“Yeah, thanks, Keith. Look, I have to get into my gear and stuff, so … see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Oh, I’m coming to watch you guys play—me and some of the guys, y’know? Show our school spirit, first home game and whatnot.”
Oh, no. The last thing I want is for anyone to watch—
“Don’t look all worried. I didn’t make a big ‘Kelsey’ poster or anything.”
Wow. That was something he considered?
“Oh, I didn’t think … um, yeah. So, great, then. I mean, I think it’s not going to be that fun, though. So feel free to leave after about three minutes if you get bored.” I slam my locker closed and grab my stuff. “Seriously, Keith. You don’t—”
“C’mon, Kels, you’re just nervous, y’know? You’ll do great.”
If I hear the words you or know one more time, I may have to burn the school to the ground. No, that’s unfair—it’s not Keith’s fault. I’m just stressed-out and miserable.
I get to the locker room and change into my goalie gear—as far away from modelesque Lexi as possible, of course—and chat with the other girls a bit. We stretch and then huddle up for Julie’s pregame pep talk, which ends with a charming “And Kelsey, try to catch something today, okay? Thanks much.”
Sigh.
As I head for my net of despair, I hear my name being yelled. I look out to the bleachers and see Keith and some of his friends sitting with Em and JoJo. I wave at them, wondering where Cass is. Maybe she had an acting lesson? Or went to check out the guys’ game on the other side of the field?
The whistle blasts, starting the game, and all my teammates spring into motion. As Lexi smoothly commandeers the ball, I stand there watching as the action quickly zips to the other end of the field. Well, good. The opposing team is rumored to be pretty terrible, so maybe my teammates will spend the whole time harassing their goalie and I can take a nice nap. Or perhaps make a festive dandelion chain.
About forty-five minutes later, we’re making mincemeat out of them; the score is 6–0, and I haven’t had the ball anywhere near me yet. Since I’ve essentially been a spectator this whole time, I’m actually enjoying myself—cheering my head off for my team and anticipating the delicious celebratory cupcakes we’re sure to be eating after the game.
Suddenly, some horrible middy on the other team has the nerve to take control of the ball and actually gets past our defense. She’s running right toward me and no one is on her.
Hello? This is no time to get lax, people! Don’t you know there is no way I can stop her from scoring if she gets over here? Have we learned nothing from practice?!
I try to look intimidating as sweat rolls into my eyes. Great—now one of my contact lenses is all blurry. I ignore it and start sashaying awkwardly from side to side inside the goal. God, I suck at being goalie.
I can practically feel the girl breathing on me. My teammates are scrambling to catch up … they’re close … but not close enough.
The girl kicks.
She catches the ball with her toe instead of the flat of her foot—and it’s arcing like a basketball instead of going straight. I run underneath it, reach out, pray …
And catch it!
I caught something! And it was a ball! In your face, Julie Nelson!
My team freaks out, as do my friends in the stands. I turn my back for a sec so they don’t all see me grinning my face off—after all, I still don’t have any interest in being goalie—and suddenly, I’m flat on the ground.
I think my spine may be broken in several places. I can’t breathe, so I drop the ball, which rolls into the goal. I hear a whistle and the ref yelling, “Time-out!”
Then our center forward, a sophomore named Steli, is hauling me up to my feet. I can hear one of the other girls screaming somewhere behind me, “Are you crazy? She cleated her right in the back! That’s a totally illegal goal! What the hell, Ref?!”
“Did that girl kick me?” I wheeze.
Ana comes over and hands me some water. “Yeah, that bitch,” Steli is saying. “And she didn’t even get a yellow card! That team must be connected to the ref or something. You okay?”
“Yeah, I think I just got the wind knocked out of me.” I glance over to the stands and see Em and JoJo looking in my direction nervously, miming that they want to come make sure I’m okay. I wave at them to let them know I am. Keith is making a gesture I can only assume means “Don’t think about the pain, y’know?” but could just as easily mean “I’m a harmonica chicken!”
As my lungs start working again, I notice the scoreboard now reads 6–1. What?! “They gave them the goal? That’s so unfair!”
