Playing With the Boys (21 page)

“Of course I will,” Lucy finally answered. And then she headed toward her side of the court. If she’d thought she was screwed this weekend, it was nothing compared to how she felt right now. If Pickle wanted help with Ryan, what did that mean for her?

thirteen

Benji was still on Lucy’s mind as she distractedly flipped through the pages of
Madame Bovary
before English class started. She suddenly realized she had forgotten to finish her assignment. Martie usually assigned three chapters over the weekend, but since they were so close to the end of the book, this time Martie had assigned four in order to finish. Lucy hadn’t read the last chapter and knew she would be screwed if Martie called on her.

“Wanna know what happens?” Ryan asked, sliding into the desk next to her.

Lucy looked up at the sound of his voice and smiled. “I do,” she said wistfully, then quickly reminded herself he was just offering to synopsize the chapter, not asking her to be his lawfully wedded wife.

Ryan shrugged playfully. “Well, ya shoulda read the book then.” He laughed. Lucy gave him a look.

“Thanks for nothing then,” she said, mock hurt in her voice. She shut her book, giving up. People were coming in and taking their seats. She wasn’t going to get any reading done anyway. Charlie entered and headed toward the back of the class.

“Hey,” Lucy said quietly, more to Charlie’s back than to her front. Charlie didn’t give her so much as a smile.

This is not going well,
Lucy thought to herself. She looked down at
Madame Bovary
and sighed. She knew Charlie was upset about the party, about the other night with Regan. Benji was upset about her enlisting him to deal with Pickle and Max, then abandoning him. She hadn’t had time to make things right with Benji during weights or in gym class, and now, with Charlie across the room, she couldn’t talk to her before English started . . . but she could at least keep her promise to Pickle.

She turned to Ryan. “So that party was pretty fun, huh? On Friday?”

“I guess.” Ryan shrugged. “It’s kinda always the same old thing though, ya know? We’ve been throwing ’em since sophomore year.”

“So it must make it more fun when there are new people,” she offered. “You know, people you don’t know that well . . . but, you know, might want to get to know better.”

Ryan furrowed his eyebrows, unsure at what she was getting at. “Uh-huh,” he said slowly. She hurried to make her point.

“What . . . I guess what I mean is . . .” she stammered, “it’s nice to get to know new people . . . people who are excited to get to know you . . .”

He looked at her blankly. Up in front of the class, Martie pulled out the attendance roster. Lucy acted fast, before her window was gone.

“Like my friend Pickle,” she said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I know she was excited to get to know you—and I thought maybe you might be, you know . . . I don’t know . . . interested in her. Maybe.”

Ryan paused for a moment. It felt like an eternity. Finally, he spoke. “Is that the vegetable girl?” he asked, then quickly remembered “Wait—the puker?” Lucy’s heart sank on behalf of her friend. No girl would want the boy she had a major crush on to refer to her as “the puker.”

“Well, she does a lot more than puke,” Lucy quickly interjected. “She plays soccer and sings and—well, there’s lots of stuff you’d find out if you were interested in getting to know her.”

“Okay,” Ryan said, confused. “I’ll . . . um . . . keep that in mind.” Lucy stared at her own knuckles. Were they inflamed because she’d been popping them? She really had to break that habit. She wondered why she was suddenly thinking about her knuckles when this whole Pickle thing
really
wasn’t going well.

“Not that you have to get to know her,” Lucy said hurriedly. “I mean, just if you wanted to . . . I think she likes you. That’s all.” Okay, there. She’d said it. Somewhat clearly and coherently. Finally. She’d always known she was awful at public speaking, but now she made a mental note that maybe private speaking wasn’t her strong suit either.

Ryan leaned in close to her. His breath smelled minty, like toothpaste. It always did. God, he was probably the kind of guy who brushed twice a day
and
remembered to floss.

“I’m actually kind of interested in someone else,” Ryan responded simply. “Not that your friend’s not great, I’m sure.” He gave a small smile. “There’s just someone else I’m into. . . .”

“Okay,” Martie called out loudly from the front of the room. “So, let’s jump in. What role does fate play in Emma’s downfall? Does she have power over her own destiny?”

Lucy sat back in her chair, thinking of herself.
Did she have power over her own destiny? Was she fated to be with Ryan?
She knew she should have been feeling bad for Pickle, but Ryan’s words played over and over in her head.

I’m actually interested in someone else.

It was the way he said it. The way he leaned in close that made Lucy wonder if that “someone else” was
her.

 
“So? What happened?” Pickle asked, startling Lucy at her locker.

“What happened with what?” Lucy asked back innocently. Pickle grabbed her arm. Beside her, Max held out a Pixy Stick.

“Anyone want?” she offered, her mouth full of orange powder.

“Sure,” Lucy said, a little too enthusiastically. “I’ll take a purple.” Anything to keep from having to answer Pickle’s question.

“What happened with Ryan?” Pickle pressed adamantly. “Charlie said you were talking to him in English. Did you ask him? About liking me?”

Lucy fidgeted and focused on opening her Pixy Stick. “God, it’s just paper, but is this, like, impossible or what?” she asked Max.

Max gave her a funny look and grabbed it back. “You just rip the top off, genius,” she said dryly. “Here.” She ripped off the top and handed it back. Lucy tipped back the Pixy Stick and took a swig.

“So?” Pickle said, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Lucy gulped down the sugar and grabbed her backpack. “We were talking about
Madame Bovary
,” she partially lied. It was only a partial lie because technically they
had
been. It just wasn’t
all
they had spoken about.

