as the capital K. I can’t get the bottom of the shirt low enough to meet the top of the shorts. If I lift my arms, the thing rides up another inch and stays there. Plus I look like I’m about to explode. This is how comic makers would draw a girl Hulk; it wouldn’t be her muscles, it’d be her boobs that would burst the seams.
I stand in front of the mirror.
Shit.
I can’t wear this thing.
Even if I didn’t care how it looked, I can’t move in it. If I bend forward at all, it inches up my belly. If the coach thought I was “unfocused” when my bra was riding around, she’s not going to want to send me out there tugging and twisting and pulling just to keep my ta-tas covered the whole game. It’d be handing the other team a win: Never mind looking for an opening, just hit everything to the one who can’t keep her shirt on.
I cannot wear this thing.
Here’s how tight it is. Imagine a full-grown man trying to fit into a baby onesie. Imagine a hippopotamus wearing a dog sweater. Imagine an article of clothing so tight it can squeeze tears out of your eyes. Because it does.
I can’t wear this thing.
And if I can’t wear the uniform, I can’t play.
I rip off the shirt. Or really, I peel myself out of the shirt, because getting it off turns out to be almost as hard as putting it on. I shove it back in the plastic pouch and sit down hard on the wooden bench.
I want to sneak out now and never come back, but the only way out is through the gym. And this is the only high school in Mom’s binder.
I put my dad’s T-shirt back on. I made the team, at least. That’ll have to be enough. I’ll go up to practice for the last time, and tonight I’ll email Coach Reinhold that I’m sorry but I need to concentrate on my schoolwork and she should put somebody else on the team in my place. They can keep my $130 activity fee. The other players will think I’m a flake, and if I am ever starving, they’ll throw an empty Lärabar wrapper at me and say, “I remember you. You quit the team before the first game.” But at least I will die with dignity inside an extra-large sweatshirt that’s never been sweated in.
And Jessa. What is Jessa going to think?
Back up in the gym, I look for a partner for the next drill.
“Walsh!” Jessa yells. She is standing with Coach R. I jog over to them, wiping my eyes with the side of my hand.
“We’re going to start you tomorrow as outside hitter and Nasrah as right side,” says Coach.
“Um . . . well . . . ah . . .” They both stare at me, because the right response is “Great!” and a bounce back to the drills. My face turns maroon, and not the good kind of uniform maroon.
“Outside means you’re on the left,” offers Jessa.
“Yeah, I know that. I just, I’m not sure if I’m going to make it.”
“WHAT?” snaps Jessa.
“I don’t have tomorrow as a schedule conflict for you,” says Coach, checking against her clipboard.
“I know. Sorry. I’m not sure I’m going to have time to play—”
“AT ALL? Are you QUITTING? NOW?” Jessa steams.
“No! I mean . . .” What I mean is yes, but I can’t say it. I love this team. I don’t want to quit.
“Jeez, Greer. Were you just at practice for fun? Did you ever even want to be part of this team?” Jessa is angry. Not just angry. I think she’s hurt. She has pushed for me from the start, went out of her way to help, and defended me when everyone else, including the coach, thought I was “unfocused.” She thought I was part of the team, and the team, to Jessa, is everything. And now I’m bailing. “You didn’t even put on the uniform.”
My face must give something away, because Reinhold, who has been letting Captain Jessa tear me a new one, puts her hand in front of Jessa before she can say anything else.