Cripes.
Team
I guess badminton isn’t much of a spectator sport, and for that I am grateful. When we arrive in the gym there are handfuls of people hanging around the bleachers. The gym is divided into four separate badminton courts. Mattie consults the schedule and discovers that she and Josh are playing in the first round but Michael and I aren’t playing until round two.
“Perfect,” she says. “That way we can cheer each other on.”
Michael and Josh smile at her, but neither of them looks too thrilled about playing cheerleader.
“Good luck,” I say.
Mattie throws her arms around my neck and gives me one of her full-body hugs. “Thanks!”
Benji waves and calls out from the stands, “Break a leg!”
The boys shake hands and Michael and I take seats next to Benji.
“Was that right? Can I say break a leg, or is that bad luck?” Benji asks.
“How could it be bad luck?” says Michael.
“In theatre it’s bad luck to wish someone good luck,” Benji explains. “That’s why actors always tell each other to break a leg.”
“Oh,” says Michael. “I don’t think it matters in sports. People are always wishing each other good luck.”
“But people are always breaking bones and getting injuries in sports,” Benji points out.
“I never thought of it that way,” Michael admits.
It turns out Mattie and Josh are going to need a lot more than luck to win their round. Mattie uses her racquet as a shield more than anything else, desperately batting at the birdie as if it’s attacking her. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was afraid of it.
“I thought you said you practised,” Benji whispers.
“We did,” I insist.
Every time she misses a shot, Mattie apologizes and tries to laugh it off, tossing her hair in a way she must think is fetching. One of these times she’s going to get a crick in her neck. Josh smiles at her, but his smiles are getting tighter and tighter. I wish there was something I could do. Not only is Mattie going to lose the game, but she’s probably going to lose any chance she had with Josh, too. I don’t know very much about boys, but I do know they hate losing.
“I can’t watch,” I moan.
“You have to,” Benji says. “Just keep smiling.” He cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Go, Mattie!”
Behind us, someone adds, “Yeah, go get some lessons.”
I whip around and glare at the people behind us, who burst out laughing as Mattie ducks and the birdie bounces off her head. I glare at them and say, “Do you mind? I’m trying to watch.”
“Is that your friend?” asks a boy with a red soccer shirt and matching shorts. He looks vaguely familiar.
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you as bad as she is? If you are, then Claire and I are a shoo-in.”
Red Shirt’s friends laugh and Claire, a pretty girl with freckles, a short, stubby ponytail, and three earrings in each ear smiles smugly at me.
“You think you can do better?” I scoff.
“Actually, I do,” she says.
“Hey, Greenblat, is that your partner?” Red Shirt asks, nodding at me.
Michael blushes, which makes the boys whistle and Red Shirt grin.
“I didn’t hear you, Greenblat.”
“That’s because he didn’t say anything,” I say.
Red Shirt narrows his eyes. “Well if that is your partner, you better hope her serve is as sharp as her mouth. We’re up next. Come on, Claire.”
Red Shirt and Claire stand up and walk between us, making sure to bump our shoulders as they pass.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Wesley Turner,” Michael answers.
“That name sounds familiar,” I say.
“He’s the captain of the basketball team,” Michael says. He sounds miserable.
“So?” I shrug.
“So, that makes him kind of a big deal. In basketball season, anyway.”
“Isn’t basketball over?” I ask.
“Yes,” Michael says.
“What does basketball have to do with badminton?”
Michael shrugs. “Nothing, I guess. I’ve just never seen him be bad at any sport. Ever.”
“Well, we’ll just have to show him,” I say.
Michael looks doubtful. I rummage around in my gym bag and pull out Mattie’s package of tips and strategies.
“Here’s what we’re going to do …”
I pass Mattie on the way to the court. Her cheeks are flushed, but I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or all the running around. She manages to keep smiling, despite being squashed, twenty-one to three. Josh heads straight for the change room, head down.
