Playing With the Boys (3 page)

Lucy had no idea what she was even saying. Maybe she shouldn’t have signed up for Spanish. “Valley Girl” could have been its own second language.

But no matter; she was sure she’d have plenty of time to contemplate her foreign-language choice when she was sitting alone at lunch in her exclusive school, picking at her fish sticks or fiesta salad or whatever disgusting food they served.

She sighed, glancing down at her schedule, knowing she had no choice but to walk in the double doors and get this over with. It was now or never. She took a deep breath.

“Okay, Beachwood Academy,” she said to herself.“Here I come.” She headed inside.

 
Starting with gym class didn’t help. She hadn’t known to bring clothes to “dress out” (since she didn’t even know what “dressing out” meant), so the gym teacher, Miss Sullivan, had given her an oversized shirt and a pair of boy’s shorts from last year’s lost and found to change into.
Ew. Loaners
. Lucy hadn’t wanted to put them on, but she’d had no choice.

Now, as she sat on the hard wooden bleachers, virtually swimming in an XXL, she couldn’t have felt more conspicuous. The other girls were wearing little fitted tank tops with built-in bras, and Juicy Couture pants with cute phrases written on the butt, like ANGEL and SEXY. Lucy’s shirt read 2003 TURKEY TROT.
Huh?
It might as well have said BIG GIGANTIC LOSER. She folded her arms across her chest, hoping to obscure the giant orange-and-yellow turkey on her front.

The bleachers rattled beneath her as a weird-looking emo girl stomped onto them and plopped down next to Lucy. Lucy’s eyes darted toward the girl. Forget dressing out. This girl wore tight black jeans, horn-rimmed glasses and a too-small button-down shirt. She had giant earplugs in her earlobes, black nail polish, and, apparently, as she scooted closer to Lucy, no regard for personal space. There were endless rows of bleachers, and this girl was practically sitting in her lap. Lucy gave a half-smile and tried to subtly scoot closer toward the boy next to her. He had a mess of dark curly ringlets that had practically achieved Afro-like status.

As Miss Sullivan went over the rules of floor hockey, Lucy turned to the boy.

“Hi,” she said shyly. The boy looked up from under his semi-curly, semi-Afro hair and gave Lucy a polite smile. He seemed to personify “dorky cool.”

Miss Sullivan continued. “Now, when you hold your stick, you need to hold it tight....” This elicited giggles from everyone on the bleachers. What was it about kids in high school that made them interpret everything as sexual?

“Sorry,” Lucy said softly to the boy. “It’s just, this girl is, um . . . kind of . . . in my lap. . . .”

The boy looked around Lucy to the emo girl, who was glaring at them both.

“Right.” The boy nodded as he scooted further down to make more room for Lucy.

She smiled, grateful. “Thanks.” She debated whether or not she should say more, then did. “I don’t really know anyone—I just moved here,” she continued, then added, “I’m Lucy.”

“I’m Benji.” He smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.

“Excuse me?” Miss Sullivan called out, annoyed. “Would you two like to share your conversation with everyone?”

Lucy turned red as she looked down at her hands, her go-to avoidance move: stare at your hands as if they are the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen and pray that the other person stops looking at you. She only looked back up when Miss Sullivan began dividing them into teams. As they were both called, Benji and Lucy stood up to take their respective places on the floor.

Miss Sullivan handed them both floor-hockey sticks and only Lucy a pinny. Lucy slipped the red mesh on over her head. It reeked of sweat.

“Cute,” Benji commented.

“Let’s go, people,” Miss Sullivan instructed, “before the period’s over.”

Lucy rushed to take her place on the floor, running smack into the emo girl, who was standing right behind her.

“Oh, sorry,” Lucy said quickly. “I didn’t see you there.”

The emo girl just stared her down. Lucy swore she heard her growl. Her head began spinning. She’d been in California exactly four days and she’d met a girl named Charlie, a boy named Benji, and a growling emo.
Could it possibly get any more bizarre?

“Pickle,” Miss Sullivan called out, “you start.”

Lucy watched a spunky, athletic-looking African-American girl knock the hockey puck across the floor. Lucy shook her head.
Pickle
. But before she could think about it anymore, she realized the hockey puck was heading directly toward her.

 
At the end of fifty minutes, Lucy was relieved to lose the hockey stick and head to English. Wearing cargo pants and Vans, her English teacher, Miss Reese, looked as though she could pass as a student herself. And outside of school, Miss Reese insisted that everyone call her Martie. Martie quickly took attendance, as the class settled into their seats.

Lucy took a spiral notebook out of her backpack. Due to the move and rush to unpack before work and school, her dad hadn’t had time to do their usual prerequisite back-to-school shopping, so she had only a half-used notebook from last year. Classy.

Martie called out, “Amy Andrews . . . Payton Baker . . . Nick Baldwin?”

A cocky guy’s arm shot up into the air. “Yo.” He gave a smarmy little wave.

Martie checked him off as here. “Charlie Brown?”

Lucy perked up.
Charlie?
She spun back around to look.

“Here,” Charlie said as she picked at her black nail polish.

Lucy couldn’t believe it. It was really her, the surfer. She was here. At Beachwood. In her English class. What were the chances?

Martie smiled, as if she were particularly fond of Charlie. “Welcome back, Charlie.” From the front of the room, the pretty blond girl that Lucy had overheard talking and texting that morning—the
whatever
girl—sighed.

“Where’re Snoopy and Woodstock?” Whatever Girl muttered to another impeccable-looking student next to her. Together, the two oozed popularity.