“So you didn’t say anything about me?” Pickle asked.

“Well, we talked for, like, two seconds about the party,” Lucy offered. “And he remembered you were sick. . . .”

“Oh, great,” Pickle sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure I made a fantastic impression.” She let her head fall into her locker with a loud bang. “I’m such an idiot. Damn you, rum and Coke!”

“I think it was Diet,” Max corrected.

Lucy placed a comforting hand on her back. “No, no, I don’t think he thought that.” Pickle banged her head lightly again.

“Idiot, idiot,” she muttered.

“You’re going to get permanent brain damage,” Max warned, opening another Pixy Stick.

The bell rang. Pickle didn’t budge.

“Why did I drink?” she groaned. “Why?”

“Look,” Lucy said, trying to give her hope. “He said he was interested in someone. He just didn’t tell me who.” Lucy didn’t know if she was making this better or worse.

Pickle suddenly looked up. “Wait—he did?”

Lucy smiled. “Yeah. So, you know . . . who knows? Maybe it’s you!”

Pickle’s face brightened. “You think?”

Lucy shrugged. “I think anything’s possible.” But even as Lucy said the words, she knew she was talking more about herself than about Pickle. She was certain of only two things: Ryan wasn’t interested in Pickle, and Lucy wasn’t going to be the one to tell her that.

 
A whistle blew.

“This is for school pride,” barked Coach Offredi, who stood on the side of the field in the sweltering heat. It was already October but still as hot as August. In full pads, Lucy was boiling. The inside of her helmet was wet with sweat, and her hair felt, as usual, matted and gross.

The entire team stood at one end of the field. Someone’s dad stood watching from the bleachers. By the way he shouted—at one player in particular—Lucy quickly realized it was Benji’s father.

“You’ll go on my whistle,” Coach Offredi ordered the team. They were doing something called “pride sprints,” which were new to Lucy, and from the groans throughout the team when Coach Offredi suggested them, she guessed the drill wasn’t a popular one.

The whistle blew.

The team lurched out of the end zone and sprinted toward the twenty-yard line as fast as they could.As soon as they reached it, they ran back into the end zone. Lucy was in the middle of the pack.
That wasn’t that bad,
she thought to herself. But then they didn’t stop. She suddenly had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach that pride drills were similar to suicide sprints in soccer—but involved
way
more clothes and equipment.

With Kevin and the other running backs and receivers in the lead, they quickly turned and headed back out to the thirty-yard line. Lucy struggled to keep up, her feet slipping as she tried to make the turn. She put one hand down to catch herself. She’d never been the fastest runner, but she wasn’t used to being this slow. Her pads were really weighing her down!

“Let’s go, Lucy,” Coach bellowed. She was barely any faster than the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound offensive linemen.

“I’m trying!” Lucy yelled back defiantly. God! She was sick of this guy being on her back all the time. She’d never even done this before. Shouldn’t she get some credit for just keeping up? The team headed back to the end zone and then turned to head out to the forty.

Lucy’s chest was heaving. Wasn’t the perk of being a kicker that she didn’t have to run? She prayed that they’d be done when they reached the middle of the field . . . but no. The hell continued.

Now they had to sprint to the yard line on the opposite side—the forty and back (which was really the sixty), then the thirty and back (which was really the seventy)—all the way to the end zone on the other side, which was one hundred yards away. People were starting to slow down. Coach Offredi was yelling on the sidelines.

“This is for the pride of your school! This is for Beachwood! You wanna be on this team? You prove it, right here, right now! LET’S GO!”

“Aaaagh,”Tank yelled. Lucy could feel his pain. She felt as though her lungs were on the verge of exploding.

“Hustle up, Benji!” his father barked.

“Last time! All the way!” Coach called out. Now the team had to sprint the length of the whole field and back. “Last one back does a hundred yards more,” he threatened. Everyone picked up the pace. No one wanted to be last and be forced to repeat the longest distance.

Near the back of the pack and still thirty yards from the goal line, Lucy glanced around. A bunch of the guys were passing her in the opposite direction, already heading back toward the finish. She was still gunning for the opposite goalpost, neck and neck with Benji. Only Tank and another linebacker, DeRosa, were behind her. She tried to pump her arms and legs faster. There was no way she was doing this again. She couldn’t be last.

She hit the goal line and spun to turn back. Just one hundred more yards to go. She felt sick to her stomach. The heat was sweltering. She heard a loud scream and felt Tank give one last push, his elbows squeezing a space between her and Benji. Now DeRosa was the only one behind them. Lucy turned her head and realized DeRosa was nowhere to be found. Panicked, she looked up ahead. He was already at the forty, heading toward the thirty. He was ahead of Tank! Lucy couldn’t believe it.
Were these guys really beating her?
She put her head down, determined. She couldn’t lose.

In one last spurt of energy, she surged ahead, past Benji, who was struggling. Sweat poured off her body, but she hit the center of the field. Fifty more yards. Just fifty more yards. She hit the forty, then the thirty . . . and suddenly she realized, she was beating Benji. She was beating Benji! But then something else hit her. If she didn’t lose, Benji would. Benji would lose and she’d be responsible. Her legs slowed a little. Just a little. Just enough for Benji to pull up even with her.

Together, they crossed the twenty, then the ten. . . . She could hear cheering and panting.

“Let’s go, son!” Benji’s dad yelled.

Lucy wished her own dad could be here cheering her on. But even if he had been, she probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him. Her heart was beating so loudly—
ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom
—it drowned out everything else. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.