Boomerang

by Noelle August

  Unbelievable. Feel the goodness? The guy says some epically weird shit.

  Tyler, my starting left wing, looks up from the push-up position, his nose scrunched up and his face red. “Coach Ethan, why do we have to do push-ups?”

  It’s a fair question. Nine-year-olds’ arms are basically twigs, and I’m getting worried that Milo’s are going to snap right before my eyes. Not to mention that upper-body strength isn’t what I need from them. I need endurance. Core strength. Hell, I just need them to focus for more than two seconds at a time. But today things are different: my boys are helping me out with a little skill called ass-kissery.

  “Because if you don’t do push-ups,” I say to Tyler, “Coach Rhett here is going to terminate me from my new employment.”

  Rhett stops his verbal assault and grins. “You’re an intern, Vance, so legally I can’t fire you. I can only dismiss you.” His head whips back to the line of grunting kids. “Cameron, I saw you! You can get lower than that! Push ’em out, boys! Two more sets!”

  This used to be the best part of my day.

  I let Rhett finish warm-ups and then I get the boys running some drills. Juggling. Dribbling. Passing. These boys know what to do once they get moving. They’re young, but it’s a premier league team, with tryouts, tournaments, rankings. The whole deal. I made sure when I picked this group that they’d want to be here. I can deal with screwing around and nose-picking if they show some heart when we get down to actual soccer—and they do. My team has big-time heart.

  When it’s time to scrimmage, I join in, partly because it fires the boys up and makes them try harder, and partly because I can’t resist the chance to touch the ball.

  “Yo, Vance!” Rhett yells as he trots into the goal. I don’t know when he did it, but he’s gone to his car for biking gloves and a bright yellow, tight—even for spandex—shirt. His attempt at goalie gear, I think. He smacks his gloves together and drops into a baseball-ready stance, hands on his knees. Sweat rolls down his face and drips off his nose even though all he’s done so far is yell, but Rhett’s always overheated, even at the office.

  “See if you can score on me,” he says.

  That makes me shudder a little. “Nah. I’m good, Rhett.”

  I feed a few balls to my forwards, Tyler and Milo, proud of them for getting past Rhett more often than not. Even prouder when they decide to start calling him Coach Sweat instead of Coach Rhett.

  I pass to Tyler again, whose left foot is on fire today, but he sends it right back to me. “Come on, Coach Ethan! You shoot this one!”

  “You go, Tyler.” I’m not here to put on a show, so I pass it back to him. “Take it.”

  Tyler sends the ball to me again. “You, Coach Ethan!” he yells. Then he stops and lifts his twiggy arms in the air, champion style. “Feel the goodness!”

  Well, shit. I can’t say no to that.

  I drive my foot through the ball, holding nothing back. The shot is a rocket, the ball plunging into the back of the net, exactly where I wanted it. It rolls to a stop before the kids even react, then there are celebration airplanes and chest-bumps everywhere, except for Rhett, who shakes his head.

  “You got lucky, Vance! Come at me again! Bring it, baby!”

  “Sure, Rhett,” I say. “But I need a minute first. Can you handle this for a little while?”

  Running around roused the beast that is my hangover. My brain feels like a water balloon jangling in my skull, and I need something to drink. Might as well take advantage of a short break and make the phone call I’ve been dreading all day.

  Rhett genuinely looks touched. “Yeah, yeah. Anything, Vance. I got it.”

  “Thanks.” I move toward the parking lot where I can still see the field and sit on the hood of Rhett’s Mini Cooper, which is outfitted with a ski rack, a bike rack, and, of course, racing stripes.

  Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I call home, hoping to catch my dad before the evening rush at the alley.

  He answers on the third ring. “Black Diamond Bowl.”

  “Hey, old man. It’s me.”

  “Ethan! How’s my boy doing? They pick you for the movies yet?”

  Dad’s one of those people who sort of yells everything. Twenty years in a bowling alley will do that. He also thinks I’m harboring a secret desire to become an actor, since that’s the only valid reason he can come up with for me to still live in Los Angeles post-graduation.

