Diesel

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  “Go outside where?”

  “I don’t know. Find some kids to play with.” She makes a shooing gesture with her hands. “There are plenty of children in this neighborhood. It’s part of the reason why we moved here.”

  My mother and I have just moved into our brand new “gingerbread” looking house in the very hot town of Bear Springs, Georgia, and so far I don’t like anything about this place at all.

  First of all, it’s small. You can literally walk from the ice cream shop to the library and then to the airport in less than fifteen minutes. Even though I can’t actually confirm that, I heard some old lady say it in the gas station mart last night while Mom was playing her lotto numbers.

  “If you care one iota about yourself, put on a new shirt before you leave. I’ve never seen a little girl like you in my life. I know you adore that weird little singing group, Thunder Road, but you’ve worn that ratty T-shirt of theirs at least three days in a row and I’m sure it reeks.”

  Weird singing group?

  I run over to my mom, lift my arm up, and shove my armpit toward her face.

  “Do I reek?” I ask through a fit of laughter.

  “Ick!” She turns up her nose. “Why do you have to act like a little boy all of the time, and please go wipe your face down with a paper towel for goodness sake. You’re sweating like a country fair pig.”

  That’s another thing I don’t like about my new town. It’s hot as a frying pan here. Nothing like the gorgeous, seasonal weather we have in New Jersey. Sure, our summers back home are humid, but they’re nothing like this. Plus we have the beach. Every family from Jersey goes to the beach, and despite the name of where we live now, there’s no actual body of water—or bears—here in Bear Springs. All I see here are trees, flowers, and the biggest bugs on the planet.

  I huff loudly as I wipe myself down with a moistened paper towel. I don’t want to go outside and make new friends. Not when the ones I have back in New Jersey are perfectly fine. I don’t even know anybody here, and I won’t until I start school in the fall. So who am I going to hang with?

  My mother gives me the humongous box of Tupperware and a few careful looks as if it’s a warning. If I don’t leave the kitchen in the next few seconds, I’ll be matching plastic bins with colored lids for the next two hours of my life. No, the rest of my life.

  “Is the cable set up yet?” I ask in a last-ditch effort to find something else to do inside of the house that doesn’t involve plastic containers.

  “No.”

  “So no TV?”

  “You can watch channels ABC, CBS, and NBC if you use the new antennae I bought. You’ll have to look for it though. I’m pretty sure I packed it in one of those boxes in the corner over there.”

  “Three channels!”

  “Yes, three channels. That’s what we did in my day, and we were just fine. If there wasn’t anything to watch on those three channels then you went outside and played. Something you should seriously consider doing if you don’t want to help me unpack.”

  My mom is not just “old school” but she’s old. She is always one of the oldest parents at back to school night, and I bet you can tell by that prehistoric suggestion she just made.

  I was what you call a miracle baby, also known as a turkey baster baby. My mom suffered three miscarriages and one divorce because she wanted to have a baby so badly, and finally ended up with me when I was conceived in a doctor’s office via artificial insemination. So that’s why she always makes references to stuff that she grew up doing that practically no other mother I know did.

  I haven’t met a single adult but her that grew up watching only three television channels. I’m not even sure that I believe her. Is that even possible? I can’t imagine a child subjected to choices on three stations only. That is cruel and unusual punishment.

  “I’m going outside then, but don’t say anything if I’m kidnapped by aliens or something.”

  “What?” she says distracted by a bug the size of my fist flying around in our new kitchen.

  “Kidnapped by aliens,” I say again. Making sure to emphasize the K sound.

  “Olivia, you are the most dramatic eleven-year-old child I’ve ever seen. Unless you’re abducted by little green men from Mars, would you just make sure to come home before it gets dark?”

  That’ll be easy enough. There isn’t diddly-squat to do around here. We live in what my mom described as a cul-de-sac, in a development called Bear Springs Village. At the far end of the horseshoe area of houses is a well-manicured field with a playground on the side of it. There are three big swings, one kiddie swing, a massive jungle gym, and two tennis courts.

  There’s a woman and a small child sitting side by side on the swings and a couple of kids playing on the jungle gym. The courts are empty, but that’s probably because it’s midday and the heat is becoming unbearable.

  The only thing that looks remotely interesting going on is a game of touch football on the grassy field. I love football. Unlike most of the other girls in my grade I don’t care much about princess stories or makeup. Instead, I used my time during recess to play football with some of the boys in my class.

  “Can I play?” I ask a group of boys who look mostly around my age.

  “You?” A gigantic boy, with wild dirty blond hair, and a menacing look on his face asks. He seems kind of intimidating, but I’m not going to let him see me sweat. Jersey girls like me are tough as nails.

  “Yeah, me. Haven’t you ever seen a girl play football before?” I challenge using the toughest Jersey accent that I can muster.

  “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

  “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

  The big kid plops himself down on the grass over on the edge of the field, folds his arms together, and then gives me a stern look.

  “Not on my watch.”

