The Bad Boy and the Tomboy

by Nicole Nwosu

“Can you squeeze me into your busy schedule?” he teased.

  If Jasmine was here, she’d easily slide in something flirty. Banter that proved she was easygoing, fun to talk to. I wasn’t her, and so I pretended to play it cool. “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll text you then to find out.”

  “Cool.” Saying good-bye to him, I turned on my heel, my grip on my phone harder than it should have been.

  Cool? Seriously? When I reached our table, it was filled with my friends—and Sam. “Why are you here? That’s my spot.”

  “It’s suddenly illegal to sit?”

  I slid in next to him and grabbed my lunch from my bag, opening it and putting it on the table. Sam reached out to take a granola bar I had as a snack and I slapped his hand away.

  “Ow.”

  Austin hissed, “Don’t mess with Macy and her food, man.” He glanced at himself through the camera on his phone as he fixed his hair. Austin was biracial—his father Congolese and his mom Puerto Rican—and he had brown eyes and perfectly straight teeth that had never been touched by braces.

  “Ever,” Jon Ming added, putting his headphones around his neck. Jon Ming’s dyed red hair was as bright as his eccentric personality. He spoke multiple languages, including his native tongue, Korean, and was known for playing the music he created everywhere, at every party he went to.

  I pushed Sam’s arm off as he tried to put it around my chair. “Hazel here is glad to share food with me, aren’t you? She’s probably happy to see me.”

  “Buzz off, dumbegg.”

  “Buzz off, dumbegg?” Sam looked at Andrew. “Who says dumbegg?”

  “This girl, who doesn’t swear,” Andrew said. “Be glad you haven’t heard her say holy flying lemurs.”

  “Holy flying what?” Sam chuckled, surprised. “That’s weird because you’re such a tomboy.”

  “I’m not—”

  “A tom. Boy. Do I have to say it slower?”

  “Stop being a jerk. I’m not a tomboy.”

  “You kind of are,” Jon Ming agreed. “All your friends are guys except Jasmine.” Jon Ming pointed his fork at me, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I don’t think you’ve ever owned a dress.”

  “She has dresses. She just doesn’t wear them,” Jasmine said.

  “And you’re like one of the guys.” Austin shrugged.

  Sam’s phone beeped and he got up after he looked at it. His hand reached out to ruffle my hair. “See you later, Hazel.”

  After he left the busy cafeteria, Jon Ming said, “Sam’s interesting.”

  “And he seems to like talking to you,” Austin commented.

  “What about Cedric?” Jasmine whispered as if someone was going to eavesdrop on our conversation.

  “He wants to hang out. It’s not like that,” I said.

  “You’re into Cedric?” Andrew said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to.” He pointed at me. “You’re going red.”

  I rubbed my cheeks and scowled at my friends. “Can we change the stupid subject?”

  Andrew smirked. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Andrew.”

  Jasmine got excited. “Can’t believe Macy Marie Victoria—”

  “It’s Victoria Marie!” I reminded her for the hundredth time since I’d known her.

  “—has a crush,” Jon Ming finished. “This is fucking weird.”

  “Who has a crush?” Jacob and Brandon joined us. The fraternal twins shared fair skin and brown eyes but Jacob’s brown hair was short while Brandon’s longer hair was tied back in a low bun.

  “Macy’s into Cedric Cahill.”

  Jacob made a face. “That’s a lie.”

  Was it that hard to believe that I could like someone? Tapping my fingers against the table as everyone kept eating, I asked Brandon and Jacob, “Do you guys think I’m a tomboy?” Jacob laughed. Loudly. Brandon, although politer than his brother, seemed to agree. “I wish you wouldn’t turn me into a stereotype.”

  Jon Ming read off his phone, “A tomboy is ‘a girl who likes rough, noisy activities traditionally associated with boys.’”

  “I’m not exactly that!” I protested.