“Good game, Josh!” she calls after him. He doesn’t turn around. Mattie smiles weakly at me. “Don’t take it personally. I’m sure he wants to cheer you on, but he’s really tired. But don’t worry, I’ll be rooting for you!” She gives me a sweaty hug and I head off to the court to avenge the honour of my friend and Ferndale’s worst badminton player.
Wesley “Red Shirt” Turner may be a good athlete, but thanks to Mattie, I am better prepared. I stay close to the net and Michael covers the back half of the court. He may have a more powerful serve than I do, but I am good at the sneaky ones that barely make it over the net to land just inside the line. Twice, Claire smirks at me and turns away from the birdie only to have it land right at her feet. After the third time, Michael whoops and offers his hand for a high-five.
“Nice one!” he says. It feels good to be on a winning team.
Wesley frowns and starts bossing Claire around. She’s not as pretty when she’s upset. I almost feel sorry for her.
Now the serves are coming fast and hard. In the bleachers, Mattie is cheering us on. My heart is pounding, my legs are burning, and there is sweat in my eyes; I’m loving every second of it. Imagine that: me, Clarissa Louise Delaney, enjoying sports.
“This is fun,” I say to Michael.
He smiles back. “See? I was right. You are good at badminton.” Just then the birdie whizzes by my ear, too close to be an accident. I flinch but Michael lunges and slams it back over the net. The air around my ear is still humming with the sound of the birdie connecting with the strings of the racquet.
“Watch it!” Michael says.
“You watch it,” Wesley sneers. “Maybe you should pay more attention to the birdie and less to your partner.”
“Sounds like someone’s jealous,” Michael calls.
Wesley’s eyebrows go up and he gives me the once over. “Jealous? Of what? I don’t see anything to be jealous about.”
Wesley “Red Shirt” Turner is what my mother would call human lint, and why should I care what human lint thinks of me? This might be the only time in history that I am glad to be red and sweaty; at least no one can see me blush.
Claire laughs. “Yeah, Greenblat. You must have been really desperate if this is all you can find to double up with you.”
That word, that this, hangs in the air between us like a bad smell. Any lingering feelings of empathy I had for Claire are totally gone. But before I can open my mouth to reply, Michael cuts in, “Actually, Clarissa’s the only reason I’m playing in this stupid tournament. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll give you a few tips after we kick your ass.” And then he slams the birdie over the net, driving it right into the ground for the final point, like the sweetest exclamation mark at the end of an awesome sentence.
“GOTCHA!” I cry. “Nice one, Michael!”
Without even thinking, I drop my racquet and rush over and find myself in the middle of a hug with Michael Greenblat. Hugging a boy is not like hugging a girl. A girl smells like shampoo and hair gel and flavoured lip gloss, but Michael smells like clean laundry and hot dogs and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. A girl will pull you in until you’re squished together, but there is nothing squishy about hugging Michael. He is hard in
all the places where Mattie is soft. His shirt under my hands is damp from badminton. As suddenly as it began, the hug is over, and I step back, feeling dazed.
In the bleachers, Mattie and Benji are clutching each other, jumping up and down, whooping and hollering. Across the court, Wesley is yelling at Claire for missing the shot, but she ignores him, pulling the elastic out of her ponytail and shaking out her hair, which lands in a cute, piecey little haircut, not a hair out place, no sign of frizz or that bump the elastic leaves in your hair when you take a ponytail out. Now I hate her even more. She glares at me on her way to the girls’ change room, but I don’t care because in front of me, Michael is smiling in his Michael way, with one side of his mouth twitching up, like he’s trying not to smile. Something gushes through my veins and almost takes my breath away. I tell myself it’s probably just the exercise endorphins.
