Freshman Year (12 page)

“No,” Stef says, “she wouldn't bother talking to you. She apparently only talks to girls she can get into bed.”

I'm too shocked to respond.

“Oh, come on,” Garrett says and slaps the back of Stef's head. “She's not that bad.”

“I call it like I see it, G.”

They're making me crazy with all their lesbian sex talk, and I'm feeling so confused about what's going on in my screwed-up head. I guess that's why I get defensive. “Well, it's like I said, we hardly ever talk.”

“Thanks anyway,” Stef says. “No worries, 'kay?”

While Garrett and Stef laugh at the freshmen shooting layups, I do the opposite of what Stef tells me to do. I worry.

I worry that Stef will find out it was me that went to go see Keeta. I worry that Garrett knows, just by looking in my eyes for that split second, that I have something to hide. And I worry that Stef and the whole entire school might see what I hope to keep secret forever: I can't keep my mind off Keeta. I know I'm headed for trouble, and the worst part of all is that all the worrying in the world isn't going to help me.

“Again!” Coach Riley screams at Garrett, who is our team's point guard. “I've got no plans tonight, ladies, so we'll be here until we get it right,” he says, as Garrett slaps the ball to send the play in motion, as if we ever suspected he had a life beyond the walls of this gym.

Today Coach Riley is teaching us a new offense he calls Desert Storm, which involves a lot of screening, running the baseline, and fake outs. It's completely confusing to my teammates on the court, but I have a bird's eye view in the bleachers, as I sit on my butt taking notes because of my sprained ankle, so it seems easy enough to me.

“No!” Coach screams when Tori goes the wrong way again. “Baseline!”

While they run suicide lines, I doodle in my notebook and think about my day. In guitar class I did my best to avoid eye contact with Keeta because I'm trying not to be a whore who flirts with her friend's girlfriend. Jake helped distract me by singing his new lyrics to “Let It Be,” which went something like, “When I find myself coming out of the bathroom, Abbey Brooks walks right into me. Seeking some direction, after I pee.” And then he played “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but changed the words to, “Abbey had a little booboo, her knee was as gross as road kill.” He's pretty funny, I guess.

Then we finalized our plans for Friday. “So, my bro is driving because I can't drive yet,” Jake said toward the end of class. “But he's cool. Can we pick you up at six? That way we can get some grub before the show.” Keeta walked by as Jake was laying out the night's plans, and I got weirdly quiet, which then made Jake say, “I mean, if you're still into going.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” I said to reassure him, though I haven't even asked my mom if I can go. I'm hoping, like the playing basketball thing, I can just dump the idea on her as I race out the door Friday morning.

After guitar, I took the painful journey to PE on my crutches of doom and sat in Mrs. Schwartz's office filing emergency contact cards. I was just about to consider suicide by paper cut, but then I noticed the name on the card in front of me: Moreno, Reyna (Keeta). I considered stealing the card but then realized that could result in Keeta's death if they didn't know she was allergic to penicillin. So instead, I got all
Mission Impossible
and stealthily rolled my wheeled office chair to the copier and made a duplicate of Keeta's card. Now I know everything! (Insert evil laugh.) Including her address, her phone number, that she lives with her grandma (no parents listed), and that her birthday is on August 13, making her seventeen, not eighteen like I previously thought. That means we're only three years apart, two really, once I turn fifteen in November.

“Brooks!” Coach Riley yells, bringing me back to the present.

I jump in my seat and slam my notebook shut. God help me if anyone ever saw that I had written “Abbey Moreno” in the margins. “Yes, Coach?”

“Can you tell Ms. Woodside where she is supposed to go after the ball gets passed to Ms. Church?” The scary vein in his neck is pulsating.

“Uh,” I stammer and search through my notebook.

Meanwhile, Ms. Woodside (aka Stef), is standing at the top of the three-point line with her hands on her hips. “I know where to go, Coach. You don't have to ask Abbey. She's not even playing.”

