“Oh my God,” Marisol says, and I know what she’s talking about. “She is so wearing a Miracle Bra.”
Sarah covers her mouth to hide her laughter.
“Ladies,” Kate says, “always remember to leave them wanting more.” She turns and smiles at Derrick, while also somehow making her new cleavage pop.
“It’s hard to believe she’s the same girl who cries every time we watch Nemo get fish-napped,” I say to Mari and Sarah.
“Haha,” Kate says, “let’s go.”
We hit Lady Foot Locker, Finish Line, and Journeys, but they’re a bust because they don’t have any women’s basketball shoes that I like in size ten, and I refuse to wear men’s shoes like the salespeople always suggest I do. Finally, we try Champs.
“How about these?” Sarah holds up a pair of bright red Converse that is on display. A sign above it says, You know what they say about guys with big feet…“These are a men’s seventeen. Is that big enough for you, Abbey?” she says and laughs.
“Good one, Sarah,” Marisol says giving Sarah a high five.
I flip them both off and continue searching for the perfect shoes. And when I say perfect, I mean like the ones Garrett and Stef have. “Hey, these are the ones,” I say and hold up a pair of blue-and-white low-tops. “Do you have these in a size ten?” I ask the Champs employee who seems more interested in helping Kate work the treadmill. He looks doubtful but goes in the back to check.
When he emerges with a box in his hand, Kate says, “I guess miracles do happen.”
I slide my foot in, lace them up, and jump around a little to make sure they’re not too small. “They fit!” I say and then get butterflies in my stomach. Even after just four days of practice, I feel like I belong on the team. “I’ll take them.”
*
We all go our separate ways after arriving at the food court. Kate, Sarah, and Marisol stand in line for burgers, and even though Keeta’s not standing behind the counter looking irresistible in her colorful polyester uniform and cap, I opt for a corn dog, french fries, and lemonade. We meet up again with our trays, and I suggest a table near Hot Dog on a Stick in case Keeta’s just on a break or she comes in for the second shift. Kate decides it has enough guy-viewing potential, so we sit down.
While I innocently munch on my fries, my friends discuss the “screwability” of the boys who pass by.
“Ooh, in line at Eegee’s, the guy in the black shirt,” Marisol whispers.
“No way,” Kate says. “Check out the one in line at Chick-fil-A. Now that’s what I’m talking about. His legs are almost as muscular as Derrick’s.”
As they continue their lusting, I use the opportunity to review my basketball gear list. Basketball shoes? Check. Now all I need are sports bras, more socks, and maybe some new shorts. Blue shorts like Garrett and Stef wear.
“Girl, are you listening to a thing we are saying?” Marisol asks and pulls on my ear like I’m five.
I continue to contemplate my list but say, “Yeah. I am.” Because I’m a good multitasker, I know they’ve moved on to talking about the dance, some Back to School Fling, or whatever. “And no. I’m not going.”
“Abbey, are you kidding? Jake and you should totally go,” Kate says and starts to bounce in her seat with excitement.
Marisol joins in. “Dios mío, you have to ask him.”
“Um, no. I actually don’t have to ask him.”
“But you guys are so perfect for each other,” Sarah says with a dreamy smile on her face.
“You’re both so tall.”
“Yeah, I can totally see it now,” Kate says. “You guys would be like two friendly giants, strolling through the hall, ducking through doorways.”
Marisol nearly shoots Dr Pepper out her nose. “Totally,” she says after recovering.
“Shut up, you guys. It’s not like that with him. I mean, he’s cool, but…” I pick at the gum stuck under the table, then get totally grossed out when I realize what I’m doing. “Ew. I need to wash my hands. I’ll be right back.”
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Kate yells over her shoulder, as I walk to the bathroom.
