by Liz Miles
I take out a hairband and put my hair up in a ponytail so that it doesn’t fall in my face. That way I look busy and I can see the boys better.
Once I asked my mom to make me tight little braids like Shoshanna has but she didn’t know how to do it very well and when I came to school they were already falling out. I knew that I had made a big mistake and that everyone was going to laugh at me, the new girl with the bad braids.
I tried to pretend that I didn’t care that I looked terrible. But I couldn’t. Instead of going to homeroom, I went straight to the bathroom to try to save the day.
That’s where I met Shoshanna. In the bathroom, right after she had taken a poop. I knew it was a poop because of the smell and the noise. She came out and was surprised that she wasn’t alone. She gave me a look while she was washing her hands, trying to see if I would tell anyone that she had pooped.
I tried to look like I didn’t smell anything, even though I did, and that I wouldn’t say a word. It must have worked because the next thing I knew her face softened as she took in the mess of my hair.
“You know, the problem is your hair is too fine for braids,” Shoshanna said, coming over to me and then helping me take them out. The bell rang and we were going to be late for third period but we both didn’t care.
I was hiding, because most of the hair had already slipped out of the braids and I was crying from the pinching of the tiny rubber bands.
“You’re the new girl, right?” she asked.
I nodded while her hands methodically unbraided my hair.
“You could come and get pizza with me and Brooke after school if you like,” she said.
I could tell that she felt sorry for me, but I didn’t really care. I was new and miserable and lonely for friends.
Brooke was Shoshanna’s best friend. They had been best friends since fourth grade. Brooke was small, but she was quick and sporty. The boys always came and talked to her because she played little league with them. She played on the same team as Kenny.
Shoshanna and I went to every game.
After that day in the bathroom, Shoshanna pretty much always asked me to hang out with them. Except when she and Brooke were hanging out alone, which sometimes still happened. But I didn’t care about that or feel left out or anything. I was just happy to be one of their closest friends. Even if I knew I was just the hanger-on.
Kenny, Eddie and Jonathan started paying attention to me after that, because I was friends with the cool girls and I was new.
Eddie was in almost all of my classes. But he wasn’t cute. I didn’t like his nose. It was like a potato. We were in all the smart classes together, although we didn’t make a big deal out of it. Because that would be bragging.
At least that’s what Shoshanna always said.
The boys still haven’t come out on the court. I can see them lingering at the sports locker checking out a ball. There must be a cute high school girl working today. Or at least an eighth grader.
“Hey,” Kenny yells across at me, because he catches my eye. “Go save us a court.”
Now that we have been spotted first, Shoshanna and Brooke are done pretending that the ground is interesting, because really, they wanted to be paying attention to the boys. We go over to the best court, the one in the corner, and take our places against the fence while we wait for the boys.
The boys don’t even thank us for saving them the court, even though we had to chase away some younger kids. The boys just put their backpacks down next to us for us to keep watch over and they start their game.
We’re sitting on the sidelines, with the sun in our faces and our backs up against the fence, which gives a little under our combined weight.
“I think it’s treat time,” Shoshanna says. “I think we deserve it.”
“Here, take one.” Brooke violently shakes the brown paper bag that holds our Tootsie Pops in front of my face.
I want to pick the cherry one, or the grape. I don’t want the orange.
Earlier, after homeroom, Shoshanna had said, “It’s only fair to put our pops in the bag and pick at random. One of us might get a better flavor than what was left on their desk.”
Brooke made the agreeing face, the one that you can’t protest against and just have to go along with. Like if you didn’t, you’d be toast.
On Thursdays, when Mrs. Gabriel gives us treats, we all come into homeroom in the morning and find a sweet lying on our desk. She always gives us the candy but then tells us to put it away.
“All I hear is sucking,” Mrs. Gabriel says. “You can’t suck on things while I’m calling roll. I can’t stand the sound of your lips smacking! It’s worse than when you’re talking.”
Maybe it turns her on.