Uh oh. Coach's face turns insta-purple, as he marches over to Stef. Then he swings his finger in her face like a tiny baseball bat. “Are you talking back to me, Woodside?” he screams down at her, showering the top of her head with spit.

Stef doesn't even flinch. “Just stating the facts, sir.”

My mouth is not the only one that's dropped open, and I know my teammates are thinking the same thing I'm thinking: she's insane.

“On the bench, Woodside! Giuriato, you're in.”

Eva runs onto the court and Stef marches off. She passes the bench and heads toward the locker room.

Like the rest of us, Riley can't believe it. “Woodside, what do you think you're doing?”

Stef stops but keeps her back to him and the rest of the team.

“If you walk out of this gym, don't expect to be welcomed back in.”

Without hesitating, Stef strips off the blue mesh practice jersey, tosses it on the floor, and leaves the gym.

“Lines!” Coach yells at the rest of the girls.

The team obeys, but I can tell by the way Garrett looks over at me that she wants me to do something. This isn't the first time Coach Riley has kicked someone off the team during one of his practices, but he always lets them back after they apologize. Since Stef is our best outside shooter, I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow, but it's not like her to act like this. I guess that's why Garrett wants me to see if Stef is okay.

I quickly get my stuff together and carefully approach Coach on my crutches. “Um, Coach Riley, I need to call my mom to make sure she's still able to pick me up.”

He waves me off and I go in search of Stef. After I enter the main locker room, I hear loud voices echoing through the empty rows. I hobble toward them but then stop and lean up against the wall outside the exclusive varsity locker room when I realize who it is. I know I shouldn't listen, but I want so badly to know more about what it's like to be them.

“I don't give a crap about Riley, Keeta,” Stef shouts. “Don't you get it? My mom's going to make me leave my own house.”

“Stef, she's not going to kick you out,” Keeta says, remaining calm. “She's your mom. She'll get over it.”

“You don't know that, Keeta. You don't know what I have to put up with. Just because your grandma couldn't care less about where you go and who you're with, doesn't mean it's like that for the rest of us.”

“What the hell, Stef.” Keeta gets irritated, but then quickly changes her tone again. “Look, I told you already. Move in with me.”

Stef slams her locker shut. The wall I'm leaning against vibrates in my chest. “Why the hell would I do that? You're nothing but a
mentirosa
, Keeta.”

“That's bs, Stef. You don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Oh really? Then who stopped by to see you at work the other day?”

“I told you already. I don't know.”

“Whatever.”

It's quiet for a second, then Keeta says, “You're the only one I want, Stef. Come on, you know it's true.”

My guilt quickly turns to jealousy, and I tell myself for the hundredth time this week that I'm an idiot for liking Keeta.

Instead of falling into Keeta's arms like I would, Stef laughs. “Keeta, don't embarrass yourself. I read the letter you wrote her.” Then I hear the rustle of Stef getting into her backpack. “Here, you should have it back. It's so damn beautifully written. Actually, better yet”—Stef rips it into what I assume are very small pieces—“she should never see it. I wouldn't want anyone else to have to put up with you and your lies.”

“Why are you going through my stuff?”

“Isn't it obvious, Keeta?” Stef yells.

“Stef,
hazme caso
—” Keeta starts, but I don't think Stef wants to listen to anything Keeta has to say anymore.

“Keeta, just leave me alone.”

“Stef, come on.
Calmada
,” Keeta tries again. “If you would just calm down and listen to me I can—”

“
Púdrete
, Keeta! I mean it.” Then Stef starts to cry. “Go to hell.”

“Dammit, Stef!” Hearing Keeta's voice turn sharp and mean makes me want to run out to the gym. But with all my injuries, I'm incapable of moving faster than a wobbly-legged toddler. “God, you know what, Stef?
Como quieras
. Have it your way. I'm done with your drama,” Keeta yells, then swings open the door of the varsity locker room and leaves Stef with these final words: “I don't need this crap, and I don't need you.”

I wish I had run earlier because now my only option is to hop over to a dark row of lockers and hope Keeta won't notice me hunched in the corner, trying to will myself invisible.

