“We’re missing some people,” Bobby said, looking around. A few girls had ditched, and he sighed as he dumped the soccer balls out on the field. “You guys should be stretching if you get here before me.” He seemed annoyed, even more than he’d been the day before. In the same tone, he told us, “By next week we’ll have a soccer goal at either end of this field. I’ve been pressing the school for a more permanent practice space on school grounds; they can’t make it happen right now, but I did get them to work with the park district to put in some nets here, so it’s a step in the right direction.”
None of us were really paying attention, and then Dawn Murphy raised her hand and said, “I need to leave early today.” Dawn was one of the few girls on the team who wasn’t outwardly interested in Bobby—she seemed to genuinely like playing soccer—but she was a mystery in other ways, too. After her sophomore year, she’d disappeared, and everyone had assumed she’d left because she’d gotten pregnant. When she’d returned this year—as a senior—whispers followed her around, as people wondered if she’d given the baby away or if her mom was raising it. No one ever asked her outright and Dawn didn’t volunteer anything. These last few practice days, she had been in a hurry to leave, and some of the team had gossiped that she had to get home to her baby.
“Look,” Bobby said, “I don’t think you all realize how hard it is to get a school board and a park district to cooperate on outfitting this space as a soccer field. Real nets are going to give our practices more purpose, right?”
We mumbled “yesses” and “sures” from our spots on the grass, where our stretches were as lackluster as our enthusiasm for goals. No one cared about the school and park districts cooperating, and our apathy only made Bobby crabbier.
“Dawn, go ahead and leave if you have to.” He blew his whistle and said, “The rest of you, a hundred jumping jacks. Go.”
“Not fifty?” Candace said, with her arms folded over her chest as though to protect her boobs from further discomfort.
“A hundred,” he replied. “You can do it.”
I wasn’t proud of it, but by that point I was frustrated with him for barely having noticed me once that week, after all the ways I’d worked for it. And maybe everyone had some grudge against him, because we half-heartedly clapped our hands overhead, putting little effort into the jumping part of the jacks.
“More energy, team,” Bobby said, as he pumped up one of the soccer balls. “Now, twenty push-ups.”
“What?” Joanie Fox asked. “It’s soccer, not football.”
“We can make it fifty if you’d rather.” Bobby’s tone was icy. I was pissed at the other girls for putting him in such a foul mood, but I was more pissed at him. It’s not like any of us knew what we were doing. We’d all told him we hadn’t played soccer before. Why was he being so serious? Were we supposed to make him a crown because he’d gotten us some goals?
We started the push-ups, but everyone was sort of faking them. While we were doing that, Bobby took out a stack of cones and made four rows of four halfway down the field. No one got up off the grass when we finished.
Bobby said, “Stand up. Take a ball. Dribble down your row, around each cone, then back. Take it slow if you have to. I want to see you keeping the ball close the entire time. When the person in front of you passes the first cone, next one goes.”
There was none of his usual smiling or encouragement, and as we slowly got to our feet, he said, “Let’s move. This isn’t optional.”
“What about the flag thing?” Candace asked, looking with dread at the cones. “I thought we had to be good at that first.”
“I changed my mind,” Bobby said. He blew his whistle and put his hands on his hips. We set off. I was in line after Tina, who was doing pretty good until she knocked over the second cone. I took off behind her, but I peeked back at Bobby to see if he was watching me—even though I was mad at him, if I saw him smile at me, all would be forgiven—and I lost my ball.
“This is getting old,” someone behind me said, and it seemed like everyone felt that way. No one had the energy we’d had earlier in the week.
“Speed it up,” Bobby said. His face was stony and he’d folded his arms over his chest, like he wanted to build a wall between us and him.
“You said to go slow,” Arlene whined.
“Slow like you care, not like you died.” It was as stern as Bobby had ever sounded.
When we all returned, he said, “Grab some water, and we’ll do it again. This time with a little speed.”