  Andrew held my hands. “You are a tomboy, accept it.” He shrugged as if to tell me it was what it was. A disappointed sigh left me as I glanced at Cedric, who was talking to his friends. There was no way he would like a tomboy.

  That night I lay in my bed with my laptop in front of me, a video playing on the screen: Streamers hung on the walls of the living room. The dining table was loaded with food—potato chips, cheese puffs, pretzels, a veggie tray . . . and my soccer cake. It was my ninth birthday. The last one I had with my mom before she died four months later in a car crash.

  The cake was alight and everyone was singing “Happy Birthday to You.” My dad was making monkey faces at the camera and my mom stopped him, attempting to flip the focus on me. Five seconds later, they kissed before little me blew out the candles on the cake. Justin’s high pitched “ew” tumbled into the shot. Her brown hair was in voluminous waves and her eyes were bright. Even if she’d worn a potato sack she would have stood out. She could light up any room while I blended in with the crowd. Maybe my friends were right, maybe I was a tomboy—but if that meant that I loved soccer like my mom, then I was maybe okay with it.

  The back of my head hit my pillow. She would know what to do about me liking a guy. I’d never needed to have that conversation. I could possibly talk to my dad, but this topic would always be a mom thing. The type of thing daughters would go to their moms for, and ask for advice. That’s what Jasmine did with her mom whenever the topic of boys came up.

  There was a knock on my door. It had to be my dad; Justin normally barged in. He poked his head over the threshold. “Justin made pasta.”

  “Justin attempted to make food? Patrick Justin?” I pushed the covers off. “This I’ve got to see.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Watching old videos of Mom.”

  My dad stepped into the room, eyes now glued to the screen where I had the next video cued up to play.

  My family recorded a lot of things. We had tapes saved of the first time Justin and I walked. Of our Halloween costumes every year. And while we had a lot of videos and tapes stored from over the years, we had even more pictures. Most pictures of the family were initiated by Mom. She’d force me and Justin to pose while in line for ice cream during summers growing up. She took pictures of me at every game I had been part of for house league soccer when I was six.

  At some point, soon after she died, we stopped taking pictures. This resulted in me asking Dad for a camera one birthday. And since I received it, I haven’t stopped taking photos.

  “Christmas?”

  “Yeah.” I pointed at the action figure in my hand on the screen. “Justin hated that I got that. He stole it when I eventually stopped playing with it.”

  The look in my dad’s eyes was distant. “And then you stole it back and he wouldn’t stop crying.”

  I looked back at the screen. “I miss her.”

  His smile diminished. “I miss her, too, Mace.”

  I ran beyond Jon Ming, passing the ball to Andrew on the right wing. Practice, held at either the gym or rec center after school on given days, was meant to be hard. My body ached from the number of suicides and push-ups Coach Thompson made me do as punishment for getting detention the other day, but I tried to stay focused.

  Andrew passed the ball to me and I flipped it back to him before Jon Ming could touch it. Andrew took the shot and in the nick of time, I tipped the ball in, watching it hit the back of the net. The move was great, but it was rare for Coach Thompson to give us praise. We had to earn it.

  “Prescott! Anderson! Over here!” Coach yelled. Andrew and I jogged over.
“Nice job.”

  He called our teammates over, ending practice as he said, “Great practice, team, see you tomorrow. Dismissed!”

  The rest of the team packed up. Even though practice was over, excited energy bounced inside me. I playfully hit Andrew on his arm. “We are so going to win on Monday.”

  “Someone’s happy.”

  “I’m just saying.” My fingers prodded at his stomach in excitement. “We’re going to win on Monday. We’re going to win the tournament—this team is going to go all the way.”

  “Mace, we all know how much you love winning.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I straightened my hair in its ponytail as Andrew untied his cleats.

  “Staying here?” Andrew asked.

  “I’m going to practice a bit more before heading home. You staying?”

  “Got too much homework. Although it’ll be great to not have your sweaty gear in my car.”

  “Rude.”

