Play Nice (Make the Play #3)

by Amber Garza

  If only I had a hobby. I think about all the time Emmy spent alone. She used to sit in her room doing homework, studying, or reading. She didn’t mind it. Then again, Emmy has a completely different life than me. She has a loving family, a brother who adores her. Frankly, it makes me sick. They’re so sweet they make my belly ache.

  I actually liked Emmy. Sure I became friends with her as a way to get close to Cal, but she grew on me. She was genuine in a way that none of my other friends were. And she was silly, and vulnerable. I wished I could be more like her. Every once in awhile, I let my guard down around her. I allowed myself to be open, to be myself. With other friends that was never possible, but with Emmy it felt okay. And it was. She didn’t judge me. There were even moments when I thought our friendship could last. That perhaps I could drop the ruse.

  But the longer we hung out, the more jealous I became of her life. Of her family. Of her friends. Of her budding romance with Chris. She thought she was keeping it secret, but I always knew there was something between them. There was no hiding the way he looked at her. Or the way she looked at him. It was only a matter of time.

  And I started to hate her for it.

  Everyone thinks I betrayed her out of spite. Or because I could. Or worse yet, that I’m cold hearted and have no feelings. But in the end it was because I coveted her life. It hurt to watch her get everything I wanted. It was jealousy plain and simple. Not that it makes it any better. What I did sucked. I get that.

  I wish I could take it back. When I stopped hanging out with Emmy, it became crystal clear that she had been my only real friend. The only friend who truly cared about me. Talia and Heather and the rest of them were out for one thing – popularity. I saw that long before last Friday night.

  Emmy wasn’t like that. She never cared about popularity. Probably deep down she did, but it wasn’t the most important thing to her. She wouldn’t have betrayed for it.

  Sighing, I pick at the thread on my bedspread. Oh, well. It’s too late to change what I’ve done. It’s not like Emmy will ever forgive me. And I know Cal sure as hell won’t. He’s made that very obvious.

  This is why I hate silence. It forces me to think. To face who I am and what I’ve done.

  When it becomes too much, I slide off my bed and head to my computer. Plopping down on the office chair, it swivels until I face the wrong direction. I drop my bare foot to the floor and turn my body until I’m facing the computer. After turning on the monitor, I click around on the web until I pull up my favorite online channel. There are a few new makeup tutorials from my favorite online personalities, so I click on one. When the video starts, I settle back in my chair, taking note of the colors and techniques that are used.

  Makeup and fashion are my thing. I’ve never been good at sports, and I don’t get the best grades. But if you need your hair or makeup done, I’m your girl. Emmy used to encourage me to start my own makeup channel. A place where I could upload video tutorials about hair or makeup, or even fashion. I love the idea. I’d be good at it. I used to do Emmy’s makeup and hair all the time, and I made her look like a totally different person. But I’d never be brave enough to put myself out there like that.

  The reason people think I’m so confident and brave at school is because everyone is too afraid to speak out against me. My popularity shields me from criticism or ridicule. And anytime someone has tried to go against me, I make their life so miserable they regret it. And then they retreat.

  Until now, that is.

  The tide has shifted. Everything’s changed.

  And it’s only confirmed what I already knew – I don’t have thick skin. I don’t cope well with rejection.

  Therefore, I can’t upload videos online. In cyberspace anyone can view what I put out there, and they can remain anonymous. They’re free to say whatever they want. And that thought scares the crap out me.

  Scrolling down to the comments under this video, I read several nice ones. People who tell the girl they love her makeup or that she’s stunning, or that she’s helped them so much. But below them are mean ones, where people comment that she’s ugly, that her voice is whiny, or that her makeup makes her look like a clown. It turns my stomach, and I shove away from the computer.

  No way am I subjecting myself to that.

  Big fat tub a’ goo.

  The words fly through my mind, stopping me cold. I picture the look on Hayes’ face when Talia told him what I’d said. I’ve never cared if I hurt someone’s feelings, but for some reason I hate that I made Hayes look that way. I hate that I hurt him.