I wash my hands and then stick them under the air blower. I rub my hands together vigorously as instructed, and think more about Jake. He is cute, I guess, in a dude kind of way, and part of me really wishes I liked him like Kate likes Derrick. It would make everything so much easier. But no. No, the person I really like has to be the one person I probably can’t ever have. She’s a senior, for crying out loud. Um, and a girl, for crying out loud. Yep, she’s just a dream that will never come true, and I feel so stupid for letting myself think Keeta sees me as anything more than a girl who likes french fries and can’t play guitar.
I give up on the dryer and wipe my damp hands on my shorts. On my way back to our table, I glance over at Hot Dog on a Stick. That’s when my whole world sparkles again because there’s my dream girl working at the register. As I pass by, she looks up, sees me, and sends a stunning smile my way. I smile back, download the image of her flawless face into my brain, and force myself to walk back to the nearby table of torture and ignore my sudden urge for more french fries.
While my friends continue to stare at boys, I have the tip of my braid between my fingers and am painting my face and staring over at Keeta, who’s slowly moving back and forth over the counter, as she wipes it down. In my mind I’m replaying the last time we looked at each other over the counter’s shiny surface. As she cleans, I notice how defined the muscles in her arms are and figure it must be from playing the guitar or maybe from making so much lemonade. I sigh and wonder how someone can be so perfect.
“You want another corn dog or something?” Kate asks.
I usually notice when they stop talking, but this time I guess I was too distracted. I can feel them all staring at me, so I slowly adjust my gaze. “No. I’m not hungry. Why?”
“Well, you’re looking over at the hot dog stand like some sort of psycho.” Then Kate spots Keeta. “Hey, isn’t that the guitar class helper chick?”
Marisol and Sarah crane their necks like giraffes to look over at Keeta, who is now pounding lemons with the lemonade-making contraption.
“Shouldn’t we get going?” I pick up my backpack and stand up. “Those thongs aren’t going to buy themselves, ladies.”
But Kate grabs my backpack and yanks me back down. “I’m not done eating yet. Park it, sister.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen her around Gila,” Sarah says.
“Your point?” I know I sound defensive, but I don’t like that they’re looking at my secret crush. They have this way of ruining things for me and I don’t want them to ruin this.
“What’s her name?” Marisol asks.
“Keeta,” Kate says, like she and Keeta are longtime friends or something.
I stay quiet and fidget with my backpack straps. I need to think of a way to get them to quietly exit the food court.
“Omigod.” Sarah squints at Keeta to get a better look because she’s supposed to wear glasses or contacts but can’t remember to wear either. “She’s one of those dykes on the basketball team,” she says way too loudly.
I slap Sarah’s arm. “God, you don’t have to scream it.” I quickly glance over at Keeta again.
She’s taking an order from a mom with a bunch of kids and I pray she can’t hear us. I regret choosing a table so close to her.
“And she doesn’t play basketball,” I say, ignoring the other part of Sarah’s comment because it’s too much for me to handle. “She plays guitar.”
“Well, I don’t know what rock you’ve been living under,” Sarah says, “but she definitely plays basketball. She’s on the varsity team. She practices when my brother practices. He told me about her and the others. Wait, she’s in your guitar class?”
“Yeah, so?” I look over at Keeta again and she looks right back at me. No smile this time.
Then Sarah remembers more details about Keeta. “I think she’s with that one girl
with the blond ’fro.”
“Isn’t that the girl you have Spanish with, Abbey?” Then Kate turns to The All Knowing Sarah, “Her name’s Stef, right?”
“That’s the one,” Sarah says then whispers something to Marisol and they both laugh.
“What’s your point?” I yell, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. Keeta and Stef? That can’t be right.
“Damn, Abbey. You’re like a lezzie magnet!” Marisol says, and they all bust up laughing. “And you’re going to play basketball with them? Ha. Before you know it, you’ll be hanging on the arm of some girl at prom.” Marisol bumps knuckles with Sarah, and they crack up some more about my future lesbian life. Even Kate’s laughing.