  4

  Olivia

  I really don’t like this kid. I don’t like the weird southern twang—as my mom calls it—in his voice, his bushy mane of dirty blond curls that kind of covers his left eye, or the new look on his face. It’s a look that I’ve seen from boys before. Boys who don’t think a girl should play football.

  Dumb boys.

  “So you’re not going to play if she plays, Mason?” One of the other boys asks with concern.

  What, do they worship this kid or something?

  “She is Olivia,” I say with my arms crossed in front of me.

  “What?” the kid asks with confusion.

  “I said that my name is Olivia. Don’t refer to me as she.”

  “Sheesh, all right. It’s just a pronoun, dude.”

  “Where are you from?” the mean boy they call Mason asks. “Your accent is strange.”

  He asks the question staring very obviously at the front of my T-shirt, and I’m not sure if he’s staring because of the words printed across it or the fact that I have pretty developed boobs for a girl my age. He should mind his own business if it’s because of the latter. My mom says that beautiful boobs run in the family, and I should learn to embrace them.

  “New Jersey.”

  “I’ve never met anyone from New Jersey.”

  “Well, now you have.”

  “So people who live in New Jersey don’t have their own pro team right?”

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  “That sucks,” one of the other boys chimes in.

  “I don’t get it. What do you all do? Do you root for the Eagles, the Giants, or the Jets?”

  “The Giants and Jets are New York teams, so people in Northern New Jersey usually root for them,” I say in a patronizing tone. These so-called football fans should know this already. “I’m from South Jersey, which is very close to Philadelphia, so we are all Eagles’ fans.”

  Duh.

  “I think she just talked to us like we’re idiots.”

  “Too bad for you that they suck this year.”

  I ignore the last comment partly because I’ve made i
t a habit not to respond to jerks, but mostly because he’s right. My team had a little trouble last season, but that’s just part of being a sports fan. Sometimes your team is going to have an awesome year and sometimes they stink. What matters most is loyalty.

  “Why are you staring at my shirt?” I finally ask. Sick of the mean boy’s gawking.

  “I’m just wondering if you actually listen to Thunder Road?”

  The other boys start to laugh.

  “Yes,” I say proudly. “Every chance I get.”

  “But they suck.”

  “No, they don’t!” I exclaim in horror. “Did your mom drop you on your head as a baby or something? Take what you said back right now.”

  “They’re a made-up boy band who don’t make real music. How can you like them? Even their name is bad.”

  “That’s the name of the street they grew up on!”

  Everyone laughs at me again.

  “You don’t honestly believe that, do you? They make up all of that stuff.”

  I roll my eyes at the whole lot of them but I really want to cry. Everyone back home loves Thunder Road. Everyone back home is normal. Why am I stuck here with these weirdos, this heat, and all of these dang bugs?

  “Good thing what you think doesn’t matter to all the millions of loyal Thunder Road fans all over the world.”

  Two girls in matching green Bermuda shorts and pink polo tops walk over to us but are looking straight at Mason with goo-goo eyes as they approach.

  “Hi, Mason,” they both greet him in sugary unison.

  “Hey.” He looks disinterested.

  “My parents are throwing me a birthday party next Friday at four. My mom wouldn’t allow me to bring invitations to school so that the uninvited kids won’t get their feelings hurt, so I’m inviting you now. You’re going to come, right?”

  “Oh, um, I have a big game next weekend.”

  “All weekend?”

  Mason looks uncomfortable by the forwardness of the girl. I suspect it has something to do with how southern boys are raised to be all mannerly and stuff, so I take it upon myself to help him out. Why I help, I don’t know. I guess I do it because he looks like he needs it.

  “Obviously, he has practice on Friday night and then plays Saturday,” I interject. “Guess you girls don’t know too much about football.”

  Mason cracks a smile and both girls look at me with serious attitudes.

  “And who are you?”

  The birthday girl looks me up and down as if my outfit or maybe my smell offends her. I should introduce her to my mother. They would definitely get along.

  “This is Jersey girl,” Mason says.

  “Jersey girl?”

  “The name is Olivia,” I make sure to correct them both. My mom always says that all you have in this world is your name and your good reputation, so it’s important to protect them both. “I’m from the great state of New Jersey.”

  “You’re the new girl who moved into the Bitterman house over in Bear Springs Village?”

  “Um, I guess. Who are the Bittermans?”

  “The nice family that used to live in your house next door to Mason.”

  I whip my head around in shock and find that his face reflects what I’m feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “We’re neighbors!” We both exclaim in horror.

  Why couldn’t it be some nice old couple who live next door who talk about the “old days” and give me fresh baked oatmeal cookies? Why does it have to be this oversized, golden-haired, Thunder Road hater?

  “And doesn’t your mom work at the university?”

  What the!

  Does this annoying girl, dripping in preppy pink and green clothing, know everything about everyone in this town?

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “Everyone’s parents work there.”

  “Or attended there.”

  “Well I’m not going there,” I announce firmly.