“I know,” Ana agrees, fuming. “Cantwell is arguing. We’ll still win the game, though, don’t worry. There’s only a few minutes left.”
I’m reconciling the fact that, since there’s no sub for me, I’m going to have to get back in the stupid net and finish the game, when Captain Julie comes storming in my direction. She looks furious, and I’m guessing it’s not because she’s upset that I got injured.
“Kelsey! Do you realize we could’ve had our first shutout if you hadn’t dropped the ball again? The team is counting on you to guard the goal and you suck at it!”
Very nice. Do I have to respond to this?
“Julie, Kelsey just got kicked in the back! No one could’ve held on to that ball,” Steli says, rushing to my defense.
“Was I talking to you? Get back to your position.” Julie glares at me. “You know, I took a chance giving you Katie’s spot as goalie and you’re totally screwing it up. I have no idea why Cantwell put you on JV. Seriously.”
I open my mouth, ready to throw caution to the wind (she already hates me, so what harm can it do?) and say something along the lines of I didn’t want this stupid job, you jerk! but before I can go through with it, the whistle blows and Julie stomps off back to her position.
And so ends another terrific day in the life of Kelsey Finkelstein, Goalie Extraordinaire. Hooray.
10
“But, Kels, there are five Village People,” Cassidy insists, reaching past me for another bottle of Smirnoff Ice. “We can’t just have four. That would be like … weird.”
I take a swig out of my bottle and grimace. It’s sickly sweet, but it gets the job done. Anyway, it’s what Cass’s older brother Nathan had leftover from some party last week, and it was free, so we’ll take it.
We’re in Cass’s room on Saturday night; we were supposed to go out and do something awesome, except we couldn’t think of anything. None of us besides JoJo has a fake ID, and even if we did, we don’t have enough money to go anywhere cool. Contrary to what TV producers seem to think, fourteen-year-olds aren’t exactly sought after in the world of NYC nightlife.
Besides—I just want to forget all about the horrible game two days ago and think about Halloween, Jordan’s party, and hooking up. Not necessarily in that order.
“Cass,” I counter, “unless you want to be the weird motorcycle guy or can find someone who does, we’re having four. Come on—no one will know the difference! And female Village People is such a killer idea. You know you want to wear a sexy feather headdress.”
Actually, I want to wear a sexy feather headdress. But sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get a concept together.
JoJo snickers. She’s lying facedown on Cass’s bed, sifting through a makeup bag full of Manic Panic bottles. She picks out an orange one and rolls it between her palms. “I’m being the Cowgirl,” she declares. “I found these crazy leather chaps of my mom’s in a random trunk last week, and they’re hilarious. What about you, Em?”
“I’m okay with whatever,” Em murmurs, her thumbs moving a mile a minute on the keyboard of her phone. She’s been texting James constantly all night.
“Or you could dress up as a YMCA. Like, the actual building. We could make your costume out of a big cardboard box!” JoJo suggests, knowing Em hasn’t heard a word we’ve said all night. Cass and I giggle.
“Su
re, that’s great,” Em agrees, still texting.
“Hello? Earth to Em?” I ask, reaching over to tap the screen of her phone.
Em finally looks up, blushing. “Sorry, sorry. I know—I’m becoming ‘that girl’ … I’ll stop. It’s just that I really—”
“Miss James!” we chant in unison.
Em flushes an even brighter red than before. Poor Em—she’s so easy to tease. She snaps the phone shut decisively and puts it in her bag. “Okay, I’m done. Seriously. Now, what were we talking about?”
“Um, the night that is going to transform this year from horror to awesomeness? The turning point in my life, which has thus far been, well, less than awesome?”
“Oh, right, Halloween. How could I forget?” Em giggles and reaches for her can of soda. She never drinks alcohol, which is one thing we don’t tease her about. She’s always afraid people will think she’s a loser for not liking to drink, which of course is silly but happens all the time anyway.
“Cass thinks we need five Village People,” JoJo explains, “even though we think four is enough. What do you think?”
“I can’t even name all five Village People and we’ve been discussing this for days, so I think it will be fine. Can I be the cop?”