I don’t know how this happened, but I know I have to stop it. If I overreact, though, they might get suspicious. So I do what I do best when I’m around my friends: follow their lead.
“Oh my God, Mari, you’re right.” I force myself to laugh really loud. “They are totally after me. I should get some Extra Strength Gayoff. Does Walgreens carry that?”
It works. They laugh even harder and fall in each other’s laps.
“Maybe I can buy it in bulk at Costco.”
“Stop!” Kate gasps “I’m going to pee my pants!”
With the fake smile still on my face, I accidentally look over at Keeta one more time. The screaming kids are long gone, and she’s just standing there, looking hard over at our table. Then she shakes her head and turns away. She must have heard everything. My fake smile melts faster than a snow cone in July.
I panic inside, but what can I do? If I go over to Keeta, my friends will know something weird is going on. Plus, I’ve just gotten them off my back about the whole lesbian thing. So I do the worst thing I’ve done since I lied to Stef and Garrett: I sit here and do nothing.
My friends finally recover from their laugh attack and we leave to finish our shopping duties. Using all the telepathic power I have, I try to get Keeta to look at me so I can apologize with my eyes, but she pretends to be engrossed in dipping hot dogs in the batter and doesn’t look up as we pass.
We go to Macy’s and I grab the first sports bras and socks I see. “Um, I’m going to buy these and then I gotta go, you guys. My mom wants me to clean the house today, or else.”
They look up from the three-tier tower of thong underwear. “Yeah, sure. See ya, Abbey,” Kate says.
“Cool,” Sarah says.
And Marisol adds, “Adiós, chica.”
My departure from the group seems too easy, so I get all paranoid that they know more than I want them to, but I have to brush that aside. I’ve got bigger worries.
The number one worry I have at the moment is that Keeta heard what I said to my homophobic friends and has already decided never to talk to me again. So now I’m rushing through the mall to get back to the Hot Dog on a Stick stand to undo some of my stupidity from earlier. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say, but it’s going to be the truth…for once. Not the whole truth, of course. Like, not the part where I think about her every waking moment of the day. I’m sincerely sorry, but I’m not crazy.
I maneuver around the crowds and lines as fast as I can, but when I arrive at Hot Dog, Keeta’s not at the register.
“Hey,” I say to the girl behind the counter. I recognize her from Gila High. “Is Keeta still working?”
She shrugs then yells at the other worker in the back, “Hey, D! Is Keeta still here? Some chick wants to talk to her.”
“Nah. She took off ten minutes ago.”
The girl behind the counter figures I’ve gotten my answer and helps the next customer.
*
I hate myself, and I hate my so-called friends, and I hate not knowing what Keeta thinks of me. I usually don’t mind the death-defying rides down Grant Street, but today I want to be alone, so I take a sharp left onto Catalina Avenue and pedal down the wide residential street until I’m zooming down it in a blur of rage. A minute later, I feel the wind pick up and a few tumbleweeds roll across the road. The wind tries to slow me down, but my anger continues to fuel my ride.
Besides feeling mad at myself about what I did back at the mall, part of me is actually mad at Keeta for not telling me that she’s gay. But what do I expect her to do? Say something like, “Hey, I’m Keeta. Oh, and you should know, I’m a lesbian.” People just don’t do that. And after the way me and my dumb-ass friends acted, I can see why. And how was I supposed to know she played basketball? I thought she was at the gym to use the clean bathroom.
And I’m mad at Stef for not telling me Keeta is her girlfriend. But I guess that’s my fault, too. I mean, I’ve never actually told Stef and Garrett that I’m taking guitar because I don’t want them to think I’m a dork (more than they already do). Anyway, how would Stef ever have had the chance to tell me who she was dating? It’s not like I ask about their girlfriends. No wonder Stef knows so much Spanish without ever doing her homework.