For the next week, Michael and I spend the second half of our lunch hour totally annihilating the other badminton pairs. We’ve even attracted a crowd, if you can call ten people a crowd. Mattie is a true friend. Despite her embarrassing loss on the first day, she is front and centre for every match, leading cheers and happy to talk to anyone who will listen about how she taught me everything I know. I don’t correct her. I figure it’s almost true. Josh is not such a good sport. He doesn’t come to a single one of our matches.
“What a poor loser,” I complain.
Mattie jumps to his defence. “It’s hard for boys to lose.”
“It’s just as hard for girls,” I counter.
Benji agrees with Mattie. “It’s not quite the same. Boys like Josh build their entire reputation on being good at sports. Look at my dad. He still talks about his glory days.”
This is true. The Dentonator will often give us play-by-plays of his best games as if we were there in the arena with him, instead of years away from being born.
“And what about you?” I ask Benji. “You would never be such a sore loser.”
“True,” he agrees. “Then again, I am much more mature than most boys.” I can’t argue with that. Benji is more mature than most adults I know.
After winning six matches in a row, Michael and I are declared the undisputed Mixed Doubles Intramural Badminton Champions. For all of our badminton prowess, we are awarded blue ribbons with the school’s crest stamped on them and two gift certificates to Pizza Hut.
“I love Pizza Hut!” Michael says. “When should we go? Are you free Saturday night?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and I pretend to think it over. The truth is I’m free most nights, now that Benji has his stupid musical and all of his stupid musical friends. “Yeah, I think that works.”
“Cool. I’ll meet you at seven. I wonder if this includes the sundae buffet.”
Mattie waits until Michael is out of earshot before grabbing my arm and squealing in my ear. “Do you realize what just happened? Michael asked you on a date! I can’t believe you’re going on a date before I am. You don’t even believe in love.”
I roll my eyes. “This isn’t about love, and it isn’t a date. We won the gift certificates fair and square; it would be wasteful not to use them.”
Now Mattie rolls her eyes at me. “Oh, please. Why can’t you just admit that Michael asked you on a date, a real date, in a real restaurant —”
“I’m not sure if Pizza Hut counts as a real restaurant —”
“It does so count, and you’re excited! Admit it!” Mattie demands.
“Fine. I am excited to eat free pizza in a restaurant with my badminton partner.”
Mattie throws her hands up in exasperation.
“Now for the important part,” Benji says. “What are you going to wear?”
Date?
I don’t tell Mom about my maybe-date. Why should I? It’s not like she’s around long enough to hear about it. Between her clients, running, Denise, and now Doug, I feel like I never see her.
Besides, the more I think about it, the less it seems like a real date. Does it count as a date if the only reason the boy asks you is because you both won gift certificates? It’s not like one of us could use them and not the other; we both earned them. Although I suppose it doesn’t say anything about us using them together at the same time. I could very well have invited Benji and Michael could have asked one of his basketball friends. Still. Is it a date if the boy meets you at the restaurant instead of picking you up at the door? Mattie calls me just after six to check in.
“I told my mom I’m going to your house for dinner,” I say.
On the other end of the line, Mattie sighs heavily. “You know I don’t like lying,” she says. “But if you pinkie-swear to come here straight after your date —”
“Maybe-date.”
“— your DATE-DATE, then I guess it isn’t exactly a lie.”
“Good.”
“What are you wearing?” she asks. Even over the phone, I can hear the concern in her voice. Honestly. I’m almost fourteen years old; I am perfectly capable of picking out an outfit myself.
“I thought I would wear my badminton clothes, you know, like a tribute to our success.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Mattie says, clearly not amused.
“I just picked out something normal,” I say. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
The truth is I tried on four or five different outfits before deciding on Mattie’s skirt, which I still have from Min’s party, tights, and one of my classic Clarissa t-shirts. This one I inherited from my mom. It’s her old high school shirt, featuring a graphic of a fierce-looking badger wearing a football helmet. Apparently the Sir John A. Macdonald High School’s mascot was a badger. Benji calls it my Hufflepuff shirt.
