When the game starts, I’m totally lost. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know the basics of soccer. Kick the ball into the other team’s net, and that’s a goal. Yay.
But the ref keeps blowing the whistle for things I don’t understand. Sometimes it’s a good thing; sometimes it’s not. I base my understanding on the crowd reaction and the guy next to me. When chubby guy cheers, something good has happened, so I clap.
Eventually I start understanding. When someone accidentally kicks the opponent instead of the ball, the opponent gets a free kick. The game isn’t so horrible to watch when the ball is in play. East Bay’s players are pretty impressive in their nimbleness, especially in comparison with how winded I get when I have to go up a flight of stairs. They can run up and down the field multiple times with no problem. And now that I have a “relationship” with Seb, I feel more invested in the game’s outcome. I have a connection to one of those uniformed guys out there, which is something I never thought I’d experience. When Seb tries for a goal and misses, the tiniest bit of disappointment sprouts from deep within me.
“OFFSIDE!” chubby guy screams. He positions his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone, then clucks his tongue and shakes his head. I’m not sure what just happened, but I guess I’m supposed to be annoyed too, so I throw my hands up into the air in solidarity.
The other team scores first. The sprout of disappointment inside me starts to bloom.
“Dammit!” I blurt out.
“FUCK YOU!” chubby guy shouts to no one in particular.
The crowd around us murmurs and boos their discontent.
“Is this yours?” chubby guy asks, holding my book in his hand. It must have slid off my lap at some point.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”
He nods, and we both turn our attention back to the game. Seb has the ball now, and he really is kind of mesmerizing to watch. He is the personification of action verbs, all darting and lunging and spinning.
“He’s fucking amazing, right?” chubby guy asks me.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I find myself saying, with actual pride in my voice. Like Seb’s supernatural athletic ability has anything to do with me.
Chubby guy turns to gape at me. “You’re dating Matias?”
Why the hell did I choose to bring this up? I could have just said, Yes, he’s amazing, and ended the whole conversation.
“Yeah. We’re . . . together.” Do people in my generation even say that? It sounds so Marcia Brady when I say it out loud. But the guy doesn’t seem to notice.
“Oh my God. You’re so lucky.”
“I guess so. I mean, thanks.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that he’s mind-blowingly hot, and I realize that might be inappropriate to say to his girlfriend, but it’s not like I have a chance in hell with him, so what difference does it make, right?”
I laugh. “I see your point.”
There’s something endearing about the way this guy spits out his every thought. It’s a trait that has always boggled my mind, because I overthink everything before speaking, analyzing what I’m about to say from every possible point of view before ultimately deciding to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m Elliott,” the guy says. “Spelled with two ts.”
“Analee,” I reply. I wait for him to repeat it incorrectly.
“Analee, right!” he says instead. He smacks his palm against his forehead. “Duh, Elliott. I knew that. There’s been talk about you.”
“Talk?” My stomach pinches. I don’t want to be the topic of anyone’s conversation. It’s never a good thing.
“Yeah, you’re the mysterious Analee that Seb’s been hanging out with. People didn’t know if you guys were official or if you were some rebound. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I understand. Seb has a lot of admirers.”
“Yeah. But talking to you now, you don’t seem like a rebound, you know? It’s obvious he’d be into you.”
This must be what it feels like to be popular. Elliott is totally lying to me right now, trying to get into my good graces. It’s not obvious at all that someone like Seb would be into me. He said himself that I wasn’t his usual type.
“Okay, I know we just met and everything.” Elliott talks like he’s on a perpetual sugar high, eyes flitting between me and the field, legs jiggling. “But please tell me what it’s like to make out with Sebastian Matias. Does it taste like all your dreams coming true? Does he have minty-fresh breath? Is he light on the tongue, or does it feel like he’s swallowing you whole?”