  “You don’t know where you’re going to end up,” Mason says. “That’s a long ways off.”

  “I’m going to end up at whatever school has girls on the football team, and most likely that’s going to be a school back up north where I’m from.”

  There’s shared laughter among all of them. Everyone, except Mason. He just stares at me with the oddest look on his face. He either finds me interesting or ridiculous.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but there’s no girl’s football team at any college I’ve ever heard of,” one of the kids says.

  “There will be tons of girls playing by the time I get there,” I say with certainty. “And I’m going to be one of the stars on the team.”

  They all laugh at me again.

  “Mason is the one who’s going to be a star from this town. Everyone knows that. There are already a few college scouts that come by to check out some of his games. Bet you can’t say the same.”

  These kids are really starting to annoy me.

  “Are we playing or not?” I ask while balling up my fists. Determined to show them my skills on the football field.

  “Don’t mind them. You just have to understand that things are a little different down here,” Mason says as he looks at my clenched fists. “Girls don’t play football in Georgia.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “Not really. They don’t let girls play for the same reasons I’m not going to play with you right now. I’m twice your size, twice your weight, and you could get hurt. What’s dumb about that?”

  “I guess the girls must be tougher up north,” one of the girls sarcastically says as the rest of them chime in with a few snickers.

  “I guess we are,” I respond. Sassing them back.

  “Aw, let her play, Mason,” one of the boys says.

  “I’m not stopping her from playing,” Mason says holding his hands up. “Y’all can play with her if you want. I’m just not playing.”

  “But you have to play too.”

  “Yeah, there’s no game without you in it.”

  “Let her try, Mason. Bet she’ll quit after two plays anyway.”

  I’m hopeful that these nitwits will come to the only conclusion that makes sense—let me play—so I can show them the speed of a Jersey girl, but I can see that it all depends on what my new next door neighbor decides. There will be no game today without his approval or participation. That’s pretty clear.

  “You sure you want to do this?” He looks at me with some apprehension.

  “Yep.”

  “And you’ve played with boys before?”

  “Yes! A million times.”

  “All right, Jersey girl, just don’t go ratting us out to your momma if you get smashed.”

  I roll my eyes.

  This boy thinks way too highly of himself.

  “Deal.”

  5

  Mason

  What a craptastic mess this is. My mom has probably told me a million times that I don’t know my own strength. I guess that’s why she’s the mom, and I’m the idiot son, because as usual, she’s one hundred percent right.

  Jersey girl is stretched out on the grass, completely on her back, with her eyes closed and her fists clenched. Her puffy dark brown ponytails are covered in grass clippings, and she’s biting down on her bottom lip as if she’s in pain or embarrassed—although she shouldn’t be.

  It was all my fault.

  I was too rough when I ran in for the touchdown. Honestly, I didn’t know it was her behind me at first. I had the ball and was in a zone, and all I felt was someone gaining on me as I ran. As fast as her feet were flying I thought it was Pete. After me, he’s the fastest runner out of us all, so when someone grabbed my shirt from behind, I immediately assumed it was him and I yanked away. I yanked so hard that she went flying to the ground right onto her tailbone and hitting the back of her head on the field.

  “Jersey girl!” I snap my fingers in an attempt to get her to open her eyes. If I have to get my mom involved in this, I’ll be grounded for a
week. “Wake up.”

  "Dude, she’s not moving.”

  “Yo, she’s sweating really badly too. You think she’s dying?”

  “Of course not, idiot. Mason may have flung her around like a rag doll, but he didn’t kill her.”

  “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  “Really?” I counter giving all of my friends the screw face. “Because y’all were the ones who begged me to let her play.”

  “You better go get your dad, Mason.”

  “No way!” I say to my friends. My dad is worse than my mom. If I ask him for help I’ll be grounded for a month for sure. He’s told me repeatedly. Real men don’t hit, shove, bite, or call girls nasty names. If I catch you doing it, you’ll regret it.

  “She probably just needs a minute to shake it off. That’s what we do at practice. Pete, go walk to the mart and buy her a bottle of water,” I demand. “We already drank out of these bottles.”

  “I need fifty more cents.”

  I reach in my pocket and dig out thirty-five cents.

  “This is all I’ve got. Just be nice to the lady up front, and she’ll give it to you even if you’re short the full amount.”

  “Dude, that old lady is nice to you because she thinks you’re twenty years old.”

  My friends chuckle as if there’s time for jokes.

  “Just do it before we all get in trouble,” I command. Concerned that my new neighbor is still staying plastered to the ground, clenching and unclenching her fists and not saying a word.

  I’m a little frightened that I’ve actually hurt her, and I feel like a jerk about it. I knew better than to play football with a girl. I don’t know how to play the game gently. I never have. I catch the ball and then I stiff arm or knock down anyone who’s in my way to get to the end zone. My dad has been saying for years that I could easily play a position on the offensive line because of my size and toughness, but there’s no glory in that.

  I was born to run.