“Someone’s testy today,” Candace said, taking one of the small paper cups set out next to the cooler of water Bobby had brought.
“For real,” Dana said, pushing a sweaty lock of hair off her face.
“I didn’t know he could be such a prick,” Marie Quinn said.
“Yeah, he can bite me,” Joanie moaned.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tina retorted.
“No, that’s Susan,” Candace said.
“Shut up, Candace.” I looked over my shoulder to see if Bobby was listening, but he was straightening the cones.
“I didn’t know this was going to be so hard,” Wendy said.
“Or pointless. Like, we don’t even have a game,” Sarah Foster said.
“This is so boring,” Arlene said. “I thought he’d be more flirty.”
“He’s gonna hear you, Arlene,” Dana said. “Besides, isn’t hanging all over Tom Meyer enough for you?”
“I don’t hang all over Tom,” Arlene shot back.
“I heard your ex Paul is going out with Jessica Simich,” Joanie said. “He got over you fast.”
Arlene tossed a cup of water at her. Joanie tossed one back at her, and then Dana shot a cup at water at me.
“What’d you do that for?” I said to her.
“Because you’re showing off, trying to outrun us all so you get time with Bobby.”
I looked from Dana to the other girls on the team, who were all nodding.
“Is there such a thing as ‘coach’s pet’?” Marie asked.
“Yeah, I thought I tried to be a showoff,” Wendy said. “But at least I wear a bra.”
“It’s kind of twisted,” Dana said, her voice going full prude.
“It’s not like that. Shut. UP,” I said. I had a cup of water in each hand and tossed both at her. But Dana stepped out of the way, and two streams of water sailed through the air and—
Hit Bobby, who’d been standing right behind her.
“That’s it!” he said, and blew his whistle again. His eyes were sharp, and his nostrils flared. He directed his angry face at me for a second before moving on to the rest of the girls.
None of us spoke.
“All week. All week, I’ve shown up. All week, I’ve tried. And here and there, I see it in you—that you can do this. But just as one of you starts to show potential, another one decides to slow down, or complain, or fuck around. I’ve shown up. But you haven’t. SHOWN. UP.”
He kicked a soccer ball so hard, it coursed through the air, hit a nearby tree, and ricocheted back at us. He had his hands on his hips, framing his perfect pelvis, as he said, “Know what suicides are?”
“Like, someone killing themselves?” Franchesa Rotini, who rarely spoke, asked with a quiver in her voice.
“Yeah, that. But on the field. They’re what my coaches had us do when no one was taking practice seriously and they were sick of our shit.” He turned and pointed. “Run as fast as you can to the middle of the field and back, then as fast as you can to the playground and back. Touch the ground at the middle and at the playground.”
He blew his whistle, but we all stayed where we were, looking at each other.
“Now!” he growled.
With that, we started running toward the middle of the field and back. When we touched the ground near Bobby, he yelled, “Pick it up!” I sprinted toward the playground, way ahead of everyone, but when I got back, I stopped and bent over, panting.
Bob
by looked at me and shook his head. “You stop when I tell you to stop.” Then he yelled, “All of you, keep running until I say you’re done.” He blew his whistle three times rapidly and watched us, his hands in fists at his sides.
“Fuck,” someone behind me said.
I was out in front, with Tina and Wendy not far behind me. On the third round, the three of us slowed down when we reached Bobby again, and he said, “Speed it up. Set the pace.” When we’d made it halfway to the playground, we could see some of the other girls just getting to the middle of the field for the third time.
“Keep going,” Bobby yelled at the stragglers.
I kept running because I was angry at him. It was the only explanation because really, with each suicide, I thought, Why are we even doing this? I had joined the team for him, didn’t he get that? But all he did was ignore me, and now he was treating me and everyone else like garbage because he wanted us to take this seriously. Nobody at school took us seriously, and probably no one did at the park district. He was lucky to even have a team, to have us.
He was lucky to have me.
