by Liz Fichera
There was no stopping Seth either. He darted toward the student parking lot to get his truck.
Students with backpacks as big as tortoises shuffled alongside me as we all carved our way down the narrow hallways before the next bell. Normally I hated the claustrophobic feeling of the hallways and all the pushing and shoving, but today I barely noticed. I was still trying to wrap my head around Seth’s news: Some girl named Fred Oday.
Some girl? Had Seth heard that right?
She’s already got a spot on the team.
How was that fair?
Coach isn’t even making her try out.
Not even an informal tryout?
And her name is Fred Oday.
Fred? What kind of a girl’s name was that?
My temples began to throb as I replayed the news in my head. None of it made any sense.
And where had I heard the name Fred? Where had I seen her? Surely she hadn’t just dropped out of the freaking sky. She must be at least a junior. And why would Coach Lannon put a girl on an all-boys’ varsity golf team? Was he high? Weren’t there rules against stuff like that? Shouldn’t there be? Our chances of winning the state championship had just crashed.
Still numb, I almost head-butted Zack Fisher on my way to English. I was going through the door as he was busting out.
“You hear?” Zack said to me, predictably. Of course Zack had heard. Thanks to him, probably everyone in the entire school already knew about Seth.
I stared back at him, still a little dazed.
“Well? Have you heard?” He grabbed my shoulder.
I shrugged Zack’s hand off my shoulder. “Yeah. I heard. I sit right next to him in Homeroom. Remember?”
“Can you believe that?” Zack’s head of tight brown curls shook indignantly, his eyes shiny and wide with the news. “And now we’ve got a girl on the team? Are you kidding me?” His voice got higher, louder. Angrier. “Why don’t they just start a girls’ team?” Several freshmen glanced curiously in our direction as they passed us in the hallway.
“I know,” I said, unsure what more to say.
“You know her?”
I shook my head. “Never heard of her.”
Zack chortled. “Well, she better be good. That’s all I got to say.” He said it as if he didn’t think it was even remotely possible. I wanted him to be right.
“Yeah,” I said. Especially since she just got my best friend kicked off the team.
The bell rang, and we both turned for the door. Mrs. Weisz, our English teacher, was already at the podium and shuffling papers. She peered at us over her wire-rimmed bifocals. A quick flicker of her eyelids reminded us about her views on tardiness. But then I realized, too late, that I’d rather be anywhere other than inside her stuffy classroom discussing lame hundred-year-old books that never made any sense. I should have ditched with Seth.
Too late now.
With my backpack slung over my right shoulder and my hands jammed in my front pockets to keep them from punching a hole in the door, I wove my way to my usual spot next to the window. Every seat was taken, and the rows were so tight that there was barely any room to wedge between the desks. When I finally made it to the last row, I passed by a girl seated in the front desk and accidentally knocked over her book with my backpack.
“Sorry,” I murmured, bending over to retrieve it. When I stood up, my eyes swept over her desk and then landed on her face. It was the same girl who’d walked out of Coach Lannon’s office.
For a moment, we locked gazes, and I began to piece it together. But then before I blinked, the girl lowered her eyes and began fidgeting with a strand of her hair. It twirled around her finger like a shiny black ribbon as she stared down at a blank page in her notebook. Her eyes hid under feathery eyelashes.
And then, for some odd reason, I squinted at the cover of her book in my hand: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In the right corner, written in perfect cursive letters in black ink, I saw another name: Fred Oday.
My jaw dropped. Fred Oday? That Fred Oday?
My temples started to pound again. My eyes traveled back down to the girl’s forehead. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes stayed lowered. She was sure as shit avoiding me.
You’re Fred Oday? I wanted to shout.
I almost choked out my question until Mrs. Weisz said, “Mr. Berenger? Something wrong?”
I didn’t answer her. My gaze refused to unlock from the top of the girl’s head.
“Will you take your seat, Mr. Berenger?” Mrs. Weisz snapped.
I nodded numbly. And then I remembered.
All of the details came flooding back as clearly as the writing on her book. Everything.
