Dad wraps his arms around Mom, and I swear I hear him murmur, “I’m in a state of Zen right now too.”
Before I reach a state of upchuck, I grab my playbook and a package of chocolate-chip cookies and head downstairs to our basement, where I turn on the TV and put in a DVD of last year’s national championship game—Alabama vs. Texas.
I flip off the lights, settle down on one of the leather sofas, and dig into the cookies as I push the play button on the remote.
So. My friends are off hooking up with cheerleaders.
My dad cares more about sunflowers reaching a state of Zen than my feelings.
At least I’ve got football.
It’s been my life since I was seven, but sometimes Henry says I need to spend less time focusing and start “living life like I’m going to hell tomorrow.”
But I feel like a normal teenager. Well, as normal as I can be. I mean, obviously I think Shawn Mendes is a mega-hunk, but I’m also more than six feet tall and can launch a football fifty yards.
Other ways I’m not normal?
A girl who hangs with an entire football team must hook up all the time, right?
Nope.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. Hell, I’ve never even kissed a guy. The closest I’ve ever come to a kiss happened just this past summer, but it was a joke. At a party, one of those cheerleaders suggested we all play a game of seven minutes in heaven, you know, the game where you go into a closet and kiss? Somehow Henry and I got sent into the closet together, and of course we didn’t kiss, but we ended up in a mad thumb-wrestling match. Which turned into a shoving match. Which turned into everyone thinking we’d hooked up in the closet. Yeah, right. He’s like my brother.
It’s not that guys aren’t interested in me, because they are, it’s that most of the guys I know are either:
a. Shorter than me
b. Pansies
c. On my team
d. All of the above
I would never let myself date guys on my team. And I’m not interested in any of them anyway. Riding buses to and from games for years has turned me off to all of them ’cause one bus ride with my team produces more gas than a landfill.
Besides, I don’t have time for guys, and if I suddenly were to start acting like a girl, the team might not take me seriously. And I can’t afford to lose my confidence—because I’m the star of the Hundred Oaks Red Raiders.
The star Alabama will love on Friday night.
Want more Miranda Kenneally?
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About the Author
© Robert Jinks
Miranda Kenneally grew up in Manchester, Tennessee, a quaint little town where nothing cool ever happened until after she left. Now, Manchester is the home of Bonnaroo. Growing up, Miranda wanted to become an author, a major-league baseball player, a country music singer, or an interpreter for the United Nations. Instead, she became an author who also works for the U.S. Department of State in Washington, DC. She enjoys reading and writing young adult literature and loves Star Trek, music, sports, Mexican food, going to the gym, Twitter, and coffee. She lives in Northern Virginia, with her husband, Don, and cats, Brady and Ryan, and dog, Jack. Visit mirandakenneally.com.
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