Rock Bottom Girl

by Score, Lucy

  They were shaking their heads, pizza forgotten in their laps. Jake Weston, gorgeous hunk of man, was talking.

  “There’s no point in aiming low. You think you’re protecting yourself from disappointment, but what you’re really doing is setting yourself up to never have the best.”

  I sat down next to Rachel on the floor and listened raptly.

  “He should totally be like a life coach,” Rachel whispered.

  “Totally,” I agreed.

  “What if we don’t win?” Ruby asked, still not sold.

  “What if you do everything in your power to win and you still lose?” Jake asked. “What if you try and fail?” He scanned the crowd that filled the room to capacity. “What if you put it all out there and have nothing to regret because you did your very best?”

  I had goosebumps. The man was wasted on teaching history. He should be inspiring high school-age girls everywhere. And thirty-eight-year-old temporary soccer coaches, too.

  “We already practice all the time,” one of the JV girls said from the corner by the fireplace.

  “Practice is one thing. You’re preparing for battle!”

  The girls eyed each other. A few looked skeptical, but the vast majority were ready to stare down the enemy.

  “Okay. How do we prepare for battle?” Ashlynn asked.

  64

  Marley

  We ran like we’d never run before. Drilled like we’d never drilled. Whined like we’d never whined before. The Barn Owls were a machine of determination. Every day, as soon as the last school bell rang, we gathered together and did whatever the hell we could that might help us win.

  Saturday, we watched game tape.

  Jake lent us a couple of his top distance runners and sprinters, and my team spent Sunday huffing and puffing their way through running drills and breathing exercises. Ruby nearly tore a hamstring chasing after the cute Ricky. I noticed him slow down a little bit, allowing her to catch up to him.

  Monday, Floyd got into the spirit and dressed up like a New Holland Bugler, and the girls spent two hours working on footwork drills around him.

  Tuesday, we refreshed our plays for restarting play. It was go big or go home, so we let our creativity run wild with corner kick plays and a few fancy throw-in maneuvers. Rachel surprised us all with a front flip throw-in that lofted the ball across the goal. Since Lisabeth was no longer a part of the team, I’d bumped the small sophomore up to varsity, and she was thriving with Libby and Ruby on offense.

  I assigned each girl a player on the Buglers to shadow. I meant for them to memorize their moves on the field. However, by Wednesday, my girls were turning in dossiers on the Bugler players and their boyfriends, grades, and after-school jobs.

  I shuddered to think how much personal information was available online.

  Thursday, I gave everyone the day off with strict instructions not to do anything that could get them hurt or grounded. I remembered my coaches running us into the ground the day before big games. We stepped onto the field already tired.

  “You’re gripping the wheel like you’re going to strangle it,” Libby observed over my shoulder.

  Jake and I were heading out to an early dinner, and Libby had bummed a ride home after school.

  “I am not,” I said, loosening my grip and feeling the blood slowly trickle back into my digits.

  “You guys are going to do great tomorrow,” Jake said. “I haven’t seen a girls soccer team this in sync ever.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked, desperate for reassurance. I had a lot to prove tomorrow. I would do anything in my power not to ruin a second Culpepper Homecoming.

  Libby patted my shoulder. “We won’t let you down, Coach.”

  “I’m more worried about letting you guys down,” I confessed. I was the head coach, for Pete’s sake. Shouldn’t I know what I was doing? Shouldn’t I be leading my team with confidence? Instead, I was going to have to stash a barf bucket behind the bench so I could puke up my nerves.

  “Everyone has to learn how to win and lose,” Libby said philosophically.

  “I’d really like to learn how to win.”

  Libby and Jake snickered.

  “So, Libs, how’s Culpepper working out for you so far?” Jake asked, changing the subject.

  She gave a teenagery shrug. “It’s not awful.”

  “She means she adores it here and thinks I’m the role model she’s been looking for her entire life,” I interpreted for Jake.

  “Naturally, that’s what I assumed.”