Candace stopped in the middle of the field, clutching her side. She was breathing heavily, and she looked like she was going to puke. Gritting her teeth, she glared at Bobby.
“We can’t do this,” she hollered at him. “We’re just girls!”
Bobby started walking toward her. The three Lisas stopped running, and the rest of us started to slow down, like Candace was a car crash and we wanted a better look.
“What did you say?” Bobby asked her. He narrowed his eyes.
“I said, we can’t do this.”
Bobby blew his whistle and held up a hand for us to stop, even though most of us already had. If his expression hadn’t been so angry, I’d have been jealous at how Candace had his full attention. “No. The second part.”
Candace paused, like she knew this was bad but had no other choice. She took a deep breath in and let it out. “I said, we’re just girls,” Candace repeated, in a whisper.
Bobby bent his chin to his chest and rubbed his forehead. It was completely quiet.
We all looked at Candace like she’d saved us. But then Bobby shook his head and raised his gaze to her and then to all of us. His lips were set in a hard line as he breathed through his nose.
He spoke softly, but each of his words was injected with fury. “I don’t want to hear you’re just anything. You’re athletes. Do you hear me?”
I couldn’t see Michael Webster or my dad thinking soccer was cute if they could have seen how scary Bobby was right then. We were all standing petrified like we were in a game of freeze tag with nobody “it,” but each of us managed to nod.
He blew his whistle again. “Now run.”
No one left practice right then, but only because we were too terrified. We ran.
Every time we got back to the start, he told us to go again. Me, Tina, and Wendy were in front most of the way, but my side ached and I pinched it as I ran. Behind us, Sharon and Candace and the rest of the team were hobbling. Finally, some of the girls quit. Candace collapsed onto the ground. Dana made an awful death-gag sound and staggered off the field. Even Tina grabbed for a bench on one of our returns and put her head down, breathing deep, before starting again.
I kept running. After a few more sprints, with Bobby yelling, “Again!” I glanced back and saw only Wendy and Tina still running, while everyone else looked like bodies on a battlefield. But if Bobby didn’t tell me to stop, then I was going to keep going. I didn’t know if I ever wanted to see him again after today, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he beat me.
Finally, the only footsteps I heard were my own. The inside of my chest felt like it had been scorched and I was having trouble pumping my arms. It was going to be dark soon. Bobby held up his hands and said, “You’re done.”
Tina extended her arm for me to grab and I almost missed it. We flopped down in the grass. Wendy, I noticed, was sprawled on the ground like she’d jumped from a high building.
Bobby didn’t explain himself or apologize. “Get some water if you need it.”
We formed a line behind the jug, silent except for our panting, as if we all knew better than to speak.
When we each had a paper cup and were gulping thirstily, Bobby said, “Well, you all survived. ‘Just girls.’” He shook his head. “And I’m sure some of you will go home tonight and think, ‘Screw Coach McMann, I’m not running like that again, he’s not going to treat me like that.’”
He passed his eyes over each one of us, and I thought his look stopped on me for longer. Two days ago, that would have made me happy, and I might have even tried to glance away coyly, like Cosmo’s sixth tip advised, but today, I just glared at him.
“Sure. That was a tough practice. And let me tell you this: We’re going to have more of them, because I’m treating you like I would want to be treated. Like an athlete. So if any of you want to put in the effort, if any of you want to claim what’s yours—the right to say you gave it your all, instead of acting like this is some kind of joke and I’m the punch line—then I’ll see you here tomorrow. Otherwise, this isn’t the team for you. And I’m not the coach for you.”
He didn’t give anyone a chance to protest, just reached for the bag of balls and slung it over his shoulder. Then he turned and strode away, like he couldn’t care less what we did.
Seven
Friday Susan decided to quit.
Well, I decided Thursday.
I got home from practice ravenous. I made and ate two boxes of mac and cheese and what was left of the Cheez Balls and a scoop of leftover hamburger casserole Mom had made on Monday for us to eat during the week because she had night classes. Then I flopped on the couch and felt every inch of every muscle I didn’t know the name of screaming at me.
