by Score, Lucy
Damn if I wasn’t getting excited just seeing them get excited. Jake was onto something when it came to relevancy and involvement. The beauty of Dude, Nice Shot was no one needed to be an athlete. In fact, it was better to be smart than physically strong. Everyone could participate.
“Cicero, this is fucking genius,” Floyd said as we watched the teams launch into a thorough examination of the props we’d provided, including red Solo cups procured from Mrs. Gurgevich’s desk drawer.
“You know,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “There’s one Ping-Pong table left.”
“Oh, I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”
* * *
I wasn’t going to lie. Watching several of Culpepper’s high school star athletes and general popular population lift the scrawny Marvin Holtzapple on their shoulders to celebrate the physic geek’s Rube Goldberg-style trick shot got me a little verklempt.
“That was fucking beautiful, Cicero,” Floyd said, mopping at the corners of his eyes with his sweatshirt sleeve when the kids cleared the gym.
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad,” I sniffled. For a brief, shining moment, an idea I had lifted the misery of unpopularity for a student who probably dreaded school as much as I had back in the day. I felt like a goddamn hero.
“We need to do more of this,” Floyd decided. “Gym class should be inclusive. Even the pregnant girls can participate in shit like this.”
“You’d be open to something besides volleyball?” I teased. Floyd’s hatred of spending five months of the school year watching bored kids play boring v-ball badly was legendary. The Pennsylvania winters were long and annoying, but budgets didn’t exactly allow for a ton of athletic equipment. So our options for the cold weather months were limited.
“This was the most fun I’ve had in a class since Lindsay P. pegged one of the Hostetter twins in the nuts with a lacrosse ball.”
I laughed and headed into the locker room, a few ideas rippling beneath the surface.
The high of doing something good and being actually liked within the walls of a high school stayed with me into lunch.
“Gimme gimme!” Andrea wiggled her fingers when I poked my head into the guidance office. “I’m starving,” she exclaimed.
“I hope you like horseradish,” I said, unpacking the two roast beef melts I’d packed this morning.
“As long as it’s not made out of actual horse, I’m sure I’ll love it,” she insisted. Her red mermaid-like hair was draped over her shoulder in a long braid. Curls exploded out of it in all directions.
I dropped into my usual chair and popped the top on the sole soda I allowed myself a day. I’d discovered that cutting back on the sugar combined with running was having quite the positive impact on my waistline—as in, I had one now. If I’d known returning home humiliated and getting myself a hot, fake boyfriend was this good for me, I would have tried it years ago.
“How’s your day so far?” I asked, taking a bite of sourdough bread, swiss cheese, tomato, and roast beef.
“Mmm. Mmm.” Andrea rolled her eyes as she chewed quickly. “Not bad. No aggressive parent phone calls or sobbing teenage girls yet today. I heard your day is going well.”
I cocked my head to one side, silently questioning while I chewed.
“Kids are loving the Ping-Pong trick shot thing,” she said.
“Really?” I felt as victorious as I had in third grade when my teacher had given me a literal gold star for memorizing my multiplication tables.
“It’s creative and fun and includes students of all abilities. Essentially, you just removed the misery of gym class for the fifty percent of the school population that isn’t athletic,” Andrea said.
“I was just looking for something fun for them to do,” I said, brushing off the praise.
“But I can tell it made you happy,” she said, pointing her sandwich at me.
I shrugged, blushing on the inside. “It was fun.”
“I’ll tell you what it looks like to me,” she said, opening a lunch bag and unpacking two baggies of baby carrots. She passed one to me. “It looks like you’re finding your place. Hitting your stride. You’re identifying problems like boring, socially painful gym classes, and you’re offering up creative solutions.”
“What are you getting at?” I asked, biting into a baby carrot.
“You look happy. In just a few short weeks, you’ve gone from displaced and feeling alone to making a place for yourself here. That’s no small feat, especially in high school.”
“I’m an adult in a high school,” I clarified. This wasn’t exactly my shot at a re-do.
“Trust me, the same popularity power plays exist at the adult level,” she said. “You look like you’re thriving. Your team is playing well together. You’ve landed the George Clooney of Culpepper. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re looking leaner than when you first started, you bitch.”
I let out a strangled laugh.
“Now, your students are starting to enjoy the effort you’re putting forth. You’ve really turned things around. Imagine where you’ll be at the end of the semester.”
I chewed and imagined. I wouldn’t be here anymore. At least, I shouldn’t be. I hadn’t given much thought to “after Christmas” or “after the semester.” I’d been distracted by a certain tall, sexy, tattooed, naked cross-country coach. And his derpy dog. And reacquainting myself with my childhood best friend. And spending quality time with my parents.
None of those things were bad. But I needed to refocus on what was important: The Future. My wounds were healing here in Culpepper. But I wanted more than this dusty little town had to offer. I wanted a corner office and stock options and people who said things like “Thank God you’re here,” when I walked in the door. I wanted to wear heels every day and buy a round of drinks for my team to celebrate a victory.
“You look like I just punched a puppy in the face,” Andrea observed.
“Do you help students with their resumes?” I asked, changing the subject.