Or, maybe she’s just a bitch.
Most kids wait till the bell rings and then pull the wrapper off their treats and shove it quickly into their mouths while walking down the too-crowded hall and try to hurriedly finish it before they get to their first class of the day. Usually, they enter the room with chipmunk cheeks and have to swallow it before the teacher gives them a black mark for eating in class. I’ve seen one or two of them gag a little.
Shoshanna, Brooke and I have restraint. We have patience. We always save our treat for after school.
We’re just like that, we three. It makes me feel pretty good to hang around with girls as cool as Shoshanna and Brooke.
In homeroom today I found a cherry-flavor pop on my desk. Shoshanna got orange, and I think by making us all put our candy into the bag, she’s just being selfish, hoping for a better color.
Shoshanna is not the kind of girl who gets orange.
Sometimes I feel as though Shoshanna and Brooke think I am not cool enough to hang out with them. And I suspect they agree. I’m sure that they also think I’m not cool enough to get cherry on my desk.
“Come on!” Brooke says, shaking the bag again.
I close my eyes and put my hand in, hoping that I’ll get my cherry back, or maybe the grape. I want to be that kind of girl.
A cherry one.
Instead, I pull out orange.
“Oh, too bad,” Shoshanna says insincerely. She and Brooke give each other a look. A look that says cherry and grape are good ones to get and it doesn’t matter whose hand goes into the bag next.
I frown a bit. But just a little. I freeze my frown and I force myself to smile. I don’t want to look like a sore loser. But I am not a good liar. I don’t pretend well. So I look at the sun and don’t blink, because everyone knows that looking at the sun makes your eyes water.
I’m disappointed.
The ball slaps the backboard and we watch the boys play. After a couple of warm-up shots, Kenny Kamil finally waves to us and my heart skips a beat.
Even though I know that Kenny is probably going to ask Shoshanna to be his girlfriend.
Even though I should settle for Eddie because he has a brain.
Even though I would not let Eddie stick his hand up my shirt to feel my buttons.
Swoosh. Dribble. Swoosh. Slap.
Kenny Kamil and his green eyes are always glancing over at us. Probably he is looking at Shoshanna and not at me, although sometimes I pretend that he is looking at me.
The first game is over and the boys are now coming over to us.
They are a little sweaty. They glisten. They glow.
Kenny comes over and it really looks like he is eyeballing me. Makes me feel hotter than this Indian-summer day. Makes me feel hot like I need to take off my sweater again, even though there is a slight breeze and he’ll see my buttons.
Shoshanna must think that Kenny is looking at me, too, because she whispers to me through closed teeth. “Don’t forget that Kenny is mine,” she says.
Like I could even forget.
I decide that I should ignore him even though it will break my heart. I should ignore him because what Shoshanna really means is, Don’t forget that I will give you the silent treatment if you talk to Kenny.
But
I can’t ignore Kenny. He’s right here in front of me. His knees are right in front of my face.
“Donna, how about you give me a lick of your Tootsie Pop, okay?” he asks.
“Kenny, I’ll give you a lick of mine,” Shoshanna says.
The boys snicker.
“Nah,” Kenny says.
“I’ve got cherry,” Shoshanna says. Like that explains everything.
“What do you say, Donna?” Kenny says. “Give me a lick.”
Shoshanna shoots me a look. An evil look. A person might actually die from a look like that, so I look away quickly.
“Why should I give you a lick?” I say to Kenny. But I say it to his knees because I can’t look up at him.
I want to give Kenny a lick. If he licks my lollipop then it’s kind of like swapping spit. And swapping spit is just like kissing. And I want to kiss Kenny so badly.
“You should give me a lick ’cause I like orange best,” Kenny says.
I can feel Shoshanna nearly losing it next to me.
“If you give him a lick, Donna, then we are no longer friends,” Shoshanna warns me.
Now I am looking at Kenny right in the eyes and he’s looking back at me. We are locked in a moment together that I don’t ever want to end.
