Shutout (2 page)

“Yeah, but, I mean, not to be conceited, but we are pretty good. I feel like we're definitely in the top half of the girls there,” Lena said.

“Yeah.” I hoped that was true, but it was hard to believe with all these senior girls running around being awesome.

“Well,” I said, “I think we'll probably only make JV, but that'll be cool because we'll get to play a lot, and we'll be together.”

“Yeah,” Lena said. “But it would be even cooler if we were together on varsity.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “it would.” We lay there for a while not talking, and even though I kept telling myself that ninth
graders almost never make varsity, I could see the whole thing clearly—Lena up front, me in the goal, all the way to the state championship. The team had missed going to states last year, but this year they'd have the crucial puzzle pieces in place: us. We'd be just what they needed to push the team to the next level.

“What are you thinking about?” Lena asked.

“I was just imagining winning the state championship.”

“I would totally take off my shirt like Brandi Chastain,” Lena said.

I laughed. “I think you might get suspended if you did that.”

“Well, we could both do it,” she answered. “Then it would be like this great team moment of triumph, and even if we got suspended we could hang out and watch
Bend It Like Beckham
all day.”

“Yeah, you know, I think I'd rather not turn this great moment of triumph into a great moment of humiliation when I strip off my shirt and everybody points and laughs and the league makes me pee in a cup to prove I'm female.” Yeah, boobs are embarrassing, but I think actual boobs would be somewhat less embarrassing than these little pointy nubs I've got.

Lena laughed. “You so need a confidence boost, girl. I swear I have no idea how you look in the mirror and see what you see.”

“A gigantic freak?”

“Yeah, that's what
you
see.
I
see this pretty girl with a supermodel body and a brain in her head that guys are going to be totally falling for next week.”

“You sound like my dad,” I said.

“I didn't say anything about you looking like somebody who's dead,” Lena answered, and that was one of those things your best friend can say and it's funny and if anybody else said it you'd want to punch them.

“I guess you're right. Well, thanks. That's a nice fantasy. Almost as good as us making varsity and winning states.”

“It's gonna happen,” Lena said. “Just wait till tomorrow.”

I drifted off to sleep imagining saving the tying goal in the state championship while my own personal cheering section of really tall guys—maybe the basketball team?—watched from the stands and held up homemade signs with my name on them.

We got up early, and Lena made goo-goo eyes at Conrad across the breakfast table while he read the sports section. It made me slightly nauseous, and I might not have eaten, but I knew we'd be running all day and I'd need my strength.

“So, did the Sox win?” Lena asked.

“Four–three over the Jays,” Conrad replied as he took another bite of a poppy seed bagel. He had these little smears of cream cheese with dots of poppy seeds on his cheeks. He looked completely ridiculous. I thought about saying something to him, but I was afraid he might give one of his typical responses, like “And you've got something really ugly on top of your neck—oh, snap, it's your face!” Moron. How could Lena possibly like him? She was frantically trying to find something, anything else, to say after Mr. Scintillating Conversation had relayed the score of last night's game, but Mom came in and shut her down, or possibly saved her from saying some awkward, embarrassing thing that she'd kick herself for later.

“You girls all ready for your big day?” Mom asked, making herself a cup of herbal tea. I guess she had a big meeting or something, because she was wearing a suit. I looked at her and tried not to think about how unfair it was that I would never inherit those curves.

“Sure,” I said. “You look great, by the way.”

“You think? I was feeling like this skirt made me look a little hippy.”

“At least you have hips,” I answered.

Mom smiled. “Okay, Manda, you and I can play dueling bad body image later, maybe when Conrad's not around.”

“Like he notices.” I pointed to Conrad, who was still completely lost in the sports section.

“Point taken, but it's still bad form. Lena, how are you feeling about today?”

“Okay. Nervous,” she said.

“Well, you girls are great, but just remember how high school sports work. Seniors are going to get those varsity spots, and it's the right thing for the coaches to do. You'll want it that way when you're a senior.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, we heard that the first five times you said it, Mom.”