  The crash of pins breaking fills my ear—a strike by the sound of it—and a wave of homesickness washes over me. What I wouldn’t do to be there tonight, polishing bowling balls, un-jamming the vending machines and just hanging with my dad.

  “Nope. No movies yet,” I say. “How’re things there? How’s mom?”

  “Good! She just called ten minutes ago from Arizona.”

  Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten. Mom drove with my little brother to U of A this week. I finished college just as Chris is going in.

  Then it hits me: that’s not going to make this conversation any easier.

  I got a partial ride to UCLA for soccer, and my parents helped as much as they could, but I still had to take student loans in the amount of $28,000 to cover the rest. Now Mom and Dad have four years of Chris’s school to pay and—

  “Ethan?” my dad says.

  “What? Oh—that’s good, Dad. Chris is okay? He’s getting settled in the dorm and everything?”

  “Yep. They just unpacked the car, and they’re heading to dinner.”

  “Cool,” I say, and I’m out of words. I can’t ask him anymore.

  The thunderous smashing of pins grows quieter, and I know my dad has stepped into his office and shut the door.

  I picture him there, watching his struggling business through the dusty blinds of the large window that faces lanes eight and nine. I picture the piles of bills on his desk—piles that aren’t much different from the ones in the crate in my apartment.

  “What’s going on, son?” he asks, his voice growing gentle.

  “Dad, I—I know this isn’t a good time to ask this, but I need to borrow some money.”

  Silence for a few seconds. “How much?”

  The back of my throat starts to burn. “A thousand? This job I got . . . it’s gonna take a little while to see a paycheck.”

  “I see. Well. I can’t lend you money, Ethan.”

  The words land like a punch to the chest. I stare at the grass by my feet, just concentrating on pulling in a breath and letting it out.

  You always picture people who are completely broke pushing shopping carts full of trash, or sitting on a sidewalk with a sleeping mutt and a cardboard sign.

  That’s not me.

  My cleats are worth $500. My education is worth over a $100K.

  Two months ago I was signing autographs after my soccer matches.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I understand,” I say. And now I’m wondering what he’s dealing with. I know things haven’t been good at the bowling alley for a couple of years, but what if he and Mom are in trouble?

  “I don’t think you do understand, Ethan. I’m not lending you money. You’re my son. I’ll wire three thousand to you this afternoon. Is that enough?”

  The tightness in my chest doesn’t really ease, but I find that I can breathe again. “Yeah, Dad. Thanks. That’s enough.”

  It might not actually be enough to get me through the summer, but it’s more than I should accept.

  “Good!” he says, his voice rising back to its usual tone. “So, have you met any pretty girls out there?”

  Mia’s face pops into my mind. The afternoon is fading, and the sun-drenched trees on the south side of the field remind me of her eyes, all bright and green. “Actually, I did, but she, uh . . . she got away from me.”

  “Well, you’ve never been a quitter, Ethan. Go after her!”

  I smile, shaking my head. “We’ll see, Dad. We’ll see.”

  When I get home from coaching, food aromas lure me to the kitchen, where I find Isis and Jason.

>   “Hey, E.” Isis looks up from the lettuce she’s chopping at the counter. “I’m making tacos. You hungry?”

  I wrap my arms around her shoulders, hugging her from behind. “You’re incredible, Isis.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. “Good, because I’m baking chocolate chip cookies, too.”

  “Ditch this loser.” I nod to Jason. “Let’s run away together.”

  “Hands off my girl, Vance,” Jason says from the table, without looking up from his laptop, “unless you want to suffer a periorbital haematoma.”

  “Actually, stay right here.” Isis pushes a bunch of cilantro my way. “Wash your hands and chop this for me.” Then she sends Jason a pointed look that finally gets him to look up.

  On my way in, I noticed a few unfamiliar boxes stacked in the living room, and I’m pretty sure I already know what’s coming.

  Jason picks up the beer next to his laptop and takes a pensive sip. He sets it back down. “Isis is moving in. She’ll pitch in for rent.”