I give him my Tootsie Pop.
Kenny licks it a bunch of times and then hands it back to me.
Shoshanna gets up and puts her hands on her hips.
Eddie and Jonathan are trying not to laugh, but they are. They are laughing at Shoshanna.
Shoshanna knows it, too.
“Brooke, come on,” she says.
I notice that Brooke is still sitting down next to me. She looks stunned. Like she doesn’t know what’s going on.
“BROOKE!” Shoshanna yells.
That gets her attention and Brooke stands up.
“Donna, don’t ever talk to us again,” Shoshanna says.
She turns her back on me and Brooke follows her, trailing behind a little, like she doesn’t want to leave the courts but wants to stay with us. Brooke even looks back wistfully when they leave the school grounds.
I’m surprised that I’m not running after them begging for forgiveness.
I’m surprised that I’m still sitting by the fence.
It dawns on me that the price for one moment of being the center of Kenny Kamil’s attention is losing my only friends.
Eddie, Jonathan, and Kenny are all laughing. I want to cry because I think they are laughing at me. Because I figure that they know like I do, for sure, that I am the biggest loser in seventh grade.
“I heard she let Danny McGowan finger her this summer in the pool,” Eddie says.
“She’s a slut,” Jonathan says.
“Hey, Donna,” Kenny says. “You never said what kind of underwear you wear?”
I look up at him.
They’re not laughing at me at all.
“Bikini,” I say and then I stick my hand in my jeans and pull out a piece of my cotton pink underwear for him to see.
“Nice,” he says. “Okay. I gotta roll. I’ve got karate.” Then he makes his hand into a fist and knocks it with Eddie and Jonathan’s.
Then he turns to me and gives me his fist to knock with.
“See you, tomorrow, Pinky,” he says.
I make my hand a fist and knock knuckles with him.
“Right on,” he says and then he leaves the playground and walks home.
Jonathan and Eddie go back to the court and keep playing basketball and they don’t seem to mind at all that I am still hanging out with them.
I suck the rest of my lollipop and contemplate my fate.
I know one thing for sure.
Orange is definitely my new favourite flavor.
Team Men
BY EMMA DONOGHUE
THAT WAS THE kindest thing Saul could say about anyone, that he was a real team man. “Jonathan,” he used to tell his son over their bacon, eggs, sausage, and beans, “a striker’s not put up front for personal glory. You’ll only end up a star player if you keep your mind on playing for the good of the team. Them as tries to be first shall be last and vice versa.”
Jon just kept on eating his toast.
Saul King believed in fuel, first thing in the morning, when there was plenty of time ahead to burn it up. “Breakfast like a legend, dine like a journeyman, and sup like a sub.” That made him cackle with laughter.
The boy was just sixteen and nearly six feet tall. Headers were his strong point. When the ball sailed down to him he could feel his neck tighten and every bit of force in his body surge toward the hard plate at the front of his skull. The crucial thing was to be ready for the ball, to meet all its force and slam it back into the sky. On good days Jon felt hard and shiny as a mirror. He knew that if the planet Mars came falling down, he could meet it head-on and rocket it into the next galaxy.
But by now he had learned to pay no attention to his dad before a game. If Jon let the warnings get through to him, he couldn’t swallow. If he didn’t eat enough, he found himself knackered at halftime. If he flagged, he missed passes, and the goalmouth seemed ten miles away. If the team lost, his dad took it personally and harder than a coach should. Once when Jon fluffed a penalty kick, Saul hadn’t spoken a word to him for a week.
“Nerves of steel,” the graying man had said finally, as they sat at opposite ends of the table waiting for Mum to bring a fresh pot of tea.
Jon’s fork clinked against his plate. “What’s that, Dad?”
“If a striker hasn’t got nerves of steel when they’re needed, he’s no right to take a penalty kick at all.”
His son listened and learned. As if he had a choice.
