Freshman Year (7 page)

“Are you ready yet?”

“Just one more,” Kate says and showers her hair with another dose of hairspray. “Okay. Now we can go.”

Our walk to school begins, and as we trudge down her street and then cut through the grocery store parking lot, Kate starts her morning rant. “I can't believe my mom shrunk my favorite pair of jeans and Jenn better replace my eye shadow because if she doesn't…”

And that's about when I tune out and instead think my own, nonshareable thoughts. I have the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick's pick in my pocket, and each time I reach in and touch it, I replay how she opened my palm and placed it gently in my hand. And how sexy she looked when she played my dad's guitar and how after I got home last night I actually hugged my guitar in hopes that her talent or perhaps her fresh, just-out-of-the-shower scent might rub off on me.

“And you know what else?” Kate asks.

I can tell from her intonation that I need to participate in the conversation again. “No. What?”

“I was talking to Jenn last night, this was before the eye-shadow incident, and you know how she's on the girls' varsity basketball team at Gila?”

I switch my guitar to the other shoulder and grimace at the sweat mark the strap has left on my shirt. “Yeah. What about it?” I say, wondering if I sound too defensive or guilty. I have successfully avoided telling Kate about how Garrett and Stef had bugged me about trying out, so I can't believe she's bringing up the subject at all. Then I wonder if Kate's doing her BFF mind reading thing. Maybe she already knows everything.

“Well, Jenn started in on me again about trying out for the team.”

“Really?” I use the corner of my shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping down my temple. It must be about ninety-five degrees and our conversation isn't helping me stay cool. “What did you say?”

“I told her no way in hell, of course, but Jenn was pretty insistent we do it. And she said there aren't really that many of the”—Kate lowers her voice—“lesbians on the team. I think she said there are only two main couples and maybe one other.” We enter the noisy hallway of Gila, but the cool air doesn't help my sweaty condition. “And, I don't know. Jenn made it sound like it could be sort of fun.”

“Fun? Humph,” I grunt. But what I'm actually thinking is that Kate's attempting to trick me into confessing I've been thinking about trying out, too. “What about our promise? What about not knowing at all how to play?”

“Well,” she says, as we approach our lockers, “I made a list of pros and it's pretty long.”

“Ah, the pro-con list lives on. And I thought I was the only geek left.”

“Whatever. Just listen to me and be serious for once.”

I've never been more serious about any conversation we've had, but she can't know that.

“First of all, we get to go on road trips and get out of school early sometimes.”

“I guess that wouldn't suck,” I say.

Our lockers are side by side, thanks to some tactical moves given to us from our insider Jenn, and we spin in our combinations.

“Plus,” she says, “we'd get to be on a team that didn't require polyester blazers and electing officers.”

“Well, that would address rule number twelve, avoiding groups that have a high geek and polyester ratio.”

“Exactly.” Then she looks down at her shoes. “And there's one more thing.”

“We'd get in shape?” I say, as I struggle with opening my locker.

“Actually, it's better than that.”

I've seen this look in her eyes before and know what she'll say next is related to a guy.

“I found out that Derrick plays basketball, too, so I'm thinking if he sees me as more than just a genius in chemistry class then maybe…”

“At last. The truth.” My locker finally opens, and I hang my backpack on the hook because I don't think I'll need it for guitar class, and I have enough to carry. “How do you know he's even into you, anyway?”

“Oh my God, did I not tell you how I totally caught him looking at my boobs? That's a good sign, right?”

“Why don't you just join the cheerleading squad? Then you can flash him your underwear without appearing to be a slut.”

“Not funny,” she says, as she looks in her mirror to fix her hair. “Besides, if I do it, you're doing it, so get over it.”

I slam my locker shut. “No way, and you can't make me.”

“Yes way, and I will make you. I always do.”

She has a good point.

“Besides, what are you so afraid of anyway, Abbey? It's not like you're one of them, so who cares. Right?”

And I have nothing to say to that.

