Playing With the Boys (5 page)

Twice the other side scored, and both times, Lucy felt responsible. Carla instructed her to get more aggressive. “Don’t wait to go to the ball!” she ordered. “Step up!”

Lucy was caught off guard by Carla’s intensity. She’d expected that kind of tone to come from Charlie. She nodded obediently. “I know. Sorry.”

Carla softened a little. “Listen, just clear it. If it gets anywhere near the box, just clear it!” She patted Lucy on the back. “You got this, okay? I’m being hard on you because I want you on the team.”

Lucy nodded, blinking back tears. She knew Carla was just trying to help. She reminded herself that she could do this. That she needed to be aggressive. She remembered when she was eleven and scared to learn to snowboard. Her mom, a great skier, had stayed with her as she learned, encouraging her the entire time. As Lucy had taken face-plant after face-plant and had begun to cry, Lucy’s mom had told her, “You’re Tough Lucy! Tough Lucy doesn’t cry.

She gets back up. She tries it again.” By the end of the day, Lucy was not only staying up on her snowboard, she was actually turning!

Now, on the soccer field, Lucy told herself to be Tough Lucy. This time, when Charlie passed the ball across the field, in Max’s direction, Lucy sprinted forward. This ball was hers to clear. In one swift motion, she booted the ball, hard. It soared past half field, traveling at least thirty-five yards, right into the feet of Heather, her one open teammate. Heather trapped it perfectly.

On the sidelines, Martie was stunned. Even the other girls gave Lucy a look.

“Whoa,” Carla gasped. “Nice leg.”

“And nice aim,” Carla added.

Lucy beamed proudly. After a rough start, she felt like she’d finally shown Martie what she could do. Now she just needed to do it about fifty more times.

After practice, Lucy considered calling her dad for a ride, but knowing he was working late all week, she suspected she’d be waiting outside school for a while. She saw Charlie, Carla, Pickle, and Max walking to Charlie’s car and could hear their conversation.

“Come on!” Pickle pleaded. “In-N-Out.”

“But I want a salad,” Charlie complained. “What about CPK? Then Max can get pizza.” Max only ate things coated in cheese.

“What about Chili’s?” Max said. “I could get chips and queso, then nachos, then broccoli-cheddar soup. . . .”

“You are seriously disgusting,” Charlie commented.

Carla noticed Lucy sitting on a bench by herself. She nudged Charlie in the side. “Hey Lucy,” Carla called out. “Want to come get some dinner with us? We’re going to Baja Fresh!”

“Really?” Lucy asked happily.

“No!” Pickle said. “Baja
again
? What, just because you’re Latina, you can only eat Mexican food?”

“Hey.” Carla shrugged. “I like to support the cause. Besides, a burrito sounds so freaking awesome.”

“I’m in,” Max agreed. “I’m gonna get mine covered in cheese.”

“No Mexican,” Pickle begged. “Come on . . .”

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed, and then turned to Lucy who had walked over with her book bag and soccer bag. Charlie folded her arms across her chest. “What do you want for dinner? Mexican or something else?”

Lucy looked from Charlie and Pickle to Max and Carla. They were all waiting expectantly. “Um—I don’t know . . .” Lucy said, meekly. She hated being in this position. Here people were actually being nice to her, but there was no way to make everyone happy. “Mexican’s fine with me. . . .”

Charlie and Pickle threw their hands up in the air.

“Or not,” Lucy quickly said. “I’ll eat anywhere . . . or anything. . . .”

Suddenly, she noticed a car pull into the parking lot. It was her dad’s Toyota Highlander Hybrid, the new car he’d purchased a few days ago. It was not nearly as flashy as the red convertible but more practical and environmentally friendly.

“Oh,” she sighed, disappointed. “That’s my dad. I guess I can’t go to dinner after all. . . .”

Her dad pulled up and came to a stop but kept the car running. He rolled down the window. “I’m in kind of a hurry, Luce. I have a meeting I have to get back for. . . .” He gave a wave to the other girls.

Lucy turned to them. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again for the invite.”

She hopped into her dad’s car. “Did those girls invite you somewhere?”

Lucy shrugged, not wanting to complicate things.“Oh, not really,” she said. “Just dinner. But I have a lot of homework. And besides, that way we can eat together.”

“Oh,” her dad said slowly. “I just—I have to get back for that meeting. Maybe we could pick something up really quick. What’s good around here?” He thought for a minute. “Maybe Mexican?”

Lucy sat back in her seat, trying not to cringe at the irony. “Yeah, Mexican’s great.”

 
That night, Lucy realized she was in bad shape. She’d rolled her ankle but the trainer said it wasn’t a sprain. She just needed to ice it. In fact, she decided, she needed an ice bath for her entire body. Her quads and hamstrings hurt from running up the sand dunes at the beach. Now she could barely walk up the spiral staircase to her loft without leaning at least half of her one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound frame on the railing. Her chest and triceps ached so badly from the push-up and reverse push-up drills that she cringed even when she was lifting a Diet Coke to her lips.

But still, the next day, as she changed in the locker room, with the buzz of the girls’ conversations swirling around her, she couldn’t believe she’d ever considered
not
playing soccer—even if every part of her body hurt. As she strapped on her shin guards and wrapped the laces of her cleats around the bottom of her shoes and double-knotted them, she reveled in this feeling. It was as if she was putting on armor that would make her invincible.

As she headed upstairs and outside, the sunlight felt warm on her face, and the smell of freshly cut grass engulfed her. It was better than the smell of bread baking or the smell of laundry detergent. This smell reminded her of everything she loved about soccer.