After thinking about all that, I try to not think about what’s really on my mind: the angry look in Keeta’s beautiful eyes, the way her black braid rests against her back when she’s bent over helping someone in guitar class, the sweaty-palmed reaction I have whenever I see her, the flamed guitar pick I hold between my fingers every time I strum my guitar, which makes me think of her.
And, of course, there’s a part of me that’s thrilled. Keeta is a real lesbian! Maybe she really was winking at me at Hot Dog and All Strings Attached; maybe I’m not imagining it after all. Then I give myself a reality check. Stef’s dating Keeta, which means Keeta’s taken and there’s nothing I can do about it.
There’s a distant rumble of thunder, then a giant raindrop hits my face, then another, which makes me pedal even harder because I’m not in the mood to be drenched by the monsoon. In fact, I want to scream like I used to when I was little. I want to cause a great big scene until everyone gives me what I want. But I don’t because I’m almost fifteen and that would be pretty much the most uncool thing for me to do in public. What I do instead is scrunch my eyes shut and beg the universe to help me stop thinking about Keeta from this point forward.
I only close my eyes for a second or two, but within that short blip of time, the wind pushes me off course. And just as I open my eyes, I see that I’m about to catch my handlebars on the driver’s side mirror of a broken down car. Like usual, I overreact to the situation, turn the handlebars too far, and down I go.
When I land on the asphalt, the reality of pain consumes my mind, leaving very little room for Keeta-fantasizing or any other confusing thoughts. I look up at the darkening clouds, which, combined with the metallic smell in the air, tell me the monsoon is about to unleash completely upon me. Within seconds, I’ll be soaked.
I try to scream for help, but now sobs are spewing out of me too quickly and preventing speech. I’m on my side and my legs are intertwined with my bike’s frame. I look down at my knee; it’s hamburger meat. Then there’s my ankle. It’s throbbing from being tangled in the chain and frame and is twisted at an unnatural angle. My backpack, which has already been rescued twice from the giveaway pile, didn’t do much better than me, and the stuff it once held is spewed out on the road like backpack barf. And here comes the rain.
By the time I can push my bike off me and attempt to sit up, I am drenched from head to toe. One of my soggy socks is full of blood and my ankle resembles a watercolor painting of a sunset. Red, blue, and purple are all blending together.
Sitting in the middle of the sleepy, abandoned street, I curse my mom for being too cheap and weird to buy me a cell phone, and I cry a little more. Then, after shoving my new clothes and shoes in my pathetic excuse for a backpack, I use my bike as a walker and hobble to the gas station down the street.
I call my mom collect because I lost all the change that was in my bag.
“Abbey, what’s wrong? Who’s hurt? Are you okay?”
I thought I could calmly tell her that I need her to pick me up, but when I hear her voice I start
to cry again. “Mommy,” I sputter into the phone.
“Oh my God, Abbey. Where are you?”
“I fell off my bike. I’m at the Exxon on Campbell and Grant.”
“I’ll be right there, honey. Five minutes.”
When she arrives, she totally freaks out. This is obvious because she keeps on repeating, “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay,” as she drives me to the urgent care at St. Joseph’s Hospital. After we check in and I get put into an exam room, she finally calms down a bit.
“We’re going to get you all fixed up, my Abbeyroo. Mommy’s here, okay?”
It feels kind of nice to be her little Abbeyroo again, so I don’t laugh when she says it. Instead I say, “Okay, Mom. Thanks,” because it’s good to know I’m loved by at least one person in this messed-up world.
Chapter Eight
“Why don’t you rest one more day?” Mom asks, as she helps me pull up my shorts while I lean on her for support. “Missing one day of school won’t kill you, Abbey Road.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say between clenched teeth, trying to hold back a scream because she accidentally bumped her arm against my annihilated knee. I am still pretty banged up on the outside, and I rested all weekend with my ankle elevated, but my guilt never let up. All I could think about was Keeta and the moronic way I acted in the mall. I’ve memorized my apology and written it down for reference. Now I need to face Keeta and get it over with.
Freshman Year Page 7