Mom smiled. “Okay, okay. It's going to be hot today—make sure you take two water bottles each.”

Lena and I held up our huge bottles, already filled with ice water. “Excellent, girls. You have to stay hydrated. What about you, Conrad?” Mom asked.

Silence, and we all stared at Conrad, who stared at the paper.

“Conrad?” Mom waited for a minute, and when he showed no signs of having heard her, she raised her voice. “Conrad!”

He looked up. “You don't have to yell, Mom, God, I'm right here!”

“Obviously she did have to yell because you totally didn't answer her the first three times she asked you,” I said.

Mom turned to me. “Amanda, don't parent. That's my job. Conrad, I just wanted to know if you have enough water for practice today.”

“Yeah, my water bottle's in my room somewhere.”

Mom took a deep breath. “We have a bin for all your soccer stuff. If you just used it, then you'd always know where your water bottle was.”

“Got it, Mom, thanks,” Conrad said as he disappeared into the paper again. Mom looked like she wanted to yell at him, but instead she topped up her travel mug and turned to go.

“Okay, I'm gonna be late,” she said. “I love you all, have a great day, and remember that whatever happens, none of this is a referendum on your worth as people.”

Five minutes later, Lena and I were on our way to the high school fields. My stomach felt tight and sour. I hoped I wouldn't puke. I was so nervous, which was stupid. I mean, most ninth graders get put on JV, no questions asked. I guess I thought if I made varsity, then when school started next week I would already be somebody.

Well, I would be somebody no matter what. I just thought it might be nice to be somebody besides the hugely tall ninth grade girl getting lost in the halls and feeling totally out of place. If I were on varsity, I'd be in with a lot of older girls, so
I'd have a friendly face to ask if I had any questions, and when people talked about me, they would say how I must be a hell of a soccer player to make varsity as a ninth grader. Going into this new school with all these new people, I wanted to be somebody besides the Tallest Girl in the Class.

That's what I was thinking about on the way to practice. Lena, of course, was thinking about Conrad, who rode past us on his bike with a friendly “Later, losers.” “I don't know, I think maybe he might like me.”

“Why?”

“Well, did you see how long it took him to answer your mom? He was completely tuned out, but he answered me right away. Right? So, like, my voice is important to him or something. Right?”

“I think he was ignoring Mom just to be a dick, but okay,” I said.

“Maybe you could ask him,” she kind of half whispered.

“You want me to tell him you like him?”

“Oh my God no. That would be so embarrassing. I don't know, I thought there might be a way . . .”

“You might not have noticed this, but we don't really talk about who we like, or much of anything else with each other,” I said.

“Okay. Well, let me know if he does say anything.”

“Will do.”

We didn't say much else on the way to practice—I guess we were both obsessing.

We got to practice right on time, and everybody else was already there. The boys' soccer team was doing their usual
thing where they stand around pretending to stretch while looking at the girls. But we were not doing what we usually do, which is pass and shoot and pretend not to notice the boys, especially that Duncan kid who's in the tenth grade and is almost too gorgeous to be real. I swear to God the guy must be an android or, like, an alien from Planet Hot or something.

Instead of pretending to ignore the boys, all the girls actually were ignoring the boys, sitting on the ground staring at crusty Ms. Keezer, who was standing there looking stern and holding a clipboard. She glared at me and Lena as we sat down. I looked at Ms. Beasley, and she gave me a friendly smile.

Ms. Keezer looked at her watch. “It's nine o'clock,” she yelled in her scratchy, raspy voice, “and we have a lot of work to do today, so we're going to get this out of the way early. Ms. Beasley and I have made the decision about which girls are going to which squad. Listen carefully for your name as Ms. Beasley reads the JV list. Those of you on JV will be coached by Ms. Beasley, and you'll be practicing with her today. I'll be coaching varsity. Now, the school committee in their infinite wisdom forbids us from holding practice over Labor Day weekend, and our first games of the season are next Wednesday, which means we have only two practices between now and then. We need all of our practice time to try to get ready to compete by next week, so if you want to have a long, involved conversation about how our placement isn't fair and we should reconsider, please put your complaint in writing, and I'll make sure it gets filed appropriately.” She shook a big plastic garbage can as she said this, and all the senior girls who
knew they were making varsity anyway laughed, and the rest of us felt sick. Or maybe that was just me.

