Synopsis
Abbey Brooks, Gila High freshman-to-be, never thought a hellish day of shopping at the mall with her best friend, Kate, could change her life. But when she orders French fries from the flirtatious Hot Dog on a Stick Chick, she gets more than deep-fried potatoes. Abbey tries to ignore the weird, happy feeling in her gut, but that proves to be as impossible as avoiding the very insistent (and—rumor has it—very lesbian) players on Gila High’s girls’ basketball team. They want freakishly long-legged Abbey to try out, and Abbey doesn’t hate the idea. But Kate made Abbey pinky swear to avoid basketball and to keep away from the you-know-who girls on the team.
Sometimes promises can’t be kept. And sometimes girls in uniform are impossible to resist.
The You Know Who Girls:
Freshman Year
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The You Know Who Girls: Freshman Year
© 2012 By Annameekee Hesik. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-805-6
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: October 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
Acknowledgments
The You Know Who Girls could never have made its way into the hands of readers without the help of many. First, a huge thank you to my family and friends for your constant cheerleading and encouragement. Thank you to Ellen Bass for your outstanding feedback and guidance and for introducing me to the incredible Lesléa Newman, who held my hand through the editing and publishing adventures. Thank you to Radclyffe and Ruth Sternglantz (Queen of Commas) at Bold Strokes Books and to all of the incredible folks at BSB who contributed to this finished product. Thank you to my webmaster and BFF, Casey Chafouleas, for being so attentive to my website whims and for making me laugh at things that aren’t supposed to be funny. Thank you to the baristas across Santa Cruz County for blending my mocha shakes—sorry I sat at your tables long after I slurped down the last gulp. Thank you to my amazing students at NMCHS for being my biggest fans long before the book was published—you will always be my little chickadees. Finally, a special thank you to my wife, Mary, for everything you are, everything you do, and for being my one and only you-know-who girl.
Dedication
To all the you-know-who girls.
Chapter One
According to my best friend Kate, the purpose of our visit to the Tucson Mall today is to have my “never-been-kissed innocence get an ass kicking from my Beyoncé booty and Cameron Diaz legs.” And this may be the closest Kate’s come to paying me a compliment. I’m still not moving off this couch, though, because my plans for the day include rejecting all uncomfortable fashion trends and watching the twelve-hour SpongeBob SquarePants marathon. Yes, I know at fourteen-and-three-quarter years old I may be a little too old for cartoons, but I don’t care. Kate will just have to torture me some other day. Besides, we’ve been friends since the day I threw up on her shoes in the third grade, earning me the nickname Abbey “Chunks” Brooks for the rest of my life. Kate got over the vomit incident, so I know she’ll get over this, too.
I reach for the phone to tell Kate the bad news, and because I’m a giant dork who can’t control her superlong appendages, I knock over my bowl of cereal and spill it all over the coffee table. I decide to mask the spill with my napkin, but then my mom walks in and says, “Abbey, I’m not really seeing this, right?” because she’s the master at telling me what to do without actually telling me what to do.
“No, you’re hallucinating again,” I say and get up to grab a rag from the kitchen.
After she’s satisfied with my cleanup on aisle three, my mom says, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go? You don’t want to miss the eleven-forty bus. Because you know, Abbey”—a sly smile appears on her face, and I know she’s about to sing the public transit jingle, which is her not-so-subtle way of reminding me that a ride from her is out of the question—“Suntran…it’s catching on!”
“Mom, that stopped being funny about a million years ago.” I fall back onto the couch and watch SpongeBob prepare for a death-defying stunt on his bicycle. “Anyway, I’m not going. It’s too hot to breathe, let alone walk around.”
Then the phone rings.
“You weren’t thinking of bailing on me, were you, Chunks?”
Damn Kate and her mind-reading skills. “No,” I say and then let out a defeated sigh. “I’m getting ready,” I lie and hang up, already sweaty from holding the phone to my ear.
We do have this thing called an air conditioner, but my mom refuses to employ its services. See, while the rest of Arizona’s residents are chillaxing in their homes, we suffer like martyrs in hopes of ending global warming. In my opinion, Mom’s using the earth’s demise to her economic advantage, but I’ve noticed that everyone has stopped asking for my opinion on all topics of discussion.
But then again, since my dad died, Mom has been cheap about everything, even her creativity. She did get a huge amount of money from my dad’s life insurance (she doesn’t know I know this, but I saw the papers on her desk), but she’s always worried about not having enough, and what-if-God-forbid-something-happened-to-her, which is why she’s been working nonstop on this totally cheesy howling-coyote painting for commission (art inspired by cash). It’s for Ventana Views, the new resort being constructed in the foothills of the Catalina Mountains. I consider pointing out that her art is going to be displayed in a 5,000-square-foot air-conditioned dining room built on land that once served as a habitat to javalinas and near-extinct bird species. But, then again, if she gets paid, maybe we can stop eating the always yellow and ever mysterious “casserole surprise” on Friday nights and start going out for pizza again. I have to play my cards carefully.