  Perhaps it’s because he’s been so nice to me. Or because I know what it feels like.

  Whatever the reason, it unnerves me.

  I want to go back to how I was. Heartless. Cold. Unfeeling. It was easier then.

  But I fear that I can’t go back, that I’m changing and there’s no way to stop it. I feel out of control, like I don’t even know myself anymore. And that worries me.

  HAYES

  Brady is already at the batting cages when I arrive. By the sweat gathering on his forehead and under his armpits, it appears that he’s already been hitting. He’s wearing a cocky grin when he swaggers in my direction. I shake my head gearing up for the trash talk that I know is coming.

  When I first met Brady, I didn’t like him that much. He was too cocky. Thought he was better than everyone else. But trust me, he’s not. Everyone but him knows it. He was pissed when Coach put him in left field rather than center, but the rest of us saw it coming. It’s where he belongs, even if he thinks otherwise.

  His arrogance never changed, but somehow he eventually grew on me. Looking back, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment we became friends. More like it happened slowly over time. And he’s a good guy. Loyal. Fun to be around. His good qualities outweigh the bad, in my opinion. Besides, when he starts getting full of himself, I knock him down a few notches.

  “You’ve already been hitting?” I asked.

  “Yep.” He smiled. “Man, you shoulda seen me.”

  “I’ve seen you hit before, so I doubt I missed anything special,” I banter back.

  He shakes his head. “I’m warning you that you’re not going to be the only one hitting bombs this year.”

  “Yeah. I know. I heard Nolan’s hitting pretty well lately.”

  Brady’s smile drops. “I can hit better than Nolan any day, and you know it.”

  It’s not true, but I shrug. “You can run faster than him, that’s for sure.”

  He chuckles. Nolan is the slowest runner on our team, but he’s a good third baseman, so I cut him some slack.

  After a few more minutes of innocent banter, we head over and pay for a round.

  “Are you going to the party this Friday night?” Brady asks as I put on my helmet and gloves. Glancing up, I try to gauge whether or not he’s joking. In the background I hear the whizzing of balls, the crack of the bat. I long to be out there hitting, not standing here talking about parties. But his face is serious, not a trace of teasing. Does he not remember what happened at the last party?

  “I think I’ll pass.” Reaching down, I pick up my bat. Rolling the wood between my fingers, I savor the way it feels - familiar, like home.

  “Oh c’mon, man. I know Talia hurt you, but you’ve gotta get back out there.”

  “It’s been a week.”

  Brady shrugs as if not understanding my statement.

  “Besides, everyone knows what happened, and so it’s--”

  “Perfect,” Brady finishes with a word that is far from the word I was going to use.

  “How is it perfect?” I’m dumbfounded. Bringing the bat up, I rest it against my shoulder so it’s pointing up toward the ceiling. I could put it down since it’s clear Brady is more interested in chatting than hitting, but holding it gives me a strange sense of comfort.

  “Everyone knows what happened, so it’ll be easy to find some sweet girls who will offer you a kind shoulder,” he drawls as if he’s become some sen
sitive country boy. His eyes sparkle with manipulation.

  Despite myself, I chuckle. Then I shove him out of the way. “All right. I’ve heard enough.”

  “It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. You’re just taking advantage of the situation. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

  I shake my head, entering the cage. The door rattles behind me as it closes. I tug down on the edge of my helmet.

  “So what do ya say? Are you coming?”

  Man, he won’t let up. “No.” I shake my head.

  “But everyone’s going,” Brady presses.

  Not everyone. I’m certain Ashley won’t be there. As I get in my batter’s stance, my mind drifts to Ashley’s sad eyes when I saw her in the hallway earlier. Shaking away the thoughts, I focus on the ball coming right at me.