“Are you at least wearing a skirt?” Mattie asks.
“Yes, in fact I am wearing your skirt.”
“Ooh, I love that skirt on you!” she gushes. “You know, you’re getting so much wear out of it you should just keep it. I need a new one, anyway. That one’s kind of out of style. No offense,” she adds quickly. “It’s just a little dated for me, but it totally suits your style.”
That’s a bit rich, coming from someone who almost exclusively wears Mary Janes with knee socks, and collared blouses buttoned up to the neck.
“Are you nervous?” Mattie asks.
“Not really.”
“You’re so lucky,” she says wistfully.
A twinge of guilt twists in my belly. The only reason I agreed to play in the badminton tournament is because Mattie needed an excuse to do something with Josh. Now here I am, about to go on my first maybe-date, and Josh isn’t talking to her. It doesn’t seem right.
“Josh isn’t worth it,” I say. “Someone better will come along.”
“You’re right,” Mattie sighs. “Someone better and someone older.”
“Someone with nicer hair,” I add.
“Someone who doesn’t skateboard!” Mattie giggles. “Okay, I should go. Don’t forget to bring gum for after dinner in case he tries to kiss you. Then you won’t have Pizza Hut breath.”
“Stop!” I cry. “There will definitely not be any kissing.”
Mattie laughs. “That’s what you think!” she says, hanging up.
Kissing? A maybe-date I can handle, but kissing is something else altogether. Okay, now I’m nervous. If my alarm clock is right, it is six-thirty. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to Pizza Hut. If I leave now, I’ll have another fifteen minutes to wait. I don’t want to be too early, but if I stay here I’ll keep re-checking my hair and re-thinking my outfit. I’ll go crazy.
“That shirt looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
“Mom!”
My mother leans in the doorway, sipping from a blue energy drink and looking wistful. She’s just come back from the gym, her cheeks all rosy and her hair all wispy. She could be in a workout video.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling the shirt down for the one hundredth time.
“I had too much going on up here to really pull
it off,” she says, gesturing at her chest.
“Mom!”
“But it looks cute as a button on you.”
“Thanks,” I say, glancing at the alarm clock. It is now six-thirty-five. “I should probably go.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” Mom says. “Have fun, baby.”
“You, too,” I say, feeling guilty for lying about my (maybe) date.
I bet some girls — girls like Mattie — can’t wait to come home and tell their moms all about their (maybe) dates. Part of me wants to do the same thing, but another part of me hesitates. She’s bound to make a big deal out of it, and I’m not sure I want to talk about it yet. Plus how am I supposed to explain how I feel about Michael when I can barely wrap my head around the whole situation myself? Then there’s the Doug factor. If I tell her about Michael, does that mean I have to listen to her stories about Doug? Because I can’t handle any more gushing about Doug’s business or his do-it-yourself projects or his silly, brainless excuse of a dog. Don’t ask, don’t tell; at the moment, this seems like the best philosophy.
Mom doesn’t seem to pick up on any of this, thank goodness. She smiles and says, “Don’t worry about me, I’m a big girl.”
But I do worry. In the back of my mind, I’m always worrying about her. What if she’s taking on too much? What if she isn’t getting enough rest? She looks healthy now, and according to the doctors she’s making amazing progress. But until they say the word remission, I think I’ll always worry a little bit. It’s like the birthmark on my hip, the one shaped like a half moon; it’s something people rarely see, something I can cover up easily, but it’s there, permanently.
When I arrive at Pizza Hut, with exactly five minutes to spare, there is a wait for a table. I glance around the dining room but all I see are families and groups of teenagers, stuffing their faces with cheesy, gooey pizza that makes my stomach grumble. Michael is nowhere to be seen.
“Hot date?” the hostess asks. She’s wearing too much makeup and looks miserable. I’d be miserable too if I had to wear that Pizza Hut visor all night.
Love is a Four-Letter Word Page 8