For the first time in a while, I was too worn out to go to my room and get off. I wasn’t motivated to, either. I tried, for a second or two, to imagine finding Bobby alone, and how I would apologize to him, but Bobby’s anger was too radiant in my mind. And then I remembered I was angry at him, too.
I flipped on the TV, and a commercial for Charlie’s Angels was on. The Angels were so pretty when they ran. None of them looked as bad as the team did after suicides. None of them looked like they were going to puke, that was for sure. Would Coach McMann make the Angels feel like they weren’t good enough, too?
I was more than angry. I felt stupid. When I’d first seen Coach McMann, I’d felt some kind of spark, like if I could just be around him, he’d see I wasn’t a typical high school girl. Attention from him—a special kind of person—would transfer some of the same specialness to me.
I was mad, too, that I’d been so obvious in my quest for his desire that the whole team had noticed. Except him. He wasn’t going to notice me. He could barely stand me. Even though he’d made it obvious he didn’t particularly like any of us at the moment, I thought it was possible—for no exact reason other than I wanted to wallow in how differently things had gone than I’d hoped—he disliked me the most out of everyone.
My mom walked in the door, laden with her book bag and her purse, looking drained. “Did I miss the Angels?” she asked.
I perked up despite myself. “Yes and no, because it was on last night,” I said, and then, because she looked disappointed, added, “It wasn’t that good.” It had been really good.
She sat down next to me on the couch. “Are those your soccer clothes?” she asked, pointing to my sweaty T-shirt. “You don’t have a uniform?”
“No,” I said dully. “And I won’t. I’m quitting.”
A frown twitched at the corner of Mom’s lips but she corrected it before she thought I saw. “Oh, I thought you were excited about the team,” she said. “So it’s not what you imagined?”
I shrugged. “It was worth trying. But I don’t think it’s for me.”
Mom slung her arm around me. “Well, as someone who’s tried to be a few new people o
ver the last couple years, I think it’s great you attempted to branch out.” She sounded genuinely proud. Belated or not, I’d take it.
The next morning, as people gathered in the halls to start talking about the weekend, I found Tina and Candace. We were standing at my locker when I told them, “I’m going to quit soccer.”
Candace paused. “I lost two pounds this week,” she said. “But my boobs hurt and I don’t ever want to run like we did yesterday again. I don’t want to go back, either.”
Tina wouldn’t meet my eyes for a moment, but then she sucked in a breath and drew herself up. She shook her head. “I hate quitting,” she said. “Are you guys sure you want to give up already? I thought we were having fun.”
“I’m not cut out for it,” Candace said, which Tina seemed to accept. That Candace wasn’t made for sprinting and push-ups was no surprise. But Tina gave me an unswerving stare, like my motive for quitting had spelled itself out on my T-shirt.
“We could join something else,” I offered. “Soccer’s a drag, isn’t it?”
“This is because Coach McMann was an asshole, isn’t it?” Tina said. “You should do what you want, but I think you’re making a mistake. He’s a coach—he’s probably going to yell sometimes.”
Her comments only made me want to quit more. If I was just another player for Bobby to yell at, then there was no reason for me to be there. Candace felt like she could just stop showing up and it would be no big deal. I wanted Bobby to know that I was out of there. And for him to feel terrible about it. So I decided to be late for lunch and went to the athletics office.
A few of the assistant football coaches—how a team so bad needed so many coaches was a mystery to me—were bent over a desk. They looked up as I walked in. “What do you need, honey?” one said, as though I was lost.
“Sorry,” I said, apologizing reflexively only because I could tell they didn’t want me there. “I need to talk to my coach. I mean, Mr. McMann.” He wasn’t my coach anymore.
I wove through the room, crowded with baskets of kickballs and footballs and jump ropes dangling from an old coatrack. The office smelled like stale sweat and something medicinal.
Gimme Everything You Got Page 7