“Mmmm,” Cass mumbles. We glance over and see that Cass is now reading a text of her own. “What? Oh, yeah. I want to be the Indian.”
“Who are you texting over there, woman? Everyone good is already here!” JoJo tries to snatch the phone away, but Cass is too fast for her. She shoves it into the pocket of her jeans.
“Who are you texting—a guy? How could you not tell us about this?” I demand. Unbelievable! Cass is withholding hookup information? Cass is the world’s biggest gossip—she doesn’t believe in secrets. That’s one of my very favorite things about her!
“I … uh … don’t want to jinx anything, okay? Just let it go.” Cass takes a swig of her Smirnoff Ice. “Ugh—this stuff is terrible. Nathan’s friends have the worst taste in the world.”
“I kind of like it, actually.” JoJo shrugs, taking a sip of her own. “And don’t change the subject.”
I step in. “If she doesn’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to talk about it.” JoJo can be relentless, and Cass is obviously uncomfortable for some reason. Does she have a weird crush on someone gross, like Danny Zifner? Oh my God, I want to know so badly! But then Cass shoots me a grateful look, so I try to contain my curiosity. “Let’s talk about me making out with Jordan instead.”
Everyone groans.
“Fiiine!” I exclaim. “Just forget it. I give up! You guys plan Halloween. I’ll be over here, crying quietly in the corner …”
And that’s how, despite coming up with the awesome idea in the first place—with every intention of rocking a sexy Indian Princess costume—I ended up getting stuck with Construction Worker. Which is almost as bad as Weird Motorcycle Guy.
At least I have permission to go to Jordan’s party. Well, really I have permission to sleep over at JoJo’s, which is what I always do when there’s a party or something my parents would never let me go to. JoJo’s parents might as well still be in high school themselves; they’re always making out and smoking pot and stuff. The important thing is, I will be at Jordan’s house next Saturday night. And it will be life changing. I can feel it.
On Wednesday after dinner, I realize I’m completely out of blackhead-removing pore strips, which are essential if I’m going to look perfect for the party. I head out to the Duane Reade Pharmacy near my house around nine P.M., and when I get up to the counter to pay, there’s Jordan. Oh my God. This is a sign, right? I mean, the party is in three days, it’s pretty much all I can think about, and here he is. I manage to not actually skip with glee as I approach him.
“Heeeeeey, Kelsey.” He takes his bag of purchases from the counter. “What’s up?”
Even his voice is hot. I try not to giggle. “Oh, you know. The usual. Homework. Pore strips.” Ack! Did I just say “pore strips” to Jordan Rothman? I attempt to distract him, asking, “So, um, what are you doing in Brooklyn?”
“Oh, uh, I had to get this thing but they didn’t have it in my neighborhood, and, uh, I had to come get it at this one because, uh, they had it. Or whatever.”
Well, that’s sort of odd. There are about a thousand Duane Reades in the city. I consider pointing this out, but why question fate? Obviously the universe is conspiring to bring us together, and if the Park Slope Duane Reade is the venue, I’m certainly not going to argue. Besides, I’m too busy screaming inside my head, OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU!
I pay for my stuff and walk with him to the train stop. I can practically feel the electricity between us. Surely he can feel it too, because he asks, “So, are you guys coming to my party or what?”
“Sure, I guess,” I reply, as though I just remembered he even invited me, to which he responds, “Cool.” Ah, very smooth. Excellent, Kelsey—good work!
“So, um, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. And at the party, obviously. Guess what? We’re going as the Village—”
“Yeah, hey, the train’s coming, so I gotta run. ‘Kay, see you later!” he calls, running down the stairs. Well, it’s not like he was going to miss the train just to chat some more. I’m not his girlfriend or anything—yet!
I mean, obviously he really wants me to come to the party. So he’ll probably ask me out by the end of the night. Or at least kiss me. Right?