  “You going to get home safe?” He grabbed his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. Drive safe!”

  “Danke,” he said exaggeratedly, and walked into the boys’ change room.

  Growing up over the years, I’d seen different sides of Andrew. We had gone to school together for most of our lives and our parents were close; it was almost inevitable that we would be best friends. I knew how angry he got whenever I took the last slice of pizza or how happy he was when his beloved show got a reboot. I’d seen him cry over movies in which his favorite character died. We’d always been close.

  As my feet moved along the ball, adrenaline coursed through my veins and I ran full-out past the set-up pylons, making a quick cut left and shooting the ball. Someone yelled something incoherent that startled me and I looked up to see Sam and Caleb cackling in the bleachers. They left their seats and headed over to me. Caleb was wearing regular clothes but Sam? He was in soccer gear. His cleats were shiny and new, and his clothing top brand. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “We could ask you the same thing,” Caleb said.

  “Training.” I pointed to Sam’s cleats. “I didn’t know you played soccer,” I lied.

  Caleb patted his friend on the shoulder, excitement all over his face. He was definitely a joy to be around—I could tell. “He’s good when he’s not being a pendejo dick.” I must’ve given him a confused look because Caleb shrugged. “I’m half Latino.”

  “Why didn’t you try out for the team?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you guys just have practice?” Sam asked instead.

  “I stayed back for a bit to practice on my own.”

  “I’ll practice with you. Unless you can’t keep up?” Sam winked and playfully knocked his shoulder against mine as he moved by me, grabbing the ball and luring me out.

  Turned out Sam was good.

  Sam was very good.

  He handled the ball as if it were a part of him, eyes darting around the field, always calculating. The only thing that stood between him and the net was me. Caleb sat by the side near my duffel bag, attempting to take pictures. “I hate to break it to you, Hazel,” Sam challenged me. “You’re a forward.”

  I am. How did he know that? “I know which position I play.”

  He hiked the ball up in the air and rolled it off the front of his body. I caged him, focused on his every movement as he attempted to get by me. He was quick but I was too. When Sam realized the lengths that I would go to get the ball off him, we were in the middle of not trying to foul each other. And even though I wasn’t fond of the guy, I liked the way he treated me as if I was any soccer player. He didn’t go easy on me because I was a girl.

  Rolling the ball back and setting up again, Sam surveyed the scene. Obviously knowing he wasn’t going to get past me, he took the easy shot, and I whipped around to see the ball enter the net. “Cheater.”

  “How?” He grinned. “All I had to do was get it in.”

  “By getting past me!” I shoved him lightheartedly and he only seemed amused, running over to get the ball.

  “Caleb!” I yelled and he looked up from the bleachers. In his hand was a pen and a notebook; my camera sat next to him. He had alternated between taking pictures and writing in his notebook since we had gotten here. “How do you deal with him?”

  “I ask myself that every day.” Caleb jogged over to us with my camera. “You take good pictures.” He turned to Sam. “Take me home on the bike.”

  “No,” Sam said.

  “Rude.”

  “You’re a nice guy,” I said to Caleb, who seemed surprised by my compliment. I patted Sam on the shoulder. “You should take notes.”

  “One, I never said I was a nice person, and two, I can’t take him on the bike. My motorcycle’s in the shop, but my car’s in the parking lot.”

  “You have a motorcycle?” I asked, struggling not to laugh at the new information.

  Sam frowned. “How is that funny?”

  “Because you’re a walking cliché, dude. The leather jacket? Motorcycle? Is this Grease?”

  Sam shot me a dirty look while Caleb chuckled loudly. Sam was physically attractive, and he knew it. It was obvious in the way he’d flirted easily with that girl at the diner near school, and by his little comments. It added to his entire rude appeal. “Let’s go.”

  Caleb waved good-bye to me as Sam stomped away, picking up his duffel bag from the bleachers and heading into the guys’ change room.

  There was no way he and Cedric were related.