During a commercial break, I look over at her. It’s the usual scene: Mom in her paint-splattered glasses, wearing overalls and a tank top with a cup of iced coffee on the table next to her. She carefully adds a gray line down the coyote’s back, then rinses off her paintbrush in a jar of muddy brown water. I used to watch her so intently when I was a baby that Mom and Dad were convinced I’d become an amazing artist by the time I could babble Picasso. My artistic toddler efforts (like the one-eyed, armless “girl” with the purple Afro) still hanging around the house are proof, however, that I took after my dad: I’m book smart, scientific, and as linear as the crisscrossed grid of Tucson’s city streets.
And according to my eighth-grade counselor, I’m also tenacious, so I give it one more try. “Whoa. Everything’s getting blurry. Mom? Are you there? Where am I? Why is this giant frog staring at me? I can’t feel my tongue. Is that normal?”
She laughs, but that’s my only reward. “An Oscar-worthy performance, Abbey, but the air conditioner will remain off. It’s not even ninety degrees outside,” she says and dabs another empty spot on her canvas. I try to remember the last time she looked at me that closely, but can’t. “Go take a cold shower and stop bugging me
.”
I almost say, “Dad would do it for me,” but decide to save the dead-dad card for something more important. Instead, I collapse to the floor and belly crawl past her. “Water, water…please…just a drop…” And then feign death by dehydration at the bathroom door.
She finally looks up and smiles big enough to show off the new wrinkles reaching out from her lake-blue eyes. People say I look exactly like her. I used to think it was because of my blond hair and long legs, but now I see me in her eyes, and I’m glad to have inherited at least that part of her.
By the time I finish fake dying, showering, and getting dressed, I wind up missing the 11:40 bus. I don’t even bother asking my mom for a ride but do ask for back-to-school-clothes money and then give her a kiss good-bye.
Thanks to my mom’s recent yard sale shopping spree, it takes me a minute to free my dad’s red bike from all the junk in the garage. I’m riding his now because long-tall Abbey here outgrew her bike last year. I tie a rag around the baked bike seat that has cracked open from too much sun exposure and strap on my helmet and backpack. As I coast down my driveway, I curse the infernal sun and Kate and low-rise pants, and start my forty-minute ride to the stupid Tucson Mall.
*
Kate will be very disappointed if she finds me at the mall in a sweat-drenched shirt, so I clean up in the Macy’s bathroom and change into a dry shirt I was smart enough to stuff in my backpack before leaving my house. I try to fix my helmet hair but give up and pull it back into a low ponytail. The lack of both effort and product I’ve put into my hair is going to bug her, but everything about me seems to irritate her these days, so it’s not like I can win. Like the fact that I’m wearing my khaki shorts, plain white tee, and blue Converse shoes, which Kate says makes me look like a deckhand on a Carnival cruise ship. My choices in clothes and hairstyles didn’t use to bother her, but ever since we became Future Freshmen, it seems like overnight she’s become everything I’m not, and then some.
As I wait for Her Majesty, I work on my own list of important things to do before my first day of high school:
1. Rearrange glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling to reflect recent celestial changes.
2. Stop having nightmares about dead dad.
3. Develop addictions to all foods and drinks that stunt growth.
Then a shadow falls over me followed by a waft of some actress’s new perfume and the smell of cucumber-melon lotion.
“You’re such a freaking schoolgirl.”
I look up and see my before-mentioned BFF with her brown hair cascading down her back, every curl in its place, the perfect shade of eye shadow to make her eyes pop, shimmery lip gloss, freshly painted fingernails, and coordinated clothes. None of which surprises me. What gets me is how much bustier she is than the last time I saw her. “Wow, have there been new developments in your life that you want to tell me about?”
“Jealous much? Pack up your little geek-party-for-one and let’s go.”
I put my notepad and pen away in my faded red backpack. “All right, let’s get this over with.”
She heads toward the wide open jaws of the nearest department store, and I dutifully follow.
We start at Kohl’s, where I’m supposed to be looking for a “supertight shirt that matches my eyes and gives the illusion that I have boobs,” but while Kate’s distracted by the towers of jeans, I sneak out my notepad and work on my list:
4. Buy ultradry deodorant and new socks.
5. Make up a catchy cool saying.
6. Practice speaking Spanish.
I peek over a rack of shorts and see Kate scrutinizing a pair of jeans. They’re pink corduroy, and the short zipper makes it easy for me to determine how much of my butt cheeks will be hanging out if I actually sit down while wearing them. I think we should all say no to crack, but the fashion gurus have a different idea. I send a telepathic message to Kate to put them down and walk away, but she adds them to the mound of clothes in her arms that I’m going to be forced to try on.
“It’s time,” she yells in my direction.