I didn’t think this part of the plan through. Of course, as Seb’s girlfriend, I should know what it’s like to kiss him, but making out with Sebastian Matias is something I only thought about in the brief few seconds of that day in sixth grade. The two of us haven’t even talked about the physical stuff yet. Holding hands in public was terrifying enough. Are people going to expect to see it? How much am I willing to do to maintain this charade?
“Kissing Seb . . . ,” I start. Elliott stops moving. I wonder again why I engaged in conversation with him, but I’m too far down this path to turn back now. “Kissing Seb is incredible.”
Elliott makes a face. “Of course it is. But how?”
“How?”
“And feel free to use detail.”
“Um, okay. Well . . . see how he moves on the field?”
“Uh-huh.” Elliott’s eyes go wide.
“He knows how to work with his body off the field too, if you get what I mean.”
What am I even saying? Who is going to believe this?
“You are. So. Lucky,” he says again. Apparently Elliott will believe it.
The score is 1–0. Elliott continues to chat as we watch, pausing every so often to scream something at the top of his lungs. I’m not great at talking to people, but Elliott makes it easy. He’s one of those people who won’t judge you for saying something stupid or awkward, because a lot of what he says is worse.
Elliott tells me that his older brother, now a college freshman, used to play for our soccer team. His name is Neil, and Elliott has been to every single one of his soccer games and every Tigers soccer game thereafter. He explains to me what’s going on, pointing out each of East Bay’s players and their positions. He’s a living soccer dictionary, breaking down vocabulary for me, like a scissor kick and a fifty-fifty ball. I let him talk, for the most part. I’m thankful there are no awkward silences with Elliott.
Then, with a couple of minutes left in the first half, Seb scores. He sends the ball flying past the goalie’s open arms and into the corner of the net. Everyone jumps up, including me, and suddenly Elliott’s arms are around me and he’s squeezing me into a giant bear hug. The two of us jump up and down, and he screams something unintelligible into my ear, and I’m so unreasonably happy that a stupid inflated ball has been kicked into a net.
I seriously don’t even recognize myself anymore.
Seb scores again in the second half, and the game ends in East Bay’s favor. Elliott explains to me that this is a Very Big Deal, because the team they’ve been playing against, Hamilton High, is ranked second in the entire state.
“See you next time?” he asks after we walk down the bleachers together.
“Definitely.”
The word pops out of my mouth, but I realize I mean it. I want to see the next game. I want to be there for these big sudden moments of happiness. Also, Elliott’s over-the-top reactions are just as entertaining as the game.
When he leaves, I linger around the exit to the boys’ locker room, where Seb texted me to meet him. There’s a throng of people already outside, including a handful of made-up girls in high-heeled boots and tight jeans. They talk in a small, close huddle, and a few of them shoot evil-eyed stares in my direction. Of course. They’re here for Seb.
I look down at my hoodie and sneakers as if maybe I had a Cinderella-like transformati
on in the past five seconds. I didn’t know girls dressed up for soccer games. The bleachers are already uncomfortable enough. I don’t want to torture my feet, too.
The girls don’t stop looking. A couple of them even laugh, and I’m sure it’s meant for me. I’m sure they’re thinking, What is someone like Sebastian Matias doing with that frumpy, ugly weirdo? Because, if I’m being truly honest with myself, I’m such a downgrade after Chloe. Seb knows it; Lily knows it. Elliott was probably thinking it but was actually able to hold himself back from saying it.
The soccer high I felt moments ago vanishes. The girls’ laughter grows, planting roots inside my brain until it’s all I can hear. I imagine how terrible it’s going to feel when Seb comes out. The hot girls will bombard him and flirt and stroke his arm, and I’ll be cut off, forgotten on the sidelines. Worse, Seb might laugh at me too.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. It’s consistently doing the most, protecting me from any foreseeable embarrassment. All I know is that I have to leave. Like, right now. I want to go to my room and shut out all the laughter and the stares.
When the locker room door opens and Seb steps out, they flock to him. Worse, he loves it. He tries to play it modest, but his cheeky grin betrays him.