I almost look up when I hear an unlucky locker get punched, but I keep my head down until I'm sure Keeta is out of there.

Without the two of them screaming at each other, the air is quiet and cool again like after a monsoon storm. But the silence is soon replaced with the sounds of Stef crying. I think about sneaking out, but I can't just let her sit in there alone. She needs a friend, and even though I'm pretty sure I'm currently her worst option, the least I can do is try to help her.

I push the door open and see Stef sitting on the long wooden bench, gripping the edge so hard her knuckles are white. Her tears have decorated the cement floor below her with tiny wet polka dots.

I whisper her name.

“Go away, Abbey. I don't want to talk.”

“Okay,” I say and try to back out of the room on my crutches.

“I just feel so stupid, you know? God, everyone warned me about her. They told me she was like this, but I just wouldn't listen.”

I take it she does want to talk, so I sit down on the bench next to her and lean my crutches against the wall.

“You probably think I'm crazy.”

“No, I don't. I swear,” I say.

“The thing is, Abbey, she always hurts me, but I can't seem to get it through my thick skull.” She takes off her sweaty T-shirt, screams into it, and then throws it against the lockers. It lands in a damp heap on the floor. “I hate her and I love her and I can't stand it.”

“I'm sorry,” I whisper and wish I could say something more useful, but I'm a little distracted by the fact that she's now sitting here in her semi-see-through white sports bra. Her pale skin is bright red and blotchy like mine gets after working out.

“God, Abbey, she doesn't even know the half of it. My mom is making me go to therapy. She thinks I have mental problems because I like girls. She said if I don't stop seeing Keeta, she's sending me off to a boot camp in California for, like, delinquent kids. Can you believe that?”

“No,” I say honestly and wonder what I'm getting myself into. It's not that my mom is a gay basher or anything, but maybe she'll feel differently when she finds out her only kid is gay or bi or whatever the heck I am.

“What kills me is that letter. She compared some girl's eyes to, and I quote, ‘two deep pools of blue sky, sprinkled with stars that sparkle even in the daylight.' God, she's never written me anything like that.”

The floor is littered with torn-up binder paper, and I try to read more of the words on the scraps that lie at my feet. “Who was it to?” I say, totally not meaning to speak those words out loud.

“Oh, Keeta's an expert at lies and deception. She never puts real names on that stuff. It was probably for some bitch at Sabino High. She's always had it for this blond slut on their team.”

I feel foolish that for a second I thought the letter could have been written to me.

“It just hurts, Abbey,” Stef says, as another round of tears begins to fall. Then she collapses in a heap on the bench and, somehow, ends up resting her head on my lap.

My body instantly tenses up every muscle because now there's a half-naked lesbian resting her head in my lap. What if someone sees us like this? I mean, I know Stef doesn't like me like that and I haven't ever thought of her like that, but still.

“I hope I never see her again,” Stef cries.

I consider shoving her off me, but then I remind myself that this is obviously just a friend thing. If it were Kate, I would console her if her heart had just been broken, even if she was in a sports bra. It shouldn't be any different now.

I look down at Stef and push back a lock of her curly blond hair that is stuck to her wet cheek. Then I say the only thing I can think of to say. “I'm so sorry, Stef.” And I really am. I'm sorry for everything.

*

Thursday after practice, I find myself standing in front of my mom's easel with the intention of telling her about my date with Jake. The last minute approach I had planned was questioned by Kate and Garrett, so I decide to be more mature and give my mom at least twenty-four hours' notice.

“Are you just admiring my work or is there something you need to say?” my mom asks after five minutes pass and all I've managed to do is help the paint dry with my heavy breathing. She looks up at me over the rim of her glasses and can instantly tell I'm on the verge of confession. “Okay, spill it, Abbey Road. What did you do?”

“God, Mom. Nothing.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“I just was wondering, uh, what you're doing tomorrow night.”

She drops her brush in a glass of cloudy water and picks up her coffee. “Tomorrow night? You know, the usual one-woman Scrabble tournament. Why? What do you think you're doing?”