She nodded and inhaled another bite of sandwich. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Think you could help me polish mine?” I asked.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” she said in that way adults spoke to kids who were being dumbasses.
I rolled my eyes. “Stop trying to guide me. Spit it out.”
“I’m just wondering why staying here and continuing what you’re doing isn’t on the table?”
“I spent my entire life trying to get out of this town. I’m not going to let a stop-over suck me back in,” I said lightly.
She wiped her mouth delicately with a paper napkin. “All right. But I think you’re making a mistake not considering it as a possibility. Especially since that possibility involves seeing Jake Weston naked all the time.”
“Yeah, well. This is fun for now. But it’s not what I want long-term.” I wanted Zinnia’s life. A sense of importance to what I was doing. I wanted to matter. To be irreplaceable. I wanted a husband or sexy life partner type to share a glass of crazy expensive wine or liquor and chortle over something super smart in front of the fire.
Jake wouldn’t leave Culpepper for me. And I wouldn’t stay here for him. That was the bottom line. The only thing that had remained constant in my life was The Plan. I couldn’t veer off course now.
“Then I’d be happy to take a look at your resume,” she said.
“It’s kind of a mess,” I warned.
“I love a challenge. Also this sandwich. I love this sandwich.”
Her desk phone rang. “This is Andrea,” she said perkily into the receiver. Her gaze slid to my face, and she pursed her lips together. “Sure. I’ll send her right over.”
She hung up. “Principle Eccles would like a moment of your time. It seems a certain Home Ec teacher was very upset about her poor, delicate sons being taught to play beer pong on school grounds.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
55
Marley
“He
ard you got called to the principal’s office,” Vicky said, cranking Bon Jovi on her minivan radio. The windows were up in deference to the cold rain that pattered outside. I adjusted my air vent. There was an unidentifiable, disgusting smell permeating the interior of the vehicle that I couldn’t put my finger on.
“For the love of…is the school bugged?” I demanded.
“No. It’s just full of a few hundred loudmouths with ears and Wi-Fi.”
“Amie Jo called the principal to complain about the gym class Floyd and I taught.”
“I heard you taught the kids how to make bongs out of fruit,” she said chipperly. She chewed her gum as if it were in danger of escaping her mouth.
“Ha. Actually I taught them how to pass a field sobriety test.”
“Life skills, my friend. Life skills,” she said, steering us out of Culpepper.
“Amie Jo told her I was teaching the kids to play beer pong. Principal Eccles didn’t take the complaint seriously.”
“But she had to appease the beast by making a show of disciplining you,” she said.
“Exactly. Annoying but not life-threatening.” I realized that that’s how I felt about Amie Jo now. She was annoying. Irksome. A buzzy little gnat. But she and her feelings about me had no actual bearing on my life. I sat a little straighter in the seat. I, Marley Jean Cicero, was finally growing up.
“That Libby was one hell of a find,” Vicky said, changing the subject. “That girl’s footwork is National Team level.”
“Tell me about it,” I said smugly. “She seems to be fitting in with the rest of the team, too.”
Practice had gone well tonight. The girls were in good moods, a rare feat. And everyone enjoyed getting a little muddy running drills. There was something about being coated in dirt and mud that made us all feel like serious athletes.
When the rain had picked up, we’d called it an early night. Vicky and I had declared it to be a two-margarita evening. I finally had a little money in the bank and was ready to treat my lifelong friend and assistant coach to some bottom-shelf tequila. Afterward, Faith, Mariah, and Andrea were meeting us for dinner.
We sang along to the radio, a nostalgic nineties station, and I tried not to think too hard about the smell that was seeping into my clothing.
The restaurant was a cute little Mexican place in a mostly okay portion of Lancaster. A real estate agent would call it “up and coming.” I’d call it pretty shabby. But the fajitas were to die for, and they’d come really close to passing their last health inspection on the first try.
“So, how’s life?” I asked Vicky after we ordered our margaritas—mango for her, traditional on the rocks for me.
“You know, it’s pretty damn good,” she said, diving into the bowl of tortilla chips between us.
I raised my eyebrows. “You have three kids—one of which is an angry teenager—and a husband who’s on the road doing whatever he does for a living fifty percent of the time.”
She pointed her chip at me before biting into it. “Don’t forget a mother-in-law who lives with me and demands that I wash and fold her delicates in a very particular way.”
I gasped. “When did Rich’s mom move in with you?”
Vicky scrunched up her nose and thought. “Three years ago? Yeah. Right after Rich’s dad died.”
The margaritas arrived, and I took a guilty sip. I’d had no idea Vicky’s father-in-law died or that her mother-in-law had moved in with them. Granted, we’d drifted apart. But given the fact that she’d willingly jumped in to keep me from drowning with the soccer team, well, I felt I owed her a whole lot of back interest.
“I’m so sorry, V.”
She waved it away. “It’s fine. We make it work. And honestly, it’s nice having a third generation in the house. She doesn’t take any shit from Blaire and helps me out with the littles. I’m never going to be good enough for her son, but that goes with the territory.”
I sampled the salsa with a still warm chip.