She was the girl who’d dropped cake right into my crotch at Mom’s birthday dinner, almost as if she’d done it on purpose. She was the girl who’d passed Seth and me outside Coach Lannon’s office. And she was also the girl who’d robbed my best friend of his spot on the golf team.
I dropped the book onto Fred’s desk. It landed with a splat.
Then I stormed down the row and dropped into the last empty seat.
Chapter 5
Fred
I WANTED TO hide in Coach Lannon’s office for the rest of the day.
The whispers and hushed voices started in earnest sometime after Homeroom on my way to English, even worse than when Dad had dropped me off at the curb. When I tilted my head and struggled to eavesdrop on hallway conversations between classes, voices faded. It was like trying to catch words in the wind.
But then in first-period English, for the very first time, he looked at me: Ryan Berenger. The pretentious, moody guy who couldn’t be bothered to have dinner with his family, the one who always had his arm around the bleached-blonde girl from the pom squad who was always pictured in the school newspaper on top of parade floats and at dances that I wouldn’t dream of attending. Usually. Anyway, they always sat together all cozylike at lunch. Ryan let Blonde Girl thread her thin, pale fingers through his hair like she owned him.
They deserved each other.
But I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year, and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.
I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the summer, too. He and his short, stocky blond friend were always speeding by the driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they didn’t have to wait till after five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play whenever he wanted.
And now we were teammates. As Trevor would say, that was irony.
That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class and gripped my book like he wanted to shred it to pieces. What else would make him so angry? Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too—or he was still pissed that I’d ruined his pants with a piece of mushy birthday cake.
“Don’t fear the journey,” I murmured as the day’s last bell rang. At my locker, I closed my eyes and tried desperately to picture the falcon with the gold-and-brown feathers perched at the top of our mesquite tree at home. For a moment, my shoulders lightened, and I was able to drown out the negative thoughts invading my head. After a few calming breaths, my eyes opened slowly. My vision cleared. “Don’t fear the journey,” I exhaled one final time.
A girl with red spiky hair and a silver nose stud standing at the locker next to mine slammed her army-green locker shut.
I jumped when it closed and then turned to her.
The girl rolled her eyes like I was crazy.
She might be right.
*
“Okay, men—” Coach Lannon said but then stopped himself. He turned sideways, his thick arms folded across his chest. He cast an apologetic smile at me. “And lady,” he added, as if he was doing me the world’s biggest favor.
I groaned inwardly.
It’d be more comfortable standing beneath a spotlight surrounded by a marching band.
Leaning against my golf bag like it was a lifeboat, I stood with my
seven teammates on the largest of the four grassy fields that surrounded Lone Butte High School. The open field was as large as a football field. My teammates stood beside me but not too close, each straddling their own golf bags that looked newer than mine by at least three decades. Coach Lannon stood across from us in the middle of our half-moon lineup, eager to start barking out orders by the way he kept fingering his whistle.
After spending several excruciatingly long seconds introducing me to the team, he mercifully reverted into his coach persona, the one I’d gotten to know at the country club, long enough for me to resume breathing again. Small miracle: at least he introduced me as Fred Oday and not Fredricka. That would have been beyond humiliating.
No one said hello, not that I expected or needed pleasantries. I simply wanted to play golf and lots of it. I hadn’t joined the team to make friends. And their sideways glances when they thought I wasn’t paying attention suggested that building friendships wouldn’t be an option.
“We got a best-ball tournament with Hamilton High on Thursday, so we got our work cut out for us this week. I hope you boys have been practicing over the summer?” Coach Lannon’s eyes scanned the boys standing to my right. A few fidgeted in place, especially the one with the brown curls named Zack. He bounced around like he had an army of red ants crawling up his leg. Coach Lannon didn’t bother staring me down. He knew exactly where I’d spent most of the summer, and my eyes begged for his silence. Mentioning it would only elevate my status to something below Teacher’s Pet.
“Bus will leave here at two o’clock,” he continued, tapping his clipboard.
My chest caved forward, grateful. The coach must have sensed my unease.
“You’re all excused from your last class,” he continued. “I’ve already cleared it with your teachers. Bus will be back here by seven.”
A few happy gasps filled the air at the thought of missing a couple hours of school.