  Translation: you should be okay with this because it’s not that different than how things have been, and also, it’s going to knock your monthly rent down a few hundred bucks.

  “Jason!” Isis tosses a kitchen towel at him. It lands on his shoulder, but he doesn’t even blink. My roommate is the most laid-back human being on earth. “You were supposed to ask him if it was okay,” she says. “Not tell him.”

  Jason looks at me, and we both know this is fine. More than fine.

  I like being around them. Isis is an aspiring horror novelist, with plenty of ink and pink-streaked hair. Jason was my teammate. We ruled the pitch together for a few years, as left and right strikers, but he graduated a year ahead of me. Now he’s in his second year of med school at UCLA, on path to becoming an ER doctor. They seem like this really normal couple on the surface. Then you hear them talking about viscera and bodily fluids with true unbridled passion, and you realize they’re made for each other.

  After things ended with Alison, it helped me a lot to see their relationship. Jason and Isis are actually great friends, something Alison and I never were.

  “It’s no problem, Isis. Really.” I make a sweeping gesture, encompassing our small apartment. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  “Are you sure about this?” She moves to the stove and stirs the ground beef. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable because I’m here. This is your place.”

  “I can handle putting the toilet seat down.”

  “I meant having girls over. That kind of thing.”

  Jason laughs. “Yeah, he looked real uncomfortable last night. Real inhibited.” He shuts his laptop and grins at me. “What part was toughest, E? Was it hooking up with Mia in front of a packed bar? Or was it carpet bombing the place with each other’s clothes?”

  I take this in with complete fascination. “Could you be more specific about what you saw?”

  His gaze narrows. “Come on . . . Are you telling me you really don’t remember last night? You actually blacked out?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  Jason lets out a high-pitched laugh. “That’s a tragedy, bro.”

  “I know. I think I might be scarred.” I realize I’ve been taking my frustration out on the cilantro, which I’ve chopped down to green mush.

  “I liked her,” Isis says as she pulls the ground beef off the stove. “I didn’t have much chance to talk to her since you were monopolizing her mouth, but she seemed cool. Are you going to see her again?”

  “Yep. I’m going to see her tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day after that. She works with me.”

  Isis gasps. “Seriously? Okay, I need to know everything.”

  We load up our plates and sit down. As we mow through our tacos, I tell them what happened at Boomerang. By the time I take down a few warm chocolate chip cookies, Jason and Isis have me laughing at how bizarre the whole thing is, and I feel better than I have all day.

  “Wow. Talk about full disclosure,” Isis says, when I get to the questionnaires Mia and I filled out.

  “Rest easy, my friend,” Jason says. “You and Mia went all the way. We were practically witnesses to it at Duke’s. You’re at ten.”

  Isis reaches for another cookie. “I don’t know about that. I’m with Mia on this. I don’t think you did.”

  “I’m going to try not to take that as a personal affront,” I say.

  “You definitely shouldn’t,” she says through a mouthful. “Your masculine prowess was on display last night, E. You were rockin’ it. I was mighty impressed.”

  Jason gives her a mock scowl. “What the frick, Isis?”

  “I mean objectively impressed. As a completely impartial bystander.”

  “It’s on, girl.” Jason does the my eyes/your eyes gesture. “You and me. Mighty prowess. Later.”

  “Okay, love doctor, I’ll be there,” she says, before turning back to me. “Anyway, what’s the big deal if you and Mia did or didn’t last night?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  “I just mean that you work together. Your story with her is far from finished.”

  “The fun part is. She’s off limits. Company policy. We were given a strict warning to keep it professional.”

  “What do you think, Spicy?” Jason says, using his nickname for her. “How long until our boy here behaves unprofessionally?”

  Isis stops chewing and looks at me like she just developed x-ray vision. “Two weeks.”

  “How sure are you?” Jason asks. “Twenty bucks sure?”

  “Forty. And I get to redecorate the apartment when I win.”

  “Done,” Jason says, and they actually shake on it.