“It’s getting old, Regan,” Charlie spat. “Kind of like your ratty hair extensions.” A few kids chuckled. That shut Regan up, as she self-consciously fingered her long, blond hair.

Martie seemed to suppress an urge to giggle. Instead, she gave a reprimanding, “Charlie,” then continued. “Ryan Conner?”

“Yep,” a male voice said. Lucy tilted her head toward the sound and realized she was sitting next to the cutest boy she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. He had sandy brown hair that was lightly gelled into what looked like the inklings of a tiny, messy Mohawk—the kind a preppy guy trying to be the slightest bit edgy would have. He was dressed in jeans, cheap black drugstore flip-flops, and a vintage Led Zeppelin concert T-shirt; he also had a Beachwood letter jacket thrown over the chair behind him.

Lucy stared, mesmerized.

From behind her, Nick poked her in the back with a pencil. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” Lucy quickly snapped out of it and blushed, embarrassed. She wished she actually could subtly take a picture with her camera phone.

“Regan Holder?” Martie called out.

Regan rolled her eyes. She’d already made her presence very known. “Obviously,” she sighed.

Lucy barely heard her. She couldn’t take her eyes off Ryan.

“Lucy Malone?”

Annie has to see this guy,
Lucy thought to herself.

“Lucy Malone?”

He looked like someone who had been genetically engineered to be the perfect combination of cute, clean-cut, and ridiculously hot. If the government wasn’t already cloning him, they should have been.

“Is there
anyone
here named Lucy?” Martie asked for a third time. Lucy realized Martie was talking to her, and jumped as if she’d been electrically shocked.

“Here!” she said, practically knocking her folder off her desk.

The other kids laughed. Lucy again blushed a deep shade of red.

Martie scanned the roster. “You’re new, right?” Lucy nodded, wondering what had given it away. Probably the fact that everyone else looked straight out of an Abercrombie catalogue . . . or something more expensive. “And it says here that you’re a sophomore?”

Lucy’s eyes darted around. Wait—wasn’t everyone?

“You know this is a junior English class,” Martie explained, as she thumbed through the paperwork she was holding. “It says here you’ve already taken English 2. . . .”

Lucy nodded, remembering that her guidance counselor had said something about the school system in Ohio working differently, that she might be ahead in some of her classes, which meant fewer classes with the kids in her grade.
Great
, Lucy had thought at the time
. That’ll make it even harder to make friends. . . .

Martie smiled. “Well, welcome to Beachwood, Lucy. We’re glad to have you here.” Lucy could hear a few scattered chuckles. She slunk down in her chair, not wanting to stand out anymore than she already did as a badly dressed sophomore.

As soon as class ended, Lucy tried to push her way toward Charlie, the one familiar face she’d seen—but before she could even say hi, Charlie was swallowed up in a sea of rushing students and was gone.

 
The next morning, Lucy was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, trying desperately to wake up. She grabbed the Sports section of the
L.A. Times
, to read an article about the U.S. women’s soccer team. Lucy had been obsessed with them since she was a little girl. Her mom had even taken her to an exhibition game against Norway for her birthday. She’d seen the soccer documentary
Dare to Dream—
about the 1999 U.S.World Cup Championship team—at least twenty-five times, and it still made her cry. The team’s 2007 World Cup loss to Brazil stung, but watching Marta play had been amazing.

Running late, she stuffed the article into her backpack and remembered it during the middle of English, when Martie was giving a particularly boring lecture about the pluperfect tense. Putting it inside her binder, she pretended to be taking notes as she read about her old favorite players—hall of famers Mia Hamm and Julie Foudy . . . just reading the names took her back to another place and time, almost like a fairy tale, where the underdogs beat the odds and came out on top.

She scanned the article, soaking up every description and word until—

“Lucy!” Martie scolded.

Lucy’s head jerked up. She wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been officially caught. Martie approached quickly, too quickly for Lucy to successfully hide the article. And in an instant, Martie had snatched it up. Everyone saw. Lucy sank down in her seat—her new go-to position following any and all things humiliating—and spent the rest of class ferociously taking notes.

After class, she quickly gathered her books. Martie approached, article in hand.

“So . . . you like soccer?” she asked, almost suspiciously.

Lucy nodded. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just, the U.S. team got a bunch of new players—”

“I know,” Martie said excitedly. “That senior recruit from Huntington, right?”

Lucy smiled, impressed. “Yeah, the forward.”

“I read it this morning. In the middle of our morning meeting,” Martie admitted. “I was busted too.” Lucy laughed. She didn’t feel so bad now. “So, do you play? Soccer?”

Lucy nodded. “I used to. Back home in Toledo.”

“You play freshman?” Martie asked, trying to gauge Lucy’s skills.

“Varsity,” Lucy admitted, a hint of pride in her voice. She’d been the only freshman who’d made the team that year.

“You know, tryouts are starting on Monday ...” Martie hinted.

Tryouts?
It hadn’t even occurred to Lucy to think about joining the Beachwood team. She’d been so upset about the move, and so fixated on not looking like a dork, that she’d forgotten a part of her life that she loved could actually come with her.
Soccer.

“Really?” Lucy asked. “I’d be able to?”

“Of course,” Martie encouraged. “We’d love to have you. We only have a varsity team this year—we kind of spent last year rebuilding our program, recruiting new players. . . .”

“Winning state,” Charlie added as she walked by, her backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Thanks, in part, to the extraordinary efforts of a certain forward,” Martie indicated, putting a hand on Charlie’s shoulder as she looked at Lucy. “Seriously, it’d be great to have you try out. If you’re interested. And it’s a good way to make new friends, too.”