by Score, Lucy
“I was changing out of my pool clothes,” I explained. “And then I destroyed their closet. And then I apologized to Travis for high school.”
“All of high school?” Jake asked, confused.
“No, just the parts that I messed up for him.”
“And I told Marley that there’s no hard feelings. It’s all good.” Travis slapped Jake on the shoulder. “So when are you bringing that piece-of-shit SUV in and trading it for an Escalade?”
“Pfft,” Jake snorted. “When you start offering fifty percent off for high school classmates. So, Mars. I hunted you down because Vicky says it’s time for your Spice Girls routine.”
I perked up. Vicky and I had spent part of junior high coordinating a spectacular dance routine to most of the Spice Girls’ catalog.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, there’s an ass I need to shake. Spoiler alert: It’s mine.”
62
Jake
A rhythmic sawing noise woke me, and I wondered who the fuck let the lumberjack in the house. I opened one bleary eye and immediately slammed it shut against the abrasive light of day.
I had a Hostetter Hangover. Something I’d avoided for the past four years since the “drunk in the whirlpool tub” incident.
My headache had a pulse. It was a living, breathing thing, and I wanted to kill it.
A desert. The motherfucking Sahara Desert. That’s what was inside my mouth. There were cacti growing on my tongue.
Someone else moaned, and I realized my body was contorted around Marley. I could tell by the smell of her shampoo, the shape of the ass pressed against my crotch. Wait. What was happening with my crotch? It felt like it was being hugged.
I cracked my other eye open and looked down.
“How the hell did I get in bicycle shorts?”
“Huh?” Marley groaned into a Harry Potter pillow.
I didn’t have a Harry Potter pillow. Or bike shorts.
The horror was just sinking in when there was a cheery knock at the door. And then I was making eye contact with Ned Cicero.
“Marl—holy shit,” he squeaked.
I tried to wrestle the bedspread up and over my body.
“Are those my bike shorts?” Ned asked.
“Dad?” Marley finally roused herself from the depths of her hangover to join me in this misery. “Jake?”
“Apparently we decided to crash here last night?” I guessed.
It was coming back to me in bits and pieces. Whiskey and beer. Jell-O shots. Boone’s Farm Pong. It was easier to just stumble next door than call for a ride.
“I’ll just leave you to it,” Ned said, his voice two octaves higher than usual.
It. He was going to leave us to it.
He slammed the door, and I could hear the pitter-patter of his size eights as he ran down the stairs to get as far away from this nightmare as possible.
“Marley.” I shook her.
“Let me die in peace,” she groaned.
“Your dad just walked in on us in bed together, and I’m wearing his bike shorts.”
She rolled toward me, wincing at the motion. “Why are you in his bike shorts?”
“How the hell should I know? Also, I might be new at this relationship thing, but even I know it’s bad form to be caught in your girlfriend’s bed in her parents’ house.”
“We’re thirty-eight years old, Jake,” she rasped, exploring her own cotton mouth.
“It doesn’t matter if we’re eighty. It’s disrespectful! And now I’ve got my junk all over his bike shorts. What kind of message does that send?”
She yanked the blanket off me and wrapped it around her head. “Can we discuss this next week when I’m not actively dying?”
The door opened again. But this time, instead of a bewildered Cicero, it was a short stranger in a blue bathrobe. “This isn’t the bathroom,” he observed, backing out of the room. His gaze lingered on my bike shorts.
“Across the hall,” Marley croaked.
“Yep. Cool. Sorry.” He shut the door.
“Who the fuck is making all that racket? If it’s one of my kids, I’m selling them to the gypsies when they come through town again.”
Marley and I stared wide-eyed at each other before peering over the side of the bed. Vicky had made a nest in clean laundry and had one of Marley’s bras wrapped around her head to block the light.
“Are your kids here?” Marley demanded.
“That depends,” Vicky said, pulling a pair of sweat pants over her shoulders. “Where is here?”
“My parents’ house.”
“Oh, good. Then they’re probably not here.”
“Shit.” I reached for my phone and realized I had no idea where it was. It was probably in my pants which were also missing.
“What’s wrong besides the obvious?” Marley asked.
“Homer. He needs breakfast and to be let out. What time is it?” I was the worst dog parent in the history of dog parents. I imagined my poor canine pal pinching his back legs together to keep from pissing all over the kitchen floor and staring mournfully at his empty food dish.
“Here,” Marley pressed her phone into my hand. “Call your uncles.”
I dialed and lay back down to stop the room from spinning.
Uncle Max answered with his trademark “Good morning!”
“Uncle Max,” I croaked.
“Well if it isn’t our little Frankie Valli.”
“It’s Jake,” I corrected him.
“You don’t remember a damn thing about last night, do you?” Max laughed.
“If you could be more specific, I’d appreciate it. I just woke up in my girlfriend’s bed in her dad’s bike shorts.”
Max’s laugh was loud and long. “Hang on. I can’t breathe. Wooo!”
“Uncle Max, I need you to go check on Homer for me—”
“You mean the furry beast who just conned me out of my last donut hole?”