  ASHLEY

  When I wake up on Saturday morning, the house is deadly quiet. I pad down the hallway and peek into the garage. I’m not surprised to see that Dad’s car is gone. Most likely he’s golfing with his buddies. I’ve barely seen Dad in weeks, but that isn’t uncommon. He spends as little time here as possible. When I make my way back down the hallway, Mom’s snores travel from under her doorway. Clearly, she’s sleeping off a hangover.

  Usually on a Saturday morning I would be doing the same thing. I know there was a party last night. People were talking about it all week. I wasn’t invited, but that’s okay. It’s not like I would’ve gone. Not after what happened at the last party. I wonder if Hayes went.

  Ugh. Why do I keep thinking about Hayes?

  Besides, I’m sure he didn’t go. He’s probably still sitting at home pining away over sweet, perfect Talia. I can still picture the lovesick expression on his face every time he looked at her. It was pathetic. No guy had ever looked at me like that. Not that I want them to. Eww. Still, I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.

  Man, I need to get out. All this sitting at home is turning me into a sap. Two weeks ago I never would’ve believed that I’d be sitting at home on a Friday night. Yet, that’s exactly what I was doing last night. Sitting in my room watching online videos. And even more embarrassing, I was in bed by ten o’clock.

  Enough was enough.

  Talia may have gotten all of our friends to side with her. She may have driven me from the cafeteria during lunch. But she didn’t have the power to keep me in my house all weekend like some kind of prisoner.

  Mom was never up before noon on a Saturday, and even when she did get up she didn’t make breakfast like some other moms did on the weekends. That’s why I always go out for coffee and pastries on Saturday mornings. Normally I go with friends, but I can go alone.

  Slipping into the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Recoiling, I realize that some major TLC is in order. My hair is drab and lifeless, my skin is pale, and my eyes are ringed in black circles, despite how much sleep I got last night.

  The next hour is spent in a whirlwind of showering, blow drying, and beautifying. When I’m finished, I step back and assess the results. No longer lifeless, my hair cascades down my shoulders in large, tousled curls. My face is no longer pale, now that I’ve contoured it with my highlighter and bronzer, and my concealer has brightened up my under eye circles. I’m wearing my floral romper and silver sandals. Before heading out the door, I reach for a few of my bracelets and slide them on. They tinkle as I hurry down the hallway. After flinging my purse over my shoulder, I step outside. The air is warm against my back, and the scent of roses fills my senses.

  When I was little my mom used to sit outside gardening on days like this. I enjoyed those days. Mom seemed happy, humming while she clipped roses or planted flowers. I’d run around the yard or ride my bike down the sidewalk. Then Mom would make us iced tea and sandwiches, and we’d sit under the tree and have lunch. Those days were fleeting and didn’t happen often, but I cherished them. It’s been years since Mom touched her plants. Now she stays inside nursing a headache while a gardener comes over and tends to her flowers.

  Ignoring the familiar sour feeling in my stomach, I hop in my car. Shaking away the memories, I toss my hair back and turn on the engine. Pop music pours from my speakers as I pull away from the curb and drive down the street. As I turn, rounding the corner, I glance down the street to my right knowing that if I go down it I’ll reach Emmy’s house. If it was last year, I would be heading there now to pick up Emmy and together we’d go grab coffee. But it’s not last year, and we’re not friends anymore.

  I ruined that, the same way I’ve ruined everything else.

  Returning my attention out my front window, I focus on the road ahead. It isn’t long before I’m pulling up in front of my favorite coffee shop. Actually, it’s everyone’s favorite coffee shop. Prairie City is a small town, and everybody congregates in the same places. As I search for a parking space my stomach tightens, and I contemplate heading back home. Or I could drive further into town and hit up a different coffee shop. One that will be less crowded.

  But I know I can’t do that. I can’t let Talia and my former friends keep me from my favorite places.

  I’m Ashley McIntosh. I’ve never been one to cower. I fight back. I hold my head high whether I feel like it or not. I’ve been faking it for years, and I can keep doing it. There’s no way I’ll let them win.