  “How are things at home?” I asked her. I’d yet to meet Libby’s foster mom. We’d spoken on the phone and over text. But she was an RN working double shifts. I had the feeling there wasn’t a lot of adult supervision in Libby’s house.

  “Fine,” she said.

  I turned onto her road, not buying the fib. I had been a fibbing teenager myself…twenty years ago. I almost swerved off the road doing the math.

  “Why don’t you come out to dinner with us?” Jake suggested as I pulled into her driveway.

  Was there anything more attractive in this world than a good man? With tattoos. Who looked sinful in sweatpants. And had a doofy dog. And could bring me to orgasm with the bat of his manly eyelashes.

  All the lights in Libby’s house were on, and there were two kids with their faces smushed up against the big window overlooking the front yard. They waved excitedly at us. The driveway was empty, but the front door was cracked open.

  Libby sighed. “Can’t. It’s my night to babysit the littles.”

  “We could bring dinner back,” Jake offered.

  She opened the back door and dragged her backpack out. “Thanks, but I got it covered. Hot dogs and mac and cheese. Yay.”

  Jake pointed at her. “The dinner of champions.”

  She waved, and I waited until she got inside and secured the front door before putting my car in reverse.

  “She’s a great kid,” he observed.

  “Yeah. I wish she could get a little more attention,” I sighed, backing down the driveway. “I think she spends too much time either alone or being responsible for a bunch of kids.”

  “What you’re doing for her is a good thing,” he said, putting his hand on my leg. “I remember what it was like to be an unsupervised teenager. My uncles were the best thing that could have happened to me then.”

  “Do you want to have kids?” I asked. I don’t know what made me blurt it out.

  He choked on his own spit and hacked and coughed from the passenger seat.

  I shoved my water bottle at him. “You okay?”

  He guzzled it down and took his time recovering.

  “Was that too personal?” I asked.

  “Not when we’re dating. You just…took me by surprise,” he admitted.

  “You’ve never thought about it?”

  Jake scraped a hand over his jaw. “Not really. I don’t not like kids. But I also never pictured myself to be building a dollhouse at 2 a.m. on Christmas morning only to drag my ass out of bed two hours later when someone wants to see if freakin’ Santa Claus came. No, kid! There is no Santa! It was all me, and I want some credit!”

  I laughed and envied the maleness of his answer. A thirty-eight-year-old man could afford to have never considered starting a family up to this point. A thirty-eight-year-old woman had to have the conversation much, much earlier.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “Eh. I like my nieces and nephew. But I’ve never felt that overwhelming urge to create a mini me. I’d like to save the next generation from the genetic torture that was high school and rock bottom self-confidence. Besides, my eggs have got to be scrambled by now. Too much Mountain Dew and sushi over the years. Not enough sleep.”

  I’d always been ambivalent about the idea of babies. I admired women who threw themselves into pregnancy and parenting. But I’d had no real biological urge to make my own human being.

  “That’s cool,” Jake said.

  His ac
ceptance released the tension that reflexively lodged in my shoulders. “You know what most people say when I tell them that?”

  “What?”

  “‘You’ll regret it,’ or ‘Being a mom is the most important thing I’ve done in my lifetime,’ or ‘Don’t worry. You’ll change your mind.’”

  He winced. “You know what people say about me not wanting to make a million babies?”

  “What?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  I sighed. “It must be nice to have a penis.”

  “Guilt-free biological choices,” Jake teased. “But seriously. Not everyone needs to have a baby. What’s right for someone else doesn’t make it right for you. You know that, right? You don’t have to feel guilty for not doing what everyone else is doing.”

  What’s right for someone else doesn’t make it right for you. It sounded true. It had that Oprah A-Ha Moment ring to it. But it was easier for Jake, I reminded myself. He hadn’t spent the years since high school failing. He didn’t have a perfect older sister who set the example for success. He didn’t have to think about whether or not he should start a family. He didn’t have an empty savings account and no place to live. Jake Weston was right where he belonged, doing what he was meant to be doing.