*

Room P3 is in the deepest depths of the performance hall, and apparently, I'm really early for guitar class because, as I walk in, the room echoes with silence. Even though this isn't an honors class, I follow Rule #2 and sit in the seat farthest away from the front. With nothing better to do, I take out my guitar and strum the only note I can remember from my dad's lessons—D, D, D, D, D—which doesn't make for a pretty song. I try to remember the other notes my dad taught me but can't, which really bums me out.

Five minutes later, the final bell rings and I find myself surrounded by grungy boys with long hair, wearing black T-shirts printed with the names of bands I've never heard of: Keat's Kills, Los Payasos de Mars, and The Spazmodic Fire Monkeys. I wait for a girl to walk through the doors to latch on to for solidarity and security, but it's just one boy after another. Eventually I stop watching the door, look down at my Converse, and pout. Stupid guitar class. I should have taken Home Ec.

Mr. Chase makes his entrance from behind the blue velvet curtain and rolls out a portable chalkboard. It's filled with notes entitled “History of the Guitar.”

“I see some of you are ready to get started on actually playing the guitar.” He looks over at me and smiles. I hadn't yet noticed, but I'm the only one with a guitar out. All the boys laugh, and I slowly die in my chair. “But, before we get to that, just like I promised, we have to fulfill some requirements from The Man.”

The class groans, and I panic. Everyone else has their binders and backpacks, but mine are in my locker. As much as I hate doing it, I have to ask someone if I can borrow some supplies.

I scan the circle of slimy boys. I skip all the ones with multiple face piercings because they weird me out. That leaves five guys to choose from. One is wearing a wifebeater and has really hairy armpits. I fear his odor. The next three won't make eye contact with me. Then my eyes fall upon an oasis in my Sahara Desert of grossness: Jake Simpson. I don't know how I missed him coming in, but I am totally relieved to see his tall self.

Jake sees me, too, holds up a notebook and a pen, and raises his eyebrows. I nod my head, put my hands together to thank him, and he passes them around the circle to me.

Mr. Chase is all the way down to the third bullet on his list, so I start frantically taking notes as soon as the supplies arrive. I'm so completely engrossed in my note taking that I almost don't register that someone else has entered the classroom.

“
Buenos días
,
Señor
Chase,” I hear. “Sorry I'm late.”

I stop writing, look up, and nearly upchuck my Cheerios.

The Hot Dog on a Stick/Guitar Chick hands one of the coffees she's carrying to Mr. Chase and sits down on the stage. And me? Now my mouth is a mailbox left open, agape and empty of expression. She looks my way, nods her head toward my guitar, and smiles. In return, I give her a poorly performed closed-mouth grin. My mom says it's cute when I smile like that, which means I must look totally stupid.

“Lady and gentlemen that are new to class, this is my student aide, Ms. Reyna Moreno.”

“But you can call me Keeta,” she says to me, and to the rest of the class, I guess.

I repeat both her names in my head over and over again. I don't want to ever forget them, as if that's possible.

*

Taking guitar is the best thing I've ever done
, is what I'm thinking on Monday morning, as I walk to Spanish 2. Yes, after five days of being in the same room with Keeta, I'm in high school heaven. I wasn't even fazed when I got another lunch detention from Mrs. Schwartz for supposedly talking during her badminton presentation. In fact, I'm as happy as can be when I sit down in my usual seat in Spanish, take out my book and binder, and wait for Stef and Garrett to arrive.

Stef's backpack lands in her seat with a loud thud and I'm jolted out of my Keeta daydream. “Well, if it isn't Ms. Lying Her Ass Off,” Stef says. “Look at her, Garrett. What a
mentirosa
.”

Garrett leans over my shoulder and slams my book shut. “Yeah, what a liar. You know, Abbey, you really had us fooled.”

If this was junior high, I would have quickly called out for the teacher to intervene. But I'm a big high school freshman now and they both have slight smiles on their faces. I decide to wait before calling for backup. “What's up, guys?”

“Well, we had a little chat with one of the varsity players,” Garrett says, “one by the name of Jenn Townsend.”

My stomach does a triple backflip and sticks the landing. Perfect ten.