  Circling back around, I drive until I find a place to park. It’s a couple of blocks down, but I don’t mind walking. Before getting out of the car, I check my face in the rearview mirror, and am pleased to see that my makeup is still on point. Not like I’m surprised. I used a face and eyeshadow primer, and my favorite liquid matte lipstick. Everything should stay in place the entire day, regardless of what I do.

  Snatching my purse off the passenger seat, I step out of the car. Then I hurry up to the sidewalk and make my way toward the coffee shop. As I near it, the scent of coffee beans stretches out to meet me. I blow out a breath, calming my nerves. Cars line the street and cram the parking lot behind the shop. Chatter spills out every time someone opens the door. There’s no doubt in my mind that the place is packed, and most likely half of my school is in there. Every time I come here I run into someone I know. Usually that’s a welcomed event. Today I don’t think it will be.

  When I get to the door I take a deep breath, lift my chin, and step inside. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. To have all eyes on me. To have insults hurled in my direction. But none of that happens. In fact, it’s pretty anticlimactic. No one notices me at all as the door closes behind me and I settle into the back of the line. Everyone is deep in conversation or lost in their own world as they type on their phones or listen to music through their earbuds. I want to feel relief, but for some reason I don’t. Being noticed is sort of my thing. Man, I’m all over the place. I’m not even sure I know what I want anymore.

  Bored, I pull out my phone and scroll through my social media sites. I think about taking a selfie, captioning it with something clever about having my Saturday morning coffee. But as I peruse my feed, I decide against it. All of my former friends are posting pictures with friends. Cute photos of themselves in designer pajamas and perfect messy buns, their faces pressed together. A selfie seems pretty lame at this point. I’m sure they all assume I’m alone. No need to confirm it. Turning off my phone, I toss it inside my purse.

  Commotion to my left catches my attention. An older gentlemen attempts to stand from a circular table, but his walker clatters to the ground and he teeters for a second as he tries to reach for it. His face is one of determination, but I can see something else in his eyes. Embarrassment, maybe. Shame, possibly. And it cuts to my heart. I know that feeling. Plus, he reminds me of my grandpa, and that causes a hollow feeling in my chest. They say that the pain of losing someone diminishes over time, but I’ve never found that to be true.

  Without thinking, I leap out of line and lunge toward the older gentleman. Reaching out my arm, I steady him. Once he’s upright, I bend over and pluck up his walker.

  “Here you go.�
�� Smiling, I push it in his direction.

  “Thank you, my dear.” When he grins, wrinkles gather around his blue eyes.

  My grandpa’s eyes were blue too. The exact same color as mine. Tears prick at my eyes. I blink profusely, panicked at my public display of emotion. My entire body goes hot.

  “You okay?” The old man asks.

  “Uh…” I breathe deeply. “Yeah. Fine.” Sniffing, I stand up straight. Pushing down the emotions, I do what I’m good at. Deflect. Pretend. Mask. But I can tell this man doesn’t buy it. He’s savvier than the kids at my school. His eyes tell the story of a man who’s lived through a lot. Who’s endured a lot. And who knows when someone is full of BS. My grandpa was the same way. It’s one of the things I loved about him so much. He was one of the few people I could be myself around. I didn’t have a choice, really. He could see right through me. “You just remind me of someone. That’s all.”

  He cocks his head to the side, studying me. “And that someone isn’t around anymore?”

  Swallowing hard, I shake my head.

  “Have a seat,” the old man motions to an empty chair at his table. Then he painfully lowers himself into his own chair.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” I shake my head.

  “I insist.” He winks. “Humor an old man.”

  A light laugh escapes from my lips. “All right. Just for a minute.” I slide onto the wooden seat. It moans beneath me.

  The old man reaches out a shaky hand. “I’m Henry.”

  I take his hand in mine. “Ashley.”

  “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  My smile deepens. “My grandpa used to say things like that too.”

  “Is that the ‘someone’ I reminded you of?”