  “Okay, so tell me about a Christmas without kids,” I asked. “You’re not building dollhouses or moving elves on shelves. What are you doing?”

  “So here’s how I see it. We sleep late. Wake up naked. Christmas morning sex.” He shot me a naughty grin.

  We. “Of course. And after Christmas morning sex?”

  “Christmas morning coffee, brunch—you cook—and presents.”

  “No kids but still presents?”

  He looked horrified. “Of course there are presents. What kind of Grinch are you? Kids aren’t the only ones who deserve gifts. And I’ll have you know, I could give a master class on gift giving.”

  “Sex. Brunch. Presents. Got it.”

  “Then we’d head to your parents’ or to my uncles’ place for a big Christmas dinner. Lots of wine. More gifts. Maybe some games. Or maybe if our families get along, we host. We’ve got the room. You’re a hell of a cook, and I could probably be trained as a sous chef,” he mused.

  We meant me. Jake was talking about Christmas with me. Marley Jean Cicero, eternal screw-up.

  And for one shiny, holiday-scented second, I could see it. Homer in his elf hat. Jake pouring me a glass of wine. My parents laughing with his uncles. My throat felt a little tight, so I cleared it.

  “What if you end up with a woman who wants a family?” I asked suddenly. The need for reality, a reminder that all of this was temporary, rose fiercely.

  He was quiet for a long beat, and then he squeezed my knee. “I’m with you, Mars. So that’s not a problem.”

  65

  Marley

  Another lifetime ago. The Homecoming Incident.

  I spent every waking minute before Homecoming plotting my revenge. In general, I was an easy-going kinda gal. I had a high tolerance for stupidity. I was patient for my real life to begin after the torturous high school years.

  But Amie Jo had pushed me too far. I was done being a silent victim. And it was time for her to pay.

  I kept Vicky out of it. Not only did I want to save her from any collusion accusations, I also wanted full credit for this one.

  Homecoming was the obvious choice. Of course she was on the court. She was a shoo-in for Queen. Or at least, she would have been.

  Step One was already complete. Instead of the Homecoming 1998 banner hung from the back of Amie Jo’s borrowed convertible, I’d swapped it out with a cheery sign that said, “I gave hand jobs to half the boys soccer team.”

  The best part? She made it half a mile through the parade before someone took pity on her and ripped the sign from the car. The other best part? Amie Jo’s supposed BFF, Shonda, was also on the court and in the convertible behind her and never said a word.

  That was just an appetizer. The main course was arriving at any moment now.

  I was ready, standing on the sidelines at halftime. The photographer to Vicky’s school newspaper reporter. I wasn’t going to miss a second of this.

  And then it began.

  The marching band lined up on the far end of the field for their halftime show to present the Homecoming Court. There was a tension in the air that only I could feel. Things were about to go off the rails.

  The color guard marched forward, a rolled-up paper banner clutched in junior Gwen’s hands. I hadn’t even had to bribe her. Amie Jo called Gwen’s little sister “Fatty Too Ugly” in gym class last week. Gwen found her sister crying and doing endless sit-ups in her bedroom.

  I trained the school’s camera on them and held my breath. This was for all of us.

  “Are you getting this?” Vicky asked, chomping on her gum.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  At that moment, one of the drummers tapped off a jazzy three-count.

  Just as the music started, Gwen and her color guard compatriot unfurled the long paper banner.

  It was supposed to say, “Culpepper 1998 Homecoming.”

  Instead, it read, “Amie Jo hates Jesus.”

  I was going for the jugular. People in central Pennsylvania were not allowed to hate Jesus. It just wasn’t done. Amie Jo’s gynecologist father was a church deacon in the Culpepper Emmanuel Lutheran Church.

  The crowd went from cheering to gasping in horror as the band innocently advanced onto the field. They made it all the way to center field, giving everyone a good, long look at the message, before a vice principal jogged out and physically ran through the banner, tearing it in half.