“He’s with you?” I sat up in bed and immediately regretted it.
“You don’t remember calling last night and leaving a voicemail singing about how much you love your Homie? Marley sang back-up.”
“I do not.”
“Don’t worry, I forwarded it to Lewis and your mom. Also your cousin. You did an enthusiastic version of Frankie Valli’s ‘Sherry,’ and you creatively changed Sherry to Homie.”
That explained the sore balls and throat.
“I’m never going to that party again,” I groaned.
“Well, take your time apologizing to the Ciceros for being an inconsiderate drunkard. Homer is farting all over Lewis’s armchair.”
“Did you walk him?”
“To the park where he flirted with some Maltipoo one-quarter his size.”
“Feed him?”
“Do donuts count?”
“No, they do not.”
“Relax. He had his ration of kibble before his donut.”
“Thanks, Uncle Max.”
“Thank you for the entertainment. I’ll forward you the voicemail,” he promised.
I said goodbye and hung up.
“Homer okay?” Marley asked over Vicky’s snoring.
“He’s farting up my uncles’ house.”
“I guess I should go explain this tableau to my parents,” she yawned.
“Marley, I’m not exaggerating when I say I would marry you for a Gatorade right now.”
She snorted, unimpressed with my profession of love. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
I’d never done the walk of shame to the breakfast table in a woman’s parents’ house before. Then again, I’d never gotten caught in a girl’s room before.
Marley found sweats for me, so I didn’t have to make my appearance in Ned’s bike shorts. Unfortunately, her clothes weren’t much better. The sweatpants accentuated my junk in a creepy porn movie sort of way. The sweatshirt was so tight I worried I’d bust the seams if I coughed too hard.
“Good morning,” Jessica sa
id chipperly. She made a valiant effort to ignore the inappropriate bulge in my pants.
“Morning, Mom,” Marley whispered, her voice gravelly. “Sorry for the unannounced guests.”
“It’s no problem,” Jessica said, attention stolen by Vicky stumbling into the kitchen.
“Please tell me there’s grease and coffee,” Vicky begged. She was clutching a pillow over her head and ears.
“Mom, if I give you directions on how to make a hangover breakfast, do you think you could make it for us?” Marley asked, slumping into a chair at the table.
“Sure thing, sweetie.”
While Jessica flipped bacon and Marley made a second pot of coffee, Vicky and I divvied up ibuprofen.
“And this is the kitchen,” Ned said, waving the stranger from earlier into the room. “As you can see, we have a few extra guests this morning.”
The guy, now fully dressed in jeans and a sweater, offered a shy wave.
“Come on in, Vicente,” Jessica said, pointing him in the direction of the coffee.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Cicero, about your shorts.”
“Keep them,” he said. “And let’s never speak of this again.”
63
Marley
“Over my dead body!” Coach Vince loomed over Principal Eccles’ desk in his best impression of a sweaty vulture.
“I understand that you’re disappointed,” Principal Eccles said blandly.
I wondered if she kept pepper spray or a taser in her desk drawer in case students, staff, or parents got too aggressive. I hoped she at least had a bottle of booze in there somewhere.
“The Homecoming game is mine,” Vince shrieked like a wounded zombie. Spittle flew from his thin lips and dotted the desk.
Principal Eccles jerked her thumb toward the window. “You want to play in this? You think anyone is going to turn out for a parade in this?”
The remains of Hurricane Patricia were bathing Culpepper in a torrential downpour of biblical proportions. Now a tropical storm, Patricia had lumbered her lard ass up the East Coast, turning the Outer Banks and most of Virginia into a dumping ground of floodwaters. Pennsylvania was enjoying her wrath now.
The stadium field was under four inches of water, and we were ten minutes away from an early dismissal before all the local creeks barfed up storm water and closed roads. I was packed and ready to go spend an unexpected free afternoon naked at Jake’s.
At least, I had been before receiving the summons to the principal’s office.
“Then we’ll reschedule,” Vince said stubbornly.
“We have rescheduled. Homecoming will be next Friday.”
It was becoming clear why I was invited to a front row seat of Coach Vince’s rage. I swallowed hard.
“We have a home game Friday,” I said. Not just any home game. We were playing Culpepper’s rivals the New Holland Buglers. Buglers sounded friendly and peppy. Unfortunately, the New Holland Buglers were aggressive, eyeball-gouging Amazonians who could put the ball in the back of the net better than any other team in our league.
I remembered losing to them spectacularly my junior year. One girl hit me so hard going for the ball that I lay there staring up at the lights wondering if I should head toward them or not.
“Ms. Cicero, your game is now the Homecoming game,” Principal Eccles announced.
Shit. Shitty shitty shit shit. Homecoming games were meant to be won. No one wanted to get slaughtered on the field in front of the entire town and then go to a dance where your classmates made fun of you.
“This is bullshit, Eccles,” Vince raged. I wondered if I could talk him into the nurse’s office next door for a blood pressure check. I didn’t like his color. “I demand that you reschedule. We have a game that Saturday.”