“But be on the bus no later than two. Understood?” Coach Lannon’s eyes widened, daring disobedience. “Any questions so far?” He said it in a way that indicated he didn’t expect any. But someone got his brave on.
“What about Fred, Coach? Does she get to tee off from the women’s tees at the tournament?”
A few of the guys snickered as the hairs prickled on the back of my neck.
Women’s tees?
Carefully, I turned sideways till my eyes landed on Ryan Berenger. His eyes shifted back to the coach when I glared at him.
“Well, Ryan,” Coach Lannon said, scratching the side of his head, as if he hadn’t fully thought about it, and my jaw dropped. Certainly he’d spent at least one minute of his time pondering this. There was only one answer.
“No!” I blurted.
All seven of the boys, including Coach Lannon, turned to gape at me. Clearly no one had ever answered for the coach before. “I won’t hit from the women’s tees. I can hit from the men’s tees. I do it all the time.” My teeth ground together as my hands shook.
One of Coach Lannon’s blond eyebrows rose with something resembling admiration as he slowly scanned the boys’ faces, reading their reactions. Collectively, their lips pressed together. A few fidgeted with their bag tags, but no one uttered another word.
Then the coach smiled. “Well, I guess you heard her, men. And don’t underestimate her,” he added. “I’ll wager she’s got a straighter shot than anyone else on this team.”
I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any easier.
The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.
“Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her hit.” He said it like a challenge.
“Yeah,” piped in another low voice.
“Show us,” taunted a third boy.
My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support. It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as tall as I was. My stomach churned, and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.
“Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.
Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like the newer ones.
As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to throb.
Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half hour.
I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.
And muffed it.
Crap!
The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.
Totally embarrassing.
Someone chuckled.
“Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed, the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.
My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.
I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any type of bird—a crow, grackle, hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.
And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over left, approached the golf ball, bent my knees, lowered my forehead and smacked that friggin’ white ball high into the sky and clear across the field. It pierced deep into the sky like a gunshot.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Lannon roared, walking toward me with quick steps, his eyes still tracking the ball. He even clapped a couple of times.
I ignored him. I ignored everybody. I didn’t need their praise. Instead, I waited for the ball to drop from the sky, still holding on to my follow-through with the club arched over my right shoulder. Picture-perfect form.
“I don’t think you’ll find that ball! That one’s a goner!” Coach Lannon grinned.
“Shit,” someone muttered. “Where’d it go?”
“Dunno,” said another disappointed voice.
/> I didn’t turn to Coach Lannon and wait for any more of his compliments. Truth is, I hated compliments. I didn’t boast either or flash my teammates an I-told-you-so smirk. Instead, I reached down for another ball with a trembling hand and teed up my next shot. Then another.
And another.
It was like my arms were on fire.
“The rest of you goofballs, quit your gawking and start swinging! Let me see what you got! We got a tournament in three days!”
I swung at another ball. Harder. The next one sailed farther than the last.
Chapter 6
Ryan
DECENT.
That’s what I thought when I watched Fred’s swing. Although she’d completely muffed her first tee shot, her form was tight: knees bent, chin lowered, hands gripping the club on the sweet spot. Her club swept back and then crushed against the ball as if swinging a club was the easiest thing in the world. Some golfers had it and others didn’t. Fred Oday definitely had it.
I’d be lying if I said that I hoped she was good, because I wanted Fred to fail. I wanted an epic fail right in front of the coach, in front of everybody. And I wanted it bad.
“Jeez, the Fred freak sure can crank it,” Henry Graser said. He swung next to me and sounded as disappointed as I probably looked.
“Yeah,” I growled underneath my breath as I fiddled with a new box of tees stuffed in the front pocket of my golf bag.
“Well, we’ll see.” Henry stopped to lean against his Ping nine-iron. He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his pale forehead. “Coach always says practice is one thing, tournaments are another. Maybe she’ll choke on Thursday.” He tapped his iron against the heel of his golf shoe, releasing a clump of dirt.
Tournaments. My shoulders lightened. The coach was right. Let’s see how she does on Thursday. That ought to set everything straight again. Maybe then Coach will realize he made a big mistake. Maybe there was a chance Seth could rejoin the team….
