Neighborhood Girls

by Jessie Ann Foley

  “Jesus,” Sapphire breathed. “And I thought our uniforms were heinous.”

  “If I were you, I’d watch myself from here on out,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s just an empty threat,” she said, waving me off. “He knows that I’d die before I’d let him send me there.”

  “Lights out at nine o’clock?” Emily was paging through the Cherrywood Academy pamphlet with growing horror. “Oh my God, Kenz. You really would die up there.”

  “But you don’t want to call his bluff, either,” I said. “I mean, there’s a chance he could be serious.”

  “I know.” She picked off a bit of frosting and placed it on her tongue. “And I plan on behaving myself, once I take care of one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kicking that little snitch Alexis Nichols’s teeth in.”

  “Kenzie, come on,” I sighed. “You would’ve been caught anyway. If Alexis hadn’t told, Marlo would’ve. Or Gretchen.”

  “You’re just defending her because you two used to be besties back in elementary school.”

  “That’s not true. I mean, look at her. She probably wouldn’t even fight back.”

  The four of us let our gazes drift toward the front row, where Alexis was sitting quietly, waiting for prayers to begin. There was her familiar body, the body I’d known all my life, shapeless and noodle skinny, with those shy sloping shoulders and little red bumps up the backs of her arms. Her hair was tied in a messy braid, and her backpack was as dorkily overstuffed as a freshman’s.

  “She is sort of pathetic, isn’t she?” Kenzie said. “But if I let her get away with tattling on me, what kind of respect will I have around this place?” She glanced around the room to check for nuns, and seeing that the coast was clear, broke off a corner of her Pop-Tart and lobbed it toward the front row. It hit Alexis directly in the back of her head, some crumbs catching in the folds of her braid. Alexis winced, then turned around. When she saw where it had come from, her mouth set itself in a firm, hard line, but I couldn’t tell what she was feeling: Rage? Hatred? Annoyance? Fear?

  “Maybe I should play quarterback next weekend,” Kenzie said, smiling broadly and giving Alexis a little wave. Alexis turned immediately back around, her braid flicking. Her shoulders had gone rigid.

  “Real mature, Kenz,” I sighed.

  “What?” She looked at me with those huge black mascara-crusted eyes, all fake innocence and pout. “It slipped.” She broke off another piece of Pop-Tart and chucked it. This time, it landed perfectly on the crown of Alexis’s head. Alexis reached up and brushed it away, but this time she didn’t turn around.

  “Stop,” I said. “It’s like you took a class in Bullying 101 or something. Throwing stuff at people? That’s not even, like, original.”

  “So?” Emily piped. “That loser almost got her sent to a therapeutic boarding school in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.”

  “And you,” I said, not even trying to hide my annoyance, “must have signed up for Toadie 101.”

  Before Emily could respond, the chapel lights dimmed, and we all shut up. A senior girl from Eucharistic Ministry Club walked up to the altar and began to lead the morning prayer: “In the name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Spirit Who Makes Us Free.” We all crossed ourselves and began to murmur along. I couldn’t pay attention, though. I was staring at the bits of Pop-Tart on the carpet near Alexis’s feet. God, I hated how my friends could make me feel like such a coward. They put me in these situations where the choice between right and wrong was so clear, and yet I could never seem to find the courage to choose right. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” the senior girl read, “for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are the meek.” I glanced up at the back of Alexis’s braided head, remembering the gentle way she had led me down the corridors of O’Hare to the international terminal. “For they shall see God.” Blessed are the sidekicks, I thought, for they shall one day learn to think for themselves. Blessed are the bitches, for they shall be called Kenzie and Sapphire and Emily and Wendy.

  That afternoon, when we arrived to gym class, we changed into our hideous maroon bathing suits and climbed into the pool as usual, ready for another leisurely class period of pretending to play water polo. But when the door to the athletic office opened, it was Sister Dorothy, not Ms. Lally, who stepped out to greet us.