“Your Saturday game is an hour away,” she pointed out, not particularly disturbed by the hulking primate throwing a hissy fit inches from her face. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I demand that you get out of my office so I can send everyone home before the buses float away.”
I stood up and followed Principal Eccles out of the office in a fog while Coach Vince snarled his disappointment behind me.
“Uh, Principal Eccles. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was kind of banned for life from Culpepper Homecomings,” I explained, jogging after her.
“That was just a rumor started by a disgruntled student. I checked,” she said, ducking outside to check the bus line.
“A rumor?” Amie Jo. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’d adhered to a punishment that hadn’t even been real.
Coach Vince elbowed his way past us. He kicked at a fire hydrant and then howled in pain.
There was a hard glint in her eye. “I’m going to admit that it gives me a small sliver of pleasure to take something away from that gigantic ass.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I said dryly.
“Just do me a favor and don’t screw it up,” Principal Eccles said.
I nodded and swallowed hard.
She paused. “Oh, by the way, thank you for volunteering to chaperone the dance.”
“I did what now?”
She gave me a knowing smile. “Ask Jake. He volunteered the two of you to chaperone the Homecoming dance.”
I had several more important questions for her, but the dismissal bell rang, and hundreds of excited students came flooding toward us. We’d made it past lunch. The school day counted and wouldn’t have to be made up. I’d initially felt the residual excitement of the students at an unexpected surprise afternoon off. But the damn New Holland Buglers had stolen that excitement from me.
It would take a miracle to beat them. And we had a week to figure out exactly what that miracle would look like. And a week to find a stupid Homecoming dress.
* * *
Coach Cicero: Okay, gang. Breaking news. Our home game Friday is the new Culpepper Homecoming.
Phoebe: Awesome!
Morgan E.: I’m wearing my tux to play!
Ruby: Wait a second. Friday? We’re playing the Bulging Buglers. They’ll murder us and paint their faces with our blood while everyone else is too depressed to go to the dance.
Angela: Crap.
Natalee: I think I’m coming down with something. *Cough cough cough*
Ashlynn: Guys, we’ve been winning this season. There’s no reason we can’t beat the Bugling Bastards.
Sophie S.: Are you drunk right now, Ashlynn? We’ve never beat New Holland. Not in the entire history of girls soccer in Culpepper.
Libby: First time for everything.
Coach Cicero: That’s the spirit.
Morgan W.: Coach is drunk.
Natalee: Coach and Ashlynn are drunk!
Coach Cicero: Excuse me. This is how people get fired, jerks. I AM NOT DRUNK. NOR AM I FURNISHING ALCOHOL TO MINORS.
Sophie P.: Who is Coach yelling at?
Libby: Big brother.
Ruby: Coach has a big brother?
Libby: No, whoever supervises this message board to make sure no one does anything inappropriate or illegal.
Sophie S.: We’re being watched??? *Deletes entire collection of duck lip selfies*
Phoebe: Why is it furnishing alcohol? Like here’s a Zima and an ottoman?
Coach Cicero: Oh my God. Are Zimas still a thing?
Coach Cicero: NEVER MIND! I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT ALCOHOL TO A BUNCH OF MINORS! STOP TRYING TO GET ME FIRED!
* * *
“Ladies,” Jake clapped his hands and shouted over the din of thirty-some girls, ages fourteen to eighteen, crammed into his living room. Girls were stacked on the couch, sharing the arm chairs, sprawled out on the floor. There were a handful of parent chaperones, mostly hanging out in the kitchen with bottles of wine and frozen eggroll appetizers. After hearing my predicament—impending public humiliation—Jake insisted on getting involved.
Also, he had the biggest TV of anyone I knew.
I climbed up on the coffee table and blew my fancy whistle. “Yo, Barn Owls.” That shut them up.<
br />
Vicky started distributing the pizza my very generous boyfriend had ordered for my bottomless pit of a team. Her two-year-old, Tyler, was on a leash that she kept double wrapped around her wrist.
“Since our practice field is a mud pit from the rain, we’re here to watch tapes of the Buglers games so we can anticipate their moves on the field,” I announced.
“Can’t we watch The Great British Bake Off instead?” Morgan E. asked.
“No GBBO! We are watching game tape and making thoughtful observations that will help us win Friday,” I said.
“Maybe we should set our expectations a little lower,” Natalee suggested. Tyler lunged for her pizza, and she held it aloft out of his reach while Vicky reeled him in like a fish.
“Yeah, like instead of winning, we should focus on not humiliating ourselves,” Angela grumbled.
“Shut up and eat your pizza,” I snapped.
“Coach Cicero, if I may,” Jake said.
I stepped off my coffee table pulpit. “By all means.”
“Ladies, what’s the point in aiming low with your expectations? You know what low expectations get you in real life?”
They stared at him enthralled.
“Low expectations get you lousy boyfriends—or girlfriends,” he said nodding at Morgan E. She pressed her palms together and gave him a little bow of thanks. “Low expectations get you crappy jobs that never pay you what you’re worth. They get you friends and co-workers who walk all over you. Is that what you want?”