As I walk home, I start thinking: Why was he in Brooklyn on a school night? Besides the Hand of Fate, there has to be a real, logical reason, and I’m coming up blank. The only explanation I can ultimately think of is that Jordan has been secretly in love with me all along, trapped by cruel Jemma Bradley in a web of lies and deception, waiting for the chance to break free of her insidious clutches. And now he’s following me around Park Slope, lurking in local stores and train stations, desperately trying to get up the courage to come clean. And why couldn’t that be the case? It makes perfect sense to me.
The second I get home, I call each of my friends in turn to lay out my brilliant theory. I spend all night discussing Jordan’s creativity, devotion, and willingness to travel to a different borough for love. Interestingly enough, JoJo doesn’t think Jordan could actually plan something that elaborate, and Cass keeps trying to change the subject to her Indian headdress (which, apparently, is proving harder to find than she’d anticipated). Em, of course, is totally on board with my theory. And anyway, the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems that our moment—mine and Jordan’s, that is—is finally here.
The party will be the big test.
11
Saturday night, we arrive at Jordan’s apartment fashionably late, and immediately I can see we’re in the minority, agewise—it’s mostly his brother’s friends, who are juniors and seniors. I realize that means Cap’n Julie is probably here, and suddenly I feel grateful that my giant yellow Construction Worker hat covers half my face. Before we got here, I’d been thinking how ridiculous it looked, but now? I almost wish it were even bigger.
Some guy hands me a stack of red plastic cups and I pass them out to my friends—oh, did I mention how totally awesome we look? Cassidy’s headdress is dripping feathers everywhere, and Em’s dad got her an actual policeman’s hat and badge from their local precinct. Plus JoJo found an old fringed leather vest to go with the bizarre chaps. We are very fabulous and authentic, especially compared to the other costumes on display at this party, which are extremely lame. I mean, a cat? A fairy? Does anyone have an imagination anymore?
We go to the kitchen and discover there are a bunch of kegs in there. I had my first beer at a slumber party in seventh grade, and in my opinion it tastes like dog urine, but since it’s pretty much the only beverage choice, I figure I’ll just carry it around and pretend to drink it so as not to look like a total loser. Which is really sad, since why should I have to drink beer to look cool? More importantly, have these people never heard of wine coolers? Even Smirnoff Ice wo
uld be better than beer. Oh, well.
I fill my cup with beer and take a tiny sip. Eeeyuch. It’s actually kind of weird to me that we’re going to parties with kegs now. I mean, sure, we sneak alcohol when we hang out at each other’s houses and stuff, and a few people spiked their drinks at some of the eighth-grade graduation parties last year. But this is new territory, being at a party with older kids and no parents and everyone drinking right out in the open. It’s sort of exciting and dangerous feeling at the same time.
Of course, if my parents had any idea, I would be deader than a doornail.
After a while I decide to take a lap around the party to see who’s there, i.e., to find and corner Jordan. Even though I’m wearing a huge plastic hat, I figure can still make the most of my feminine wiles. I applied lots of charcoal eyeliner and lash-extending mascara when I was getting ready, so I start batting my eyes a lot to call attention to them.
Within about thirty seconds, I get a makeup-coated eyelash on my contact lens, which is just about the most painful thing in the entire world. It’s like having a knife plunged into your eye. So I’m sort of clutching my face, trying to shove through witches and vampires to find the bathroom, when I walk right into Lexi.
Of course she’s dressed as a sexy schoolgirl. And she looks more gorgeous than ever in her teensy kilt and white button-down shirt tied in a knot above her perfect abs. I can practically feel every guy there having a heart attack, especially with the perfectly contrasting backdrop of me in a yellow hard hat, rubbing at my eye like a maniac.
I wait for Lexi to say something like, Hi! Aren’t I the most fabulous person in the whole world? Don’t look now, but I’m going to poke you in the one eye you’ve got left and run away laughing! But instead she gasps, “Oh my God, is it your contact? I hate when that happens!”
She guides me to the bathroom, where she rummages around till she finds some saline solution. Then she sits on the toilet and says, “Ugh, I’ve had glasses since second grade and I had these gross red frames my mom made me get. They were beyond hideous and everyone made fun of me, so I was soooo psyched to get contacts in middle school. They can be such a pain, though. You should try waterproof mascara next time, maybe.”
Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters Page 5