  That wasn’t what threw us, though. It was the fact that Sister Dorothy, who no one had ever seen wearing anything but her wimple and floor-length gray habit, was now standing before us in a black one-piece bathing suit and matching swim cap, a squat round ball of flesh perched atop a pair of milk-white bowed legs, dimpled across the thighs and threaded along the calves with purple spider veins.

  “Good afternoon, girls,” she said.

  No one said a word. We just sat there bobbing in the water, gaping up at her like a herd of stunned seals.

  “You act,” she said, looking down at us with her fists on her wide hips, “as if you’ve never seen a nun in a bathing suit before.”

  Ola Kaminski raised a timid hand.

  “Sister, where’s Ms. Lally?”

  “Ms. Lally is not here,” Sister Dorothy said, her eyes flicking briefly toward Kenzie, who, perhaps under the threat of the Cherrywood Academy pamphlet, was fully dress-code compliant in her maroon suit and white cap. “From now on, I’ll be teaching your PE class.”

  We glanced at one another but said nothing. Had Ms. Lally quit? Been suspended? Fired? My stomach flipped sourly with the feeling that Kenzie’s little stunt had gone and ruined the only decent thing Ms. Lally had left in her life.

  “Veronica! Please enlighten me as to why you aren’t dressed for gym yet?”

  Sister Dorothy had swiveled around to face the bleachers and was glaring at Veronica the Vegan, who was sitting in the first row, still wearing her school uniform.

  “Sister, I—I have a pass from my mom,” she stammered. “I’m a conscientious objector to the water polo unit. See, the ball is made of cow leather and—”

  “Well, as it so happens, I don’t know how to play water polo,” Sister Dorothy said, cutting her off. “Or any other aquatic sport, for that matter. So today we’re going to spend the remainder of the period swimming laps. No animal leather required. Now get changed.”

  Veronica hesitated—in addition to her political beliefs, she also had a vague medical condition that only seemed to surface when she was required to do something she didn’t feel like doing—but, thinking the better of it, she stood up and disappeared into the locker room. After all, who was going to challenge a woman who’d thrown a pie at a United States senator?

  We organized ourselves into the never-used swim lanes, and when Sister Dorothy blew the whistle, we took off using whatever rudimentary swimming skills we possessed. The only swimming lesson I’d ever had was what my dad had taught me up in Crooked Lake, hurling me off the back of the pontoon boat with my life jacket clipped on tight, shouting encouragement as I doggy-paddled back to the boat. But nobody else seemed much better off than I was, partly because most of our sports programs had been cut, and while we floundered our way to the deep end and back again, doggy-paddling, hanging on to the pool edge for support, chopping up water so the entire Sister Xavieria Schmidt Memorial Swimming Facility looked like a typhoon had hit, we could hear Sister Dorothy prowling the deck, yelling at us to go faster, push harder, stop being such wimps!

  “For a bunch of girls who thought they were so cool just last Friday, who thought the rules of Academy of the Sacred Heart existed solely to be mocked, you all sure seem pretty soft! Why, I know sisters in our motherhouse, octogenarians, mind you, who could run rings around you kids! That’s what you get for sitting on your behinds, staring at your laptop computers all day long!”

  Her voice came mockingly at us from far away above the water, and we swam until our lungs burned, until we saw black spots, until, through blurred vision, we saw the mold-covered painting of Saint Adjutor and prayed for him to bring us mercy, but S
ister Dorothy was relentless. After all, we were being punished, and no one does punishment better than the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Finally, when Veronica collapsed in the shallow end and vomited up a watery puddle of Boca Burger and fruit smoothie, Sister Dorothy blew her whistle. Coughing, wheezing, and humiliated, we dragged ourselves to the pool’s edge one by one.

  All of us, that is, except Kenzie.

  She continued to swim, kicking confidently with her long, tan legs, a fluid blur of rhythm and athleticism, flip-turning like an Olympian every time she reached the wall, switching easily from the freestyle to the breaststroke to the butterfly and backstroke. Her pace was easy but determined, effortless. What she had was not necessarily speed, but endurance.

  For maybe the first time ever, Sister Dorothy had been outmaneuvered.