“And your name came up somehow.”

“Yeah?” I say quietly.

“You'll never believe what she said when we told her about a really tall girl named Abbey in our Spanish class who said her mommy wouldn't let her play basketball because of all her bad grades last year.”

Even though Jenn is the reason I'm in this jam, I refer to her advice on what to do when you're caught in a big lie: I'm going to keep my damn mouth shut. There are only two more minutes until class starts. I can totally make it.

Stef chimes in again. “Turns out you're best friends with her little sister, Kate.”

My mind races, as I try to come up with a new lie to cover the first one, but it's becoming clear that lying isn't really working out for me.

The tag team continues. “Yeah, once Jenn recovered from laughing, she told us that you and her little sis have made honor roll since the day you were born.” Then Garrett shakes her head and tsks like my grandma does when I beat her at a game of cribbage. “I feel so betrayed.”

“So, Abbey,” Stef pats me on the back, “I guess we'll see you at tryouts. I can't wait. Oh, and by the way, you're a crappy liar.”

The bell finally rings and
Señora
Cabrera bursts into the class dressed in an oversized skirt and matching blouse.
“Hoy aprenderemos
el vocabulario para las fiestas Mexicanas
.
Viva!”
she shouts.

“
Viva!
” the class shouts back, but I'm freaking out and can't function. Not only have I just been caught in my first high school lie, but it appears I'm going to be trying out for the Gila High girls' basketball team.

After school on tryout day, Kate and I meet up in the locker room to get ready to humiliate ourselves on the basketball court. As I review chapter 10 of
Basketball for Dummies
, she gives me the play-by-play of today's chemistry class and her nonexistent relationship with her pretend boyfriend, Derrick.

“Anyway, after I told him I was trying out today, he totally told me to call him afterward to tell him if I made it. He said if I did make it, I could help him with his chem homework and he could show me some moves on the court. And then, oh my God, so I was all, ‘How about you call me,' and then I grabbed his cell out of his pocket to add myself to his contacts and he was all, ‘Damn girl, be careful what you're reaching for in there.' Isn't he so funny?”

“Gag,” I say and turn the page. “Wasn't he just shoving his tongue down some girl's throat at lunch?”

“That skanky slut Roxy?”

“Right.”

Kate walks over to the mirror to fix her hair for the tenth time in the past five minutes.

“Abbey, don't you see she's totally insignificant?”

I reread the page on layups, which is a shot I've been really focusing on since I've heard it mentioned often by Jenn while describing some of the “awesome” games she's had. “Well, if you ask me…” I say absentmindedly to Kate.

“Abbey, please,” she says, interrupting me midsentence like I knew she would because she never does ask me. “It's obvious he doesn't really like her because if he was really into her, he would be hanging out with her and the rest of his friends at lunch at the jock table, not making out against the gym because she's a skank. And, by the way, I can't believe you are reading that book in public. Your continuous geekdom is a huge disappointment to me.”

I nod because I know she's right. I am a complete geek for checking this book out from the library and reading the whole thing over the past week. I even practiced the foot- and hand-work for defense, jump shots, and layups in my backyard—all without a basketball. My mom thought I was choreographing a modern dance routine for PE, and I didn't bother correcting her because I didn't feel like explaining what I was really doing until I absolutely had to. Like this morning when I shoved the permission form in front of her while she mixed paints at her easel.

“Anyway, he is so totally mine,” Kate says triumphantly, doubly pleased because her ponytail is centered on the back of her head and the curls are going the right direction. “And he's so yummy. Have you seen his muscles, and his smile, and his tattoo? And have you seen his”—she looks behind her to make sure no else is around—“have you seen his ass?” she whispers. “Double yum.”

“Double gross,” is all I have to say about that, and we head out to the gym to what could potentially be the most regretful day of my high school experience.

Kate and I stop at the sideline of the court, as if it's the edge of an ominous body of water. Like if we step out on it, something slimy and scary will grab hold of us and pull us under. We aren't the only ones who seem afraid, either. No one else has dared to step on the glossy court.