Of course, moments later, as the team ran suicide sprints, Lucy remembered what she hated about soccer. She could feel the sweat pouring off her as she ran from the white end line to the eighteen on the field, trying her best to keep up with the pack. Running, like trapping, was not her strong suit.

Martie cheered encouragingly. “Okay, girls. Now to midfield.”

The girls quickly turned at the end line. Some ran while others jogged to the midfield line. Carla and Charlie had already hit the line and were running past Lucy in the opposite direction.

“You got it, Lucy,” Carla shouted out.

“Thanks,” Lucy gasped as she stayed tight on the heels of Jamie, who trailed right behind Pickle.

“Let’s go, Lucy. Come on,” Charlie said breathlessly as she passed.

As Lucy jogged back toward the end line, Charlie’s encouragement made her push even harder. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging them. This was about more than just soccer. This was about not sitting alone at lunch or getting picked last in gym class. If she made this team, she’d be automatically accepted into a group of twenty girls, anxious to embrace her as one of their own. She’d have friends. They wouldn’t be Annie or any other of the girls she’d known for practically her entire life, but at least she wouldn’t be alone.

Lucy picked up her pace as she ran across the full length of the field. She didn’t care how many suicide sprints she had to do, or how many squat jumps, or how many times she’d have to stop the ball with her chest. She was going to make this team if it killed her.

four

On Friday, Lucy felt as though things were definitely looking up—with soccer, with school, with everything. She’d finally figured out the trick to getting her frequently jammed locker open (kicking it three times in the lower right-hand corner) and she knew the fastest way to all her classes—sometimes going outside and walking around the periphery of the school was actually better than trying to weave her way through the crowded hallways.

In study hall, Lucy sat down at a table in the cafeteria by herself. She took out
Madame Bovary
so she’d look engrossed in something. Suddenly, Benji, the Afro’d kid from gym, slid into one of eight open seats at her table.

“This seat taken?” he joked.

Lucy smiled. “Uh . . . let me think....” She paused, then answered, “No.”

As he sat, she noticed he was wearing a football jersey. “Whose back did you steal that off?” she joked, playfully because really, Benji didn’t exactly fit the mold of your stereotypical football player.

“Very funny,” he said sarcastically.

“Wait . . .” Lucy realized. “Are you actually on the team?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m on the team. You’re not the only hard-core athlete around here. I’ve seen you out on the soccer field.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call myself hard-core,” she confessed.

“Maybe medium-core?” Benji offered.

“Is that like medium rare?” Lucy joked, taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

Benji gave her a funny look. “Do you even know what we’re talking about right now?”

Lucy giggled. “I have no idea.” She liked how sweet and friendly he was. Funny, too.

Benji smiled. “So, how’re you enjoying gym class?” he asked. “Dodgeball to your liking?”

Lucy shrugged. “What’s not to like about standing against a wall waiting to be decapitated by a girl who looks like a corpse?”

“Are you talking about Morbid? The emo chick from class?” Benji stood up. “Come with me to the vending machine?”

Lucy stood and followed him. They continued their conversation. “What’s her deal? I’m not gonna lie—she kind of freaks me out.”

“Don’t let her. Her real name’s Nancy.” Benji inserted quarters. “After you. We’ll share.”

Lucy surveyed her options. “Thanks.” She pressed B3 for Doritos. Forget Cool Ranch. Nacho Cheese were her favorite.

Benji shoved a few more quarters in and looked back at Lucy. “Anything else?”

She pressed D4. A Twix dropped down. Benji handed it to her and gave her the lowdown on Morbid.

“Last year,” he explained, “she was obsessed with plaid skirts, and white button-downs tied under her boobs, and pigtails. It was very Britney circa 1999. Then, apparently, over the summer, she started wearing all black and changed her name to Morbid.”

“Weird,” Lucy commented as they sat back down.

“And she’s not even the weirdest,” Benji pointed out. “Let’s see, at Beachwood, you’ve got the classics: your jocks, cheerleaders, band geeks, burnouts . . . then it gets a little tricky. You’ve also got the crunchy granolas, the Wiccan freaks, and, weirder than the emos, the emo wannabes.You’ve got your divas, your di
vos
,
then your syrup heads—”

Lucy took a wild guess. “Kids who like pancakes?”

Benji shook his head. “Kids who down cough syrup like it’s Red Bull.” Lucy pushed the Doritos toward him. He popped a chip into his mouth, then dug into the Twix. Lucy had already eaten her half.

“So . . . big plans tonight?” he asked.

She considered thoughtfully. In the two weeks she’d lived in Malibu, she’d had a total of zero plans. “I don’t really have plans,” she admitted.

“Well, you know, it’s our season opener tonight. Our first home game—” Suddenly, the bell rang. Study hall was over. “If you want to come, there’s a party after at Ryan’s. . . .”

Lucy gulped. “Wait.
Ryan
Ryan?” As in, CUTE Ryan from English class?

Benji continued. “Yeah, there’re always parties after games. Usually just the cheerleaders and football players, but we can invite people. You could even bring some of your friends.You know, whatever . . .”

Some of her friends?
Unless Annie could make it from Toledo, she didn’t know who she’d ask.

“I only joined the team this year,” Benji explained. “So I don’t really fit in with that whole football crowd yet. . . .”

Lucy had the feeling that even if Benji were on the team for a million years, he still wouldn’t fit in with that crowd.

“Here, just call me if you’re coming,” Benji said, grabbing her cell phone. He quickly programmed his number in and then called his own phone so he’d have her number as well.