His eyes bounce around to every girl, never once looking beyond them to seek me out. I don’t matter to him at all in this moment, not when he’s surrounded by his fan club. And I’m not going to wait until I matter. I would be standing out here until the end of time. Before he spots me, I escape. I’m faster than any soccer player on that field. I’m Usain Bolt, except not nearly as cool, and fueled by pure terror. When I’m far enough away, I slow down, waiting for my breath to catch up to my body, taking big gulps of air like it’s a meal. I don’t know when I became this way. This scared, insecure little girl. Maybe I’ve been this way all along, but I can’t remember.
CHAPTER TWENTY
OVER DINNER, TALK OF THE wedding has been replaced with what I call the “All Seb, All the Time” experience. I can’t watch TV in peace anymore between eating and fielding everyone’s questions. Dad wants to know about the soccer game, from team rankings to play-by-play recaps. He finds my proximity to East Bay’s soccer star way more interesting than any other part of my life. I do my best to answer his questions, borrowing some of Elliott’s terminology.
“So Seb is pretty good, I take it?” he asks.
“Very good,” I assure him. “He’s a striker.”
“Maybe I’ll catch one of his games.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t embarrass her, Raf,” Harlow scolds. “She can’t bring her dad to her boyfriend’s soccer game.”
“No, no, it’s cool,” Dad says. “I’ll wear a cap and go incognito. None of your friends will know it’s me.”
He still assumes I have friends. That’s cute.
Dad was super into soccer a few years ago. He followed some Spanish team whose name I never learned, but they ran around in bright red jerseys. You’d think, in all that time, I would have absorbed some knowledge of the game, but I have some type of undiagnosed mental deficiency when it comes to sports.
“Do you really have a boyfriend?” Avery squints at me. “Like, in real life? Not on the computer?”
Great. I can’t even get an eight-year-old to believe this.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Does he go to your school?”
“Yes.”
“What does he look like?”
“Like a person,” I snap.
“He’s very handsome,” Harlow says. My cheeks warm.
“I wanna see,” Avery whines. “Don’t you have a picture of him?”
“No.” She brings up a good point, though. What kind of teenage girl doesn’t keep pictures of her boyfriend on her phone? I make a mental note to talk to Seb about this. We’ll have to up our selfie game, even though I find selfies super-obnoxious. Not to mention unflattering. Every angle brings out the massive scope of my nose, the roundness of my cheeks, the perpetual sheen on my forehead.
Harlow brings her laptop over to the table.
“You’re not Googling him, are you?” I ask.
“I’m just showing Avery what he looks like,” Harlow says, her fingers tapping the keyboard. “Look, here’s his Instagram.”
“This is so wrong,” I object, but I’m following Avery and my dad as the three of us cluster around Harlow’s laptop.
“Why are you looking?” I ask Dad. He shrugs.
Harlow clicks on the first picture. It was taken a couple of hours ago—a postgame shot of Seb in his soccer uniform. His brown curls are pulled back by a headband. (Note: most guys can’t get away with this look. Seb is most definitely an exception.) His face is pure joy, smile wide, eyes crinkling. I wish I could find something that makes me as happy as soccer makes Seb.
“That’s him?” Avery asks, in a tone that fully says, How the hell did you pull that off?
She is so offensive.
“Yes, that’s my boyfriend.” I like saying the word. “Boyfriend.” The rounded consonants, the nasal oy sound. I like the feeling I get when I say it, how it lets people know I’m wanted. I already know how fleeting the short period of time will be when I can say it. “My boyfriend.” Who knows if I ever will again.
“And who’s that?” Avery points at a picture toward the bottom of the screen.
That is Chloe. More specifically, Chloe in a bathing suit. Even more specifically, Chloe and her abnormally long legs and pancita-free stomach in a bathing suit. She’s standing at the ocean’s edge, hair billowing in the breeze, eyes gazing pensively at the horizon. She’s sweaty, but in that sexy, baby-oiled way. Not how I sweat. When I sweat, I look like a glazed donut.