Ms. Beasley started reading names. It was alphabetical order, so it didn't take her long to get to Amanda Conant. (Yeah, I've heard the “Conant the Barbarian” joke a few times. Funny stuff.) Lena reached over and squeezed my hand as we waited for her name. Well, making varsity as a ninth grader was a stupid dream anyway, and at least we'd have the nice young coach instead of the scary old one.

Ms. Beasley read a bunch of other names, finishing up with Shakina Williams. Then she said, “Okay, if you heard your name, come with me. If you didn't, you'll stay here with Ms. Keezer, and congratulations.” She took her clipboard and a bunch of girls got up immediately to follow her, and I sat there still squeezing the hand of Lena Zaleski, whose name hadn't been called.

“Maybe my name was on the second page or something,” Lena said. “This has to be a mistake. Let's go ask her.” We dropped hands and stood up, and Ms. Keezer barked, “Zaleski! Sit!” and Lena—fast, beautiful, and a normal female height—sat back down with this “I'm sorry” look on her face while I walked toward Ms. Beasley and the Loser Squad and tried really hard not to cry.

My dad is a hopeless cornball, which I guess is why I tend to talk more to my mom about personal stuff. But sometimes I wonder if my dad is some sort of evil genius, because a lot of times he says some dumb thing that's so corny it makes me want to curl up under the table and disappear, but then later on I'll hear him saying it in my brain and it kind of makes sense to me.

One of his favorite things is to talk about how tough I am because my mom died. I mean, like I even remember that. I was two. But anyway, whenever something feels hard for me and I'm doing a bad job of hiding it, he'll say something like this, usually with his voice breaking: “Amanda, you are the strongest person I know. You've been through stuff most kids can only imagine, and you'll get through this too. Compared to what's already happened in your life, this is a walk in the park, and I know you can do it. You're tough as an old boot.”

Like any fourteen-year-old girl wants to be compared to a
battered piece of leather. Though maybe that comparison gets more appropriate as you get older, because Ms. Keezer actually does look kind of like an old boot.

Anyway, as I was standing in the goal trying not to hear the happy practice going on at the other end of the field, as I was trying really hard to just focus on the ball and not think about how humiliated and sad and jealous I felt, how Lena was already prettier and more girlish than me, and now she was a better soccer player too, I heard my dad's voice in my mind.

“You are the strongest person I know,” he said, and I punched away a ball like it was Ms. Keezer's gross dried-up head.

“You're tough as an old boot,” he said as I leaped across the goal and grabbed a ball I guessed wrong on and got to anyway.

I managed to get through the rest of practice this way, and I managed not to cry, even at the end when, as we were all packing up and Ms. Beasley was handing out the no-substance-abuse pledge forms for us to sign, she came up to me and whispered, “I'm really lucky to have the best goalkeeper on my team.”

That was nice, but obviously not true, because the best goalkeeper gets to be on varsity, along with the best forward. Ms. Keezer was keeping her team, the good, non-loser team, late, and the best goalkeeper was practicing over there while I walked home. And, oh yeah, all the boys were lingering over by the varsity girls, totally ignoring those of us who didn't make the cut.

I saw Mrs. Zaleski in the parking lot. I practically lived at
Lena's house when she wasn't practically living at mine, and even though Mrs. Zaleski is not as warm as my mom and never randomly tells us she loves us and she's proud of us when we're over there, she's still probably the adult outside of my own family that I know the best. So when she smiled and waved at me, I knew I should go over there and say hi to her, especially since they were leaving for the weekend right after practice, but I couldn't do it. Because what could she possibly say to make it better? And I could just about hold it together if I didn't talk about it, but if I did have to say something, I knew I would start crying.