“Did you guys always plan on three kids?” I asked, feeling like I was making awkward small talk with a stranger. I’d been absent from Vicky’s life for so long, I forgot that she wasn’t still a seventeen-year-old wild child.
She sucked down some mango margarita and nodded. “Yeah. Three was always the magic number. Of course Blaire was a bit of a surprise right out of college. But by the time we got around to the other two, she was a built-in mini nanny.”
“You seem really happy,” I observed.
She shot me a grin. “I am. I mean, I’m unemployed and driven insane daily by my family. But honestly, it’s a great freaking life. I’m surrounded by people I love every day. I’m watching these little weirdos that I created turn into people. My parents are minutes away. And Mama Rothermel is teaching me all about the kind of mother-in-law I don’t want to be.”
“It sounds pretty great,” I admitted.
“Yeah, well, I’m no Zinnia,” she said with a wink. “But I’m really, bone-deep happy. You know?”
No. I didn’t know. Nothing I’d ever done in life had given me that feeling. I’d been chasing it since forever. And the harder I ran, the farther away it seemed to get.
“Is this where you thought you’d be at thirty-eight?” I asked her.
“God no,” she snorted. “I was going to be a Broadway choreographer. Or a record label something or other. Oh! Or—”
“An MTV reality TV star!” We said it together, remembering our teenage obsession.
“What about you, Marley?” she asked. “How’s life these days? And by how’s life, I mean what does Jake look like naked?”
I choked on the salsa and washed it down with margarita.
“Life is good,” I said lightly. “And what makes you think I’ve seen him naked? We’re faking the relationship, remember?”
“Girl, you go from ‘woe-is-me’ wounded woman to strutting, smiling badass. You may be faking the relationship, but you’re not faking the orgasms.”
“I didn’t intend to sleep with him.”
“But?” Vicky rested her chin in her hands and sucked on the margarita straw.
“But have you seen him? He’s a sweaty sex god! And worse, he’s nice. He’s still got a little bit of that bad boy rebel going. But deep down, he’s this present-buying, dog-loving guy who just wants the best for everybody.”
“Oh, boy. You’ve got it bad.”
“I can’t help it. The man’s pheromones should be considered narcotics.”
“Then I’ve got to ask. Why, when you have Jake Weston’s presumably spectacular penis inside you and a job you’re starting to enjoy, would you just pack up and leave?”
I stumbled over the question and stuffed a chip in my mouth to buy myself some time. “Things with Jake and me are just temporary. He’s trying the whole relationship thing out to see if it’s something he’s really ready for. And I’m killing time before I can regroup and move on to something…bigger.” What was it with everyone questioning my decisions? I wasn’t about to stop chasing down the dreams I’d always had just because I got a little derailed.
“Bigger than Jake’s penis?” Vicky clarified.
“Bigger than Culpepper. I wouldn’t be happy here. Not long-term.” I hadn’t been happy here growing up. Why would I be happy here now? “By the way, Jake looks even better without clothes than he does in them.” I threw my naked fake boyfriend up as a distraction.
“Damn it! I knew it! Where does he fall on the orgasm Richter scale?”
“What’s the upper limit again?” I asked slyly.
“Oh, I hate you.”
“He’s really great,” I told her seriously. “He’s going to make some woman very, very lucky someday.”
“It sounds like you’ve forgiven him for his senior year transgressions,” she mused.
“Should we really hold anyone responsible for the hurt they dole out at eighteen? I mean, maybe I misread the signs?”
“He dragged you under the bleachers, kissed the crap out of
you, and then told you you were with the wrong guy. And then he asked you to Homecoming and—”
“I am well aware of what happened,” I interrupted her. Some humiliations were better left locked in the dark, hidden away for all eternity.
“I’m just pointing out that we all made mistakes, and we all survived them. And just because you’re bearing some adolescent scars doesn’t mean that you have to avoid Culpepper forever. I’ve missed you.”
I sighed. “I’ve missed you, too, V.”
“So, let’s make a pact that no matter where you end up, we do this margarita thing at least once a year.”
“It’s a deal. So, how’s old, married sex with Rich?”
56
Marley
800 years ago. The Fall Out.
I broke up with Travis the night Jake kissed me.
Unceremoniously.
Two weeks before Homecoming. The dress my mom and I got for the dance hung from my closet door taunting me.
I didn’t know what Amie Jo had seen, but I wasn’t about to give her the pleasure of destroying my relationship. No, I had to do it myself.
It was hard. Travis was hurt, even though I’d left out the part about kissing another guy. There was no need to dent his self-esteem that way. I felt like a bad person. But the relief I felt at not being tied down to a guy I didn’t love was swift. Despite the guilt, despite the instantaneous plummet out of the in-crowd back into the teeming mass of obscurity, I knew I’d made the right decision.
The cheerleaders and field hockey players no longer had to pretend to be nice to me. I even found something oddly comforting about Amie Jo’s snide comments between classes.
Things were back to normal.
Until I found THE NOTE.
Marley,
You and me. Homecoming. Don’t tell anyone. We need to play it cool since you just broke up with Travis. See you at the dance.