  3

  Small World

  On a cloudy day, I sat at the diner near school with my friends, who were crowded around two tables. It was rare to get all of us together on a Saturday morning, and this was one of the few chances we got. Next to me sat Jasmine’s older brother, Drake. He went to university in Willowridge, a town not too far from Port Meadow, and had driven back this morning for reading week. “It’s good having you here, man,” Andrew said to Drake.

  Drake had been on the soccer team before he graduated from our high school two years ago. “Tournament time, right?” Drake asked.

  “And we’re going to win,” Austin promised.

  The boys chorused their agreement and I turned to Drake. “Where’s your sister?”

  “She needs to hurry up.” Jacob’s knee bounced up and down next to me, his eyes leering at the bright screen listing all the food. “I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving,” Brandon said. “Just order.”

  “I’m here,” Jasmine announced, plopping down next to her brother and hugging him. “Sorry, my alarm didn’t go off. Was your drive here okay?” Before Drake could answer, Jasmine’s eyes caught a figure at the door, and she frowned. All of our eyes turned to see Beatrice, her big group of friends surrounding her.

  “Look away,” Jacob warned, and our eyes went back to each other before any of them could catch us looking.

  “Ignore them and Beatrice.” Andrew sighed.

  “Are you guys going to postsecondary? Working?” Drake asked.

  A few days ago, I’d flicked through pictures of all of us—knowing that I wasn’t going to be in the same place as my friends next year at this time had made my stomach twist.

  “Mace, did you pick a university yet?”

  “I’ve still got time. I’m waiting to see what happens with soccer later this season.”

  Beatrice slowed down to greet the boys before shooting Jasmine and me a dirty look. Her face contorted into a conceited smile that I wanted to wipe off her face.

  She could put that smile up her—

  “I hate her,” Jasmine muttered.

  “You and me both,” I added as my phone buzzed in my pocket. Opening it up as Jacob told the server what he would be ordering, I read:

  Cedric: Next Friday there’s a party. I b
etter see you there

  Jasmine seized my phone. “He wants you to go to the party?”

  “Cahill?” Jon Ming leaned in, intrigued.

  Drake looked taken aback by the last name rather than being confused about what was going on. “Cahill?”

  “Cedric,” Andrew informed him, turning back to me. “Answer back.”

  “You answer back,” I retorted. Jasmine took charge, typing on the screen of my phone. I read her response as she clicked Send.

  Me: Pick me up then

  “Jasmine.”

  “If he wants you there, he should do it himself.” Three floating dots appeared on my phone. He was responding.

  Cedric: Count on it

  My phone was snatched out of my hand and Jon Ming and Austin read the text. “Count on it,” Austin mocked in a deeper voice. The two proceeded to make kissy faces, which was highly annoying. A lot of things could change regarding our lives, but the way they all acted definitely wouldn’t.

  Later that day, I stood by the side of the indoor soccer field at the rec center, watching the kids on the field doing the drills I’d assigned to them. I volunteered here every Saturday as a house league coach.

  Glancing down at my phone, I saw that Cedric had texted me again, which he’d been doing nonstop throughout the day. I blew the whistle to end the drill and let everyone know they’d done a great job. As the kids were getting ready to head home to their parents, I was in the middle of typing a reply to his message when I spotted Sam with Phillip, one of the kids I coached.

  “How did I do?” Phillip asked.

  Sam gave him a smile I had never seen before. No arrogance. Sam ruffled his hair. Phillip swatted his hand off but didn’t appear vexed. “You did great, buddy.”

  “Really?” Philip glowed.

  “Yes.” Sam’s eyes zeroed in on me. Phillip turned around, the dimples deepening on his cheeks. I gave him a little wave as Sam stood, handing Phillip a coat to wear. “Change into your shoes, you don’t want to stretch out your cleats.”

  “I didn’t know you volunteered here,” Sam said to me.

  “Every Saturday. What are you doing here?”