  She’d figured that if she made us all do laps until we barfed, then our outrage at being collectively punished for Kenzie’s crime would take the queen bee down a peg or two. Unfortunately, what Sister Dorothy hadn’t counted on was that Kenzie was a Red Cross–certified lifeguard. Watching her, you got the sense that she could go all day if she wanted, and into the night, and when the engineer came down here and snapped off the big flood lights in the ceiling behind their metal cages, she would keep on swimming in the cold darkness, until everyone—Alexis, Sister Dorothy, and all the rest of us—knew that she would always outlast us, and she would always win.

  It was only when Sister Dorothy blew her whistle again and instructed us to change back into our uniforms before the bell rang that Kenzie glided to a stop and hoisted herself out of the pool. Her chest was heaving and her eyes were bright, but her mouth was tightly shut—she would not gasp for air, she would not show her pathetic human vulnerability. As Kenzie headed for the locker room, Sister Dorothy watched her pass, a troubled look on her soft, holy face. If I had to guess what she was thinking, it was that she should have expelled Kenzie after all.

  The locker room was quiet, palpable with jangling nerves. We were too tired to talk—my arms and legs were like Jell-O; my chest muscles would ache for a week. We huddled behind our towels as we changed, steering our eyes to the floor and trying to maintain our privacy. But Kenzie peeled off her bathing suit, kicked it away, and then marched naked across the wet tiles to the big stainless steel cabinet near the showers. All of us tried not to stare as her perfect figure retreated, but how could we not? The way she swished her hips and thrust her breasts demanded that we look, demanded that we compare, demanded that we go home that night and stare at our own imperfect bodies in secluded mirrors, knowing that we’d been taught better than to care so much about the physical but still being unable to stop wishing that, just for a moment, we could know what it was like to walk around with a body like that.

  Kenzie pulled out a fresh towel, wrapped her long hair with it, and pivoted to catwalk back in the direction she’d come. On her way back to her locker, her breasts bouncing authoritatively, she moved her naked hips so that she brushed up against Alexis—barely touching her, but enough that Alexis, who was perched in a one-legged flamingo stance trying to pull on her underwear while shielding the rest of her body with her too-small gym towel, stumbled, her elbow knocking into her gym locker with a metallic twanging sound and her towel falling to the floor.

  As Alexis scrambled to pick up her towel, her small breasts swinging, a dark patch of ungroomed pubic hair visible through her tangled underwear, Kenzie burst into cruel laughter. And even as it happened, I knew that for the rest of my life I would always regret what the rest of us did in response: nothing.

  11

  SAINT MIKE’S PLAYED MOUNT CARMEL IN the Catholic League playoffs a few days before Christmas. The bare trees were covered in frost; the frigid air was brittle; the flagpoles pinged in the wind. The bleachers were just as crowded as they’d been back at the September game against Notre Dame Prep, but the atmosphere wasn’t nearly as fun: the stands were almost quiet, with everybody bundled up beneath piles of coats and scarves, trying to concentrate on staying warm. Halfway through the first quarter, Saint Mike’s was already losing 14–0. I could see Evan Munro shivering on the bench, looking forlorn and holding his helmet in his lap. According to the game program, the backup quarterback was a sophomore named Thomas Wilkins, who was five foot six and 125 pounds. Every time he trotted onto the field with his offense, his thin brown face was etched in terror. He fumbled a snap, threw three interceptions, and just before halftime was sacked twice in a row by one of Mount Carmel’s human tank defensive ends. The second time, he took so long to get up that an even smaller and more terrified-looking freshman boy was called upon to finish the half.

  “This is so dumb that they won’t let Evan play,” Sapphire protested during the halftime break, blowing into her hands to keep them warm. “I didn’t think they actually took that ‘academics and character before athletics’ crap seriously.”

  “Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” agreed Emily. “I mean, Mount Carmel isn’t even good. It’s not fair to let them win like this.”

  “Shut up, you guys,” Kenzie said viciously. “The game isn’t over yet.” I glanced over at her and realized it was the first time I’d ever seen her look nervous. She was licking her lips so that her electric-pink lipstick had bled to a messy puddle around her mouth, and she kept clawing her fingers through her hair so that it stood up in the cold, dry air, a mess of static and flyaways. It must have started to dawn on her that Saint Mike’s probably was going to lose after all, and there would be no more college scouts for Evan this season, or maybe ever again.