The lads were already having a kickabout on the pitch when the Kings drove up. Saul got out; the car door in his hand as he watched the lads over his shoulder. “Well, well,” he said, “who have we here?”
One unfamiliar coppery head, breaking away from the pack.
“Oh, yeah, Shaq said he might bring someone from school,” Jon mentioned, hauling his kit bag out of the back seat.
“Now there’s a pair of legs,” breathed Saul. He and his son stool a foot apart, watching the new boy run. He was runt-sized, but he moved as sleekly as cream.
“A winger?” hazarded Jon.
“We’ll see,” said Saul mysteriously.
The new boy, Davy, turned out to be seventeen. Up close he didn’t look so short; his limbs were narrow but pure muscle. The youngest of eight—one of those big rackety Irish families. His face went red as strawberries when he ran, but he never seemed to get out of breath—his laugh got a bit hoarser, that was all. He was a cunning bastard on the pitch. Beside him Jon felt lumbering and huge.
In the dressing room after that first practice, Davy played his guitar as if it were electric. He sang along, confidently raucous.
“Best put a bit of meat on those bones,” observed Saul, and loaded Davy down with five bags of high-protein glucose supplement. It turned out Davy lived just down the road from the Kings, so Saul insisted on giving him a lift home.
After a fortnight Davy was pronounced a real team man. He was to be the new striker. Jon was switched to midfield. “It’s not a demotion,” his father repeated. “This is a team, not a bloody corporation.”
Jon looked out the car window and thought about playing on a team where the coach wouldn’t be his dad, wouldn’t shove him from one position to another just to prove a point about not giving his son any special treatment. Jon visualized himself becoming a legend in some sport Saul King had never tried, could hardly spell, even—badminton, maybe, or curling, or luge.
The thing was, though, all he’d ever wanted to play was football.
Jon was over the worst of his sulks by the next training session. He had every reason to hate this Davy, but it didn’t happen. The boy was a born striker, Jon had to admit. It would have been nonsense to put him anywhere else on the pitch. He wasn’t a great header of the ball, but he was magic with his f
eet.
And midfield had its own satisfactions, Jon found. “You lot are the big cog in the team’s engine,” Saul told them solemnly. “You slack off for a second, the game will fall apart.”
Pounding along with the ball at his feet, Jon saw Davy out of the corner of his eye. “With ya!” Jon passed the ball sideways, and Davy took it without even looking. Only after he’d scored did he spin round to give Jon his grin.
“Your dad’s a laugh. I mean,” Davy corrected himself in the shower, “he’s all right. He knows a lot.”
“Not half as much as he pretends,” said Jon, soaping his armpits.
“Is it true what Shaq says about him, that he got to the semifinal of the 1979 FA cup?”
Jon nodded, sheepish.
Davy, under the stream of water, sprayed like a whale. “Fuck. What did he play?”
“Keeper.” On impulse Jon stepped closer to Davy’s ear. “Dad’d flay me if he knew I told you this. He’s never forgiven himself.”
“What? What?” The boy’s eyes were green as scales.
“He flapped at it. The winning goal.”
Davy sucked his breath in. It made a clean musical note.
• • •
In October the days shortened. One foul wet afternoon, Saul made them run fifteen laps of the field before they even started, and by the time he finally blew the whistle, they had mud to their waists and it was too dark to see the ball. Naz tripped over Jon’s foot and landed on his elbow. “You big ape,” moaned Naz. “You lanky fucking ape-man.”
The other lads thought this was very funny.
“You can’t let them get to you,” Davy said casually, afterwards, while they were cooling down.
“Who?” said Jon, as if from a million miles away.
Davy shrugged. “Any of them. Anyone who calls you names.”
Jon chewed his lip.
“I’ve got five big brothers,” Davy added, when he and Jon were sitting in the back of the car, counting their bruises. “And my sisters are even worse. They’ve always taken the piss out of me. One of them called me the Little Stain till she got married.”
A grin loosened Jon’s jaw. He stared out the window at his father, who was collecting the training cones.