  “Was that you?” Vicky asked out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Oh, yeah,” I smirked.

  “Genius,” she said proudly.

  I turned the camera to its video setting and waited for Part B to commence.

  “Well, that was an interesting start,” the announcer in the booth chuckled nervously. “Let’s get on with the good old-fashioned Homecoming fun. It’s my great pleasure to introduce you to Culpepper Junior/Senior High’s 1998 Homecoming Court.”

  I pressed record.

  I could hear the click and whirr of the tape the announcer slipped into the stereo and smiled. I hoped my timing was close.

  Stately, classical music crackled over the loudspeakers, and the announcer introduced the first couple. A blonde in a tweed blazer and pencil skirt and a tall, gangly guy in a suit. The next couple sauntered out after them. Another blonde. Another blazer. This one’s escort was a soccer player still in his uniform.

  I held my breath.

  “Our next court couple is Amie Jo Armburger and Travis Hostetter.”

  Travis? What the hell?

  Was she really that greedy that she had Travis for her escort and Jake for her Homecoming date?

  Amie Jo’s smile looked tense and faker than usual. Someone must have told her about the banner. Good.

  As she waved at the very quiet crowd, the music stopped and was replaced with voices.

  “I’m not pregnant, and you know it.”

  “But it’s what everyone else believes that counts,” she reminded me brightly. “As far as Culpepper is concerned, you’re a pregnant whore.”

  A gasp stirred up in the crowd.

  “Oh my God. You didn’t!” Vicky squealed.

  “Oh, I did.”

  The tape continued. “You’re nothing. You’ll never be anything. Just like the rest of these pathetic losers in this school.”

  Someone in the crowd started to boo, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the earful of the real Amie Jo from the loudspeaker.

  “Of course I cheated on Ricky with Phil,” tape Amie Jo confessed. She’d forgotten that the losers of Culpepper had ears, too. In less than a week, I’d been able to collect forty minutes of voice recordings of her being an ass. I had a hard time paring it down to just the highlights. Thankfully the AV club had been helpful with
the editing.

  “Ugh. I don’t know why Becky thinks she’s so pretty and popular. If it weren’t for me befriending her, she’d still be the fat, ugly loser she always was.”

  One of the blonde girls on the court turned scarlet. Amie Jo shook her head vehemently. “I never said that,” she lied.

  “Shonda is so into her stupid boyfriend, she thinks she can blow me off on a Saturday? We’ll see who blows who off when I tell everyone he gave her herpes!”

  “That garden gnome Mr. Fester? My daddy owns him.”

  “Get off the field,” someone yelled from the stands.

  Someone else started chanting, “Asshole.” It caught on quickly.

  But the tape continued. I grinned as my mix tape of Amie Jo’s greatest hits—gossiping about her best friends, discussing sexual encounters, and general bitchiness echoed through the stadium.

  Travis looked pale next to Amie Jo’s full fury.

  “You!” I couldn’t hear her over the crowd’s displeasure. She looked at me and pointed like a witch casting a spell.

  I gave her the sassiest shrug I could muster. The villain was finally unveiled.

  Looking back, it was probably the wrong move. I probably should have at least feigned innocence.

  But I didn’t. And then Amie Jo was charging at me, closing the distance between us as fast as her heels would let her.

  “Oh, shit,” Vicky whispered. “Don’t get suspended!”

  But it was too late for that. Amie Jo stormed up to me and slapped me across the face.

  It was a blur from there on out. I didn’t exactly remember tackling her to the ground. But that’s what Vicky swears I did. As we rolled on the grass, shouting insults and throwing elbows, I wasn’t worried about my punishment. I wanted to teach her a lesson. That there were consequences to treating people like garbage. Tonight, I was Amie Jo’s karma.

  Her nicely painted talons dug into my neck as she went for my jugular. I threw her off me and rolled to reclaim my dominance. We were a tangle of teeth and profanity and pure hatred. I was dimly aware of the crowd as it reacted to my spectacle.