  “It’s not happening, kids,” I say. “I’m a man of my word. And I can’t afford to screw up this job.”

  I finish my beer then toss the bottle and our paper plates in the trash. “Thanks for dinner, Roomie,” I say to Isis. But even as I’m leaving, their debate continues.

  “I’m going to lose, aren’t I?” Isis says.

  “Yeah,” Jason answers. “He won’t last a week.”

  “You suck, Jason,” I call over my shoulder.

  I pull the door to my room closed, shutting out the sound of his laughter. Then I kick off my cleats and nose-dive into my bed.

  My pillow smells faintly sweet and floral. Maybe lilacs or violets? One thing I am sure about: it’s not my smell.

  The image of Mia smiling at me in the backseat of the cab fills my mind. Then Mia smiling from her desk at the office. Then I start putting my imagination into it, and she’s right here, naked beneath me, her dark curls splayed around her face. Still smiling. Ready for me.

  Shit. Jason might be right.

  Chapter 11

  Mia

  Q: Guy-crazy or sisters-before-misters?

  I’m in the shower, shaving my legs and plotting my strategy for the day, when Skyler barges in and sits down to pee.

  “How’s it coming in there?” she asks, and I peek around the Hello Kitty shower curtain to see her stretched out in a t-shirt, red shorts crumpled at her ankles, with a copy of Vanity Fair across her lap and a compact and eyeliner in her hands.

  “Seriously, Sky?”

  “What? I’m multitasking.” She pulls back her white-blond hair and pencils around her eyes. “Plus, holding it can give you a UTI.”

  I finish one leg and squirt a line of lavender scented shaving foam on the other. “I feel like this whole moment falls into the category of too much information.”

  “Come on, it’s one big vulva fest around here. You’re not going to get squeamish on me now, are you?”

  The next thing I know, Beth’s also slipped into the room. “A what fest?” she asks.

  “Oh God,” I groan.

  Beth shoves her hand into the shower to waggle silver-polished nails at me, and then I watch her silhouette move back and forth in front of the long vanity. The bathroom lights dim, telling me she’s plugged in her
hot rollers.

  “Speaking of,” says Sky. “You planning to break some rules with Jocky McStudpants over there?”

  I’d told them about my first day at the job and Adam Blackwood’s strict no-fraternizing policy. Which makes the prospect of my further hookups with Ethan even more tantalizing to them than to me. It’s my future, but it’s their entertainment.

  “No, no rule breaking.” I switch off the water and push open the curtain. “Plus, I don’t think he’s all that into me. Towel,” I add, and Sky passes over an aqua bath sheet.

  “Right,” says Beth. She has half her hair in rollers in the time it takes me to dry off and step out of the tub. “Cause the guys all hate smart, pretty girls with big boobs.”

  “I’m not saying he hates me,” I tell them, trying to push away the specter of my on-again-off-again-please-someone-shoot-me relationship with Kyle. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. I want to get my film done, and I want that job. It’s an awesome opportunity, and a way into the business.”

  “So’s he,” says Beth. “An awesome opportunity, I mean.” She finishes her rollers, then hops up on the counter and starts to paint her toenails.

  “There are other guys.”

  “When?” asks Sky, finally pulling up her shorts and flushing the toilet. She goes over to the sink, and Beth swings her feet out of the way so Sky can wash her hands. It’s pretty impressive choreography for a seven-by-nine space.

  “When what?”

  “When are there other guys?” She turns to me and leans back against the counter, arms folded. “You’re letting that tool Kyle turn you into Miss Havisham.”

  I laugh. “I am not Miss Havisham. For one thing, I don’t have a moldy old wedding dress.”

  “Laugh about it, but you’re still letting him get under your skin.”

  I want to argue, but as usual, it’s like she’s read my mind. Not that I think it’s about Kyle. Not really. We were never a good fit because he didn’t have any passion. Not for me. Not for much of anything.

  But there’s something else there, something that’s kept me in a holding pattern for the past year, something that keeps chafing at me, a subtle wearing of my desire to put myself out there again.