“She’s pretty,” Avery comments. Thank you, Avery, for another generous sprinkling of salt onto my emotional wound.
The Chloe picture was taken a month ago. Seb’s caption: Love of my life. I know I’m Seb’s fake girlfriend and all, but it still stings. What will people think when they see Chloe on Seb’s page, looking like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover, and then see plain, dumpy Analee on his arm?
Harlow minimizes the page quickly. She’s trying to protect my feelings, which only makes me feel worse. I am someone worth pitying.
“Who was that?” Dad demands. “Another woman?”
“Relax, Dad,” I say. “It’s an old picture of his ex.”
I use my “everything is totally cool, Chloe and her amazing body and the fact that she’s Lily’s new best friend and Seb’s irreplaceable dream girl doesn’t bother me at all” voice.
“No big deal. I’m sure he forgot to take that picture down,” Harlow says in her “oh my God, that girl is way hotter than you but I’m gonna act casual so you don’t have a meltdown” voice.
I hate everyone. No one says what they really mean, including myself.
“Why would he break up with her?” Avery asks.
Except Avery. For better or worse, Avery always says what she means.
“It’s complicated,” I say. Even after eavesdropping on their conversation in the library, I’m still not completely sure what happened to Seb and Chloe. In my view, if it’s true love, you don’t give up on it. But I never believed that what Seb and Chloe had was true love. It was a relationship of convenience. Two hot people who fell into each other and decided to be hot together.
“She’s, like, so pretty, though.”
“Avery,” Harlow says sharply.
“She’s not that pretty,” Dad says. It’s such a blatant lie, a move to restore a shred of my long-gone self-esteem. Chloe is indisputably pretty. She might not be everyone’s type, but her face is pure symmetry, and her body was sculpted by the gods.
“Whether or not she is pretty has nothing to do with Analee,” says Harlow. “It doesn’t devalue all the things that Analee brings to the table.”
The words lose all meaning when they come from another indisputably pretty person like Harlow. What does she know abou
t feeling like you have nothing to offer? It’s not just how I feel about Chloe. It’s about everyone else comparing me to her. It’s knowing that I bring nothing to the table. People like Harlow will always find it easy to value themselves, because the world values them.
“Can we just . . . talk about something else?” I ask. I drain the contents of my glass like I’m downing vodka.
“We can talk about the wedding!” Harlow says. “We’re going to have to shop for bridesmaid dresses soon.”
“Can they be pink?” Avery asks.
God. It always bums me out that Avery is such a stereotype.
“Close,” says Harlow. “Lavender and sage.”
Avery squeals and claps her hands. “Yay!”
“Lavender and sage?” Dad asks. “What about yellow?”
Harlow gives him a horrified stare. “Raf . . .”
“What? Yellow’s my favorite color.”
Harlow has her laptop open again, and she’s pulling up some dresses to show us. Dad continues to argue for yellow, since we live in the Sunshine State, while Harlow waves him off.
“Look, Analee,” she says. “This style would be perfect for you.”
I look at the model on the screen, draped in heavy purple fabric. The dress is cinched just below her boobs, while the lower half is a free-for-all. I decide not to tell Harlow that this is obviously a maternity dress.
“Sure,” I say. “Get it.”
Because who cares what I wear to this wedding? There’s no point in trying to make myself look better than I do. I will never compete with the Chloes and the Harlows. I will always look “less than.” Or in this case, “more than.”
When I said this kind of stuff to Mom, she would respond the same way every time: “Paging Analee, pity party of one.” And then she’d rub the top of my head and plant a big kiss on my cheek. It might sound insensitive to some, but it worked 90 percent of the time. Mom could always make my problems seem smaller. Laughable, even. But now she’s gone, and all of my problems, even the ones that should be small, like bridesmaid dresses, are magnified.
Analee, in Real Life Page 11