I have never met a fitting room I liked. First of all, fitting rooms are made for normal-sized people, not freakishly tall people like me. Because I’m five nine and a half, it feels like my nearly naked body is visible to everyone as they walk by. Plus, I always whack my funny bone on the stupid hooks protruding from the wall, which are placed at the most inconvenient level for Amazons like me. The worst part has to be the full-length mirror and bad lighting. I usually try not to look too closely, but today I glance over before slipping on one of the outfits Kate’s picked out for me. I hate what I see: me standing there in my boring cotton undies and bra, with my bland face and scraggly long blond hair. The mirror seems to elongate my twiggy arms and legs more than ever, making me totally look like Elastigirl, minus the sexy thigh-high boots, secret identity, and boobs. I flash a fake smile at myself because my smile is the only thing I like. That and my inherited blue eyes, but neither are making me feel better at the moment.
“We don’t have all day, Abbey,” Kate says outside the door. “Come on. I promise I won’t say anything mean.”
“Yeah, right,” I say and quickly put on the pink pants and the tight white shirt. I look slightly okay, but Kate will have the final word on that. I open the door and wait for the bullets to hit me.
“Oh my God, you look like a giant cricket. What’s with your legs for days?”
This goes on for about fifteen more outfits, and then I change into the last one, open the fitting room door, hold out my arms, and do a slow 360 for Kate.
She looks up from texting and throws up her hands. “Why is it that we’re the same damn size, and everything looks good on me, but you manage to look like a mutant?”
These comments used to bug me, but now I just shrug and let them go. “It is one of life’s great mysteries, I guess. Can we go eat now?”
“God, you’re such a freak, Abbey. We might as well just get a bedsheet and throw it over your head.”
“I know, I know,” I say, as I quickly strip and jump back into my comfy clothes. Before exiting, though, I add:
7. Buy new underwear and bras.
to my list. I don’t dare tell Kate because she would have a heart attack from excitement and then drag me to Victoria’s Secret for thongs and lacy push-ups. I’m only fourteen and I still like cartoons, so I’m not quite ready for sex-kitten status yet, but I may be ready for a bra with a little bow in a color other than nude.
As we slowly make our way to the food court, Kate alternates between texting Marisol and Sarah, gagging at how bad I look in the other outfits I try on along the way, drooling over the guys on the Abercrombie posters, and trying on every scented lotion at The Body Shop. Then she starts in on her “we are almost women, hear us meow” speech.
“I mean, Abbey, look at us.”
I scan myself, then her, and see the obvious: Sure we’re the same height and same pant and shoe size, but her long wavy brown hair and other parts of her do this supermodel sway when she walks. Her teeth and skin glow, just like the TV ads say they should. Plus, she knows how to apply makeup and waltz like a graceful dancer on her extra-long legs. My stride resembles Shaggy’s from Scooby-Doo.
“We’re practically women,” she says and then glances over at me. “Well, at least, for the most part.”
I cross my arms over my chest and remind myself that there’s a lot more to her than finding the perfect pair of jeans and scamming on guys. She was there for me when I lost my dad. It was Kate who sat next to me at his funeral, and it’s Kate who lets me talk about him whenever I need to. She’s a good listener when it matters most.
But now I’m in a dressing room at Forever 21, and I hate her. The miniskirt she’s making me try on makes me look like a sex worker who might be found strolling down Miracle Drive. I tear it off like it’s contagious and come out dressed as myself. Before Kate has a chance to protest, I say, “No way. Not now. Not ever.”
After two hours of dres
sing room torture, we finally arrive at the food court, and the first thing I notice isn’t the group of guys Kate is trying to get me to see by stabbing her sharp elbow into my side. What I notice is we’ve missed a thunderstorm, and I’m bummed. See, in Tucson it can go from a hundred degrees to flash floods in a matter of minutes. The storms are so awesome and loud car alarms go off all over the neighborhood when the thunder rumbles. I love the power the monsoon storms pack.
Even though Kate and I are behind a wall of windows, I can smell the damp creosote bushes and clean asphalt. I close my eyes for a second, inhale, and think of the trips my dad and I took into the desert to record bird songs and collect rocks for the biology classes he taught at the University of Arizona.
Kate looks at her cell phone for the hundredth time today and then turns to me to deliver one last bit of advice. “Abbey, don’t you think it’s time you stop caring about the weather and start caring about something that really matters?”
I smile but keep quiet because there have been a lot of other things on my mind lately, things I think about way more than the weather. But they are things I can’t ever tell Kate about, at least not yet. Sure, we’ve shared death, but I’m definitely not ready to tell her I enjoy the posters at Abercrombie as much as she does, but not because of the hot, barely clothed guys.
Kate gets a text from Jenn, her older sister and her ride home. “Well, hasta la pasta, girl,” she says and gives me a quick hug. “I guess we’ll have to hit the stores again tomorrow. Same time, same place?”
I look at my watch and don’t respond, hoping that I can later say, “I never agreed to go to the mall with you,” but Kate knows me too well and forcibly nods my head up and down with her hands.
Freshman Year Page 1