  By the end of the third quarter, most of the Saint Mike’s crowd had given up and gone home. With fewer people left on our side of the stands to block the wind, it howled and bit at our faces. All I wanted was to go back to my apartment and curl up on the couch with some Christmas cookies, a Dr Pepper, and Teen Mom 2, but Kenzie had decided that, for better or worse, she had to see her man through to the end of the game, even if all he was doing was sitting with his elbows on his splayed knees and his head in his hands, a picture of despair and failure. When the fourth quarter ended and the buzzer mercifully put the game to an end, the final score was Mount Carmel, 35, Saint Mike’s, 3.

  After the game, the three scouts who’d been standing on the sidelines taking notes and recording video in their brightly colored collegiate windbreakers were talking excitedly to the two Mount Carmel defensive ends who’d gone on a sacking bonanza against poor Thomas Wilkins. Other Mount Carmel players were laughing and high-fiving and posing for pictures with their parents and girlfriends, who’d flooded the field after the clock ran down. Evan stood by himself on the sidelines while his teammates lined up to shake hands.

  “Let’s go down to the field,” Kenzie said, pulling out her phone and reapplying her smeared lipstick. “I want to go make sure Evan’s okay.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Kenz?” I asked. She whipped her head around and looked at me, her breath steaming in the night air like a wild horse’s.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “His team just lost. Maybe he wants to be alone right now.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “This is what girlfriends do, Wendy. They comfort their boyfriends. You’ve never had one, so you wouldn’t know.”

  She stalked off down the steps, and the three of us trailed behind her. Evan was just walking off the field when we approached.

  “Tough game, baby,” Kenzie said, touching his arm. “But the good news is at least we can drink it off tonight at Sully’s house.”

  “Are you serious?” Evan shook his arm free. Kenzie stepped back in surprise.

  Sully, who’d been trudging past us toward the showers, his helmet in his hands, stopped and turned to Kenzie. “Who said you were invited to my party?” He reeked of sweat, his hair was frozen in wet spikes, and his eyes were blue and wet. “Or you either, Munro? That little stunt you two pulled over at ASH just cost us the playoffs. I’m a senior
, man. I don’t get another chance.” He walked away, his cleats making little squishing noises in the torn-up mud. Evan watched him go, a yearning, broken look on his face. When he turned back to Kenzie, tears were spilling down his cheeks.

  “Kenzie,” he said, his lower lip trembling. He wiped his eyes with the back of his enormous hand. “You seriously ruined my life.”

  “Evan—” she reached out to him again, but he ducked away, his body taut with disgust.

  “This?” He waved a hand back and forth between their two bodies. “Over.” Then he turned around and followed Sully off the field.

  Kenzie stood there for a moment with her mouth open. Sapphire, Emily, and I hung back, not knowing what to say. Finally she whirled around, her dark eyes flashing beneath the glow of the stadium lights.

  “Did I just get dumped?”

  The three of us stood there, shifting on our feet.

  “Well?” She thrust her face into Sapphire’s. “Did I, Sapphire? I mean, you would know, it’s happened to you plenty of times.”

  Sapphire’s face blushed red beneath her pile of dark curls.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You did.”

  “Was Evan crying?”

  We didn’t say anything.

  Kenzie let go a deep, mean laugh. The air steamed with her breath.

  “What a pussy. Does he really think I would even want to go out with a boy who blubbers in public like that? Ha!” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, and began pushing her way through the crowd toward the parking lot. She turned around once. “Well? Let’s go!” As we hurried toward my car, I saw Evan, his head bowed, standing with his mother. She was hugging him while his shoulders shook and shook.

  As we waited for my car to warm up, Emily ventured a question from the back seat.

  “So, are we just going home, then?”

  Kenzie whirled around, her hair whipping my face.

  “Well, if you want to go to Sully’s party, then go ahead and be a fucking traitor. I’m going home.”