You First (10 page)

“HALT!” Coach barked. She jogged over to Gigi and said, “If you leave now, you can't play in Sunday's game. Team rules.”

Gigi knew right then and there that leaving was the only way to insure that Finn wouldn't follow. There was no way
she
would miss Sunday's game.

Gigi swallowed hard. “I . . . I'm good with that.”

Coach's eyes narrowed, like she was sizing Gigi up. “You sure about this?”

She wasn't, but she nodded anyway, her chin quivering slightly.

“Okay, then,” Coach said, with a firm nod. “I'll see you Monday.” After changing back into her school clothes, Gigi headed to the principal's office. Mrs. Meara, Principal Weir's ancient assistant, was clicking away at her computer. Gigi cleared her throat, but Mrs. Meara didn't look up.

“Um, excuse me,” Gigi said finally. “May I please use the phone to call my mom?”

Mrs. Meara didn't answer.

“Excuse me,” Gigi repeated loudly. “May I please use—”

“What's that?” Mrs. Meara barked at her, her eyes never leaving the computer screen. “You're mumbling.”

Gigi was pretty sure she wasn't, but she cleared her throat and tried again. “MAY I PLEASE USE THE—”

“Sure, you can use the phone,” Mrs. Meara said. “You don't have to yell about it.”

Gigi promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, doll, what's the matter?” Mrs. Meara asked, her demeanor instantly softening. “Here, let me get you a Kleenex.”

She handed Gigi a fistful of tissues. Gigi buried her face in the pink, scented puffs and sobbed, “I just need to go home. I just need to go
home
.”

“What's your last name, doll?”

“Prince.”

Mrs. Meara nodded, tapped at her keyboard, and dialed the phone. “Mrs. Prince,” she said. “Your daughter wants to speak to you. Hold on, please.” Mrs. Meara passed Gigi the phone.

“What's wrong?” Gigi's mother asked immediately, sounding alarmed.

“Nothing,” Gigi said, sniffing. “Can you come get me?”

“But it's Ms. Marian's day to carpool.”

“That's
why
I need you to come get me,” Gigi said, with fresh tears. “I can't deal with Finn. Please, Mama, please come get me.”

There was a pause. Then her mom said, “Okay. I'm on my way.”

Gigi sat on a bench in the office, alternately crying and sipping the Dixie cup of water Mrs. Meara foisted
on her after she'd gotten off the phone. Her mother arrived fifteen minutes later. She thanked Mrs. Meara for taking care of Gigi and then ushered her out to the car, rubbing her shoulder as they walked. This made Gigi cry even harder.

Gigi waited for her mother to ask her what was wrong, but she didn't, and Gigi didn't offer any answers.

Instead she said, “I can't play in Sunday's game now.”

“Oh?” her mother replied.

“Coach said I couldn't if I left practice. Team rules.”

Her mom nodded. “Makes sense.”

“I guess so.” Gigi rubbed at her red, raw eyes. “Daddy's going to be disappointed in me.”

“Why's that?”

“Because he was looking forward to seeing me play,” Gigi said. “He told me that.”

Her mother chuckled. “Daddy's looking forward to seeing
you
. There's a difference.”

“I can't wait to see him too,” Gigi said. “I really, really miss him, Mama.”

“I know,” she said. “I do too. But it's only a few more days, and then he'll be back. At least for a little while.”

Her mother pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, and turned to Gigi. “Look,” she said. “I know
things haven't been easy, what with your dad out of town and the stuff with Finn. But your dad
is
coming home, and Finn
is
still your best friend. Even if you're having a few bumps in the road, you can't erase the kind of history that the two of you share.”

Gigi nodded.

“But . . . ?” her mother prompted.

“But it doesn't feel that way,” Gigi said. “I mean, right this second? It just really hurts.”

They went into the house, and her mother put water on for tea. She didn't even have to ask Gigi if she wanted any; she just
knew
.

“Aren't you going to ask me why I had you pick me up?” Gigi asked, cradling her hot mug on the family room couch.

Her mom shrugged. “I figured you'd tell me when you were ready.”

Gigi recounted her earlier conversation with Kendall. Then she told her mom about what had happened on the track.

“Hrm,” her mom said.

“What?”

“I know I wasn't there,” she said. “But it sounds like Finn apologized to you. More than once, yes?”

Gigi could feel her face flush hotly. “I guess, sort of.”

“Not sort of,” her mom corrected her. “You literally just told me that she apologized to you several times. So why didn't you want to accept?”

Now it was Gigi's turn to shrug.

“Sounds like you might be the one who owes
her
an apology now,” her mother said. “But like I said, I wasn't there.”

Gigi glared at her mother. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You know,” she said. “Plant an idea in my head, but try to make it seem like it was my idea to begin with.”

“Me?”
her mother said, putting her hand over her heart. “Why, I would
never
do that to you, Gillian Gemma Prince.” But the warm smile on her face contradicted the words completely.

“If you'll excuse me,” Gigi said, “I have a phone call to make.”

“I mean it,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “I'm totes glad you called.”

It was Miranda, of course. Gigi had picked up the phone intending to call Finn, but in the end, she couldn't do it. In her head, she kept hearing all of the nasty things Kendall had reported to her in the lunch line today. Things Finn didn't exactly deny saying. Right now she felt like Finn was the
last
person she wanted to be speaking to.

Miranda, on the other hand . . . well, talking to Miranda was
fun
. And not only when they talked about whether an authentic fig marmalade or a trendier passion fruit gelée would make the best filling for their zeppole cupcake. The stories Miranda told her about her hippie dippy teachers and quirky fellow students at Fletcher Academy made Gigi laugh so hard her stomach cramped up. And Miranda couldn't stop giggling herself
when Gigi told her all about the French Club.

After a while, Gigi found herself sharing all kinds of things with Miranda—how she felt about her dad being away, what it was like to find out that Finley had been talking about her behind her back, and even her disappointment at not being able to play in Sunday's soccer opener.

“I can be a total disaster on the field,” Gigi confessed. “But I do try pretty hard. Most of the time.”

“You know, if you really want to play,” Miranda said, “you should tell your coach that. Maybe she'd make an exception.”

Gigi considered this. Did she really want to play? Badly enough to beg Coach for another chance?

Even though her mom said her dad didn't care one way or another, Gigi knew how much he'd always enjoyed going to her games. One time, when she and Finn were still in the intramural league, he told her that he wished his job was flexible enough that he could volunteer to be a coach.

Plus, Gigi had gotten marginally better at the game as a Sterling Songbird. Soccer might not be her thing, but she had to admit to herself that she got better at it the more she tried.

“Is that a totally crazy idea?” Miranda asked. “Petitioning the coach to let you play?”

“No,” Gigi said. “It's a really good idea. In fact, I might just do that.”

The next day, Gigi's mother once again drove her into school early. Gigi had told her that she needed to track Coach down before homeroom, to ask if there was any way she could play in Sunday's game. The truth was, she could have found Coach after school—the varsity team practiced on the field the days the JV team had off—but getting her mom to drive offered the added bonus of not taking the bus with Finn.

When she arrived at Sterling, insulated lunch bag clutched firmly in her hand, Gigi went straight to the front office. Mrs. Meara was behind the desk, wearing a loud, rainbow-striped sweater and munching loudly on some sort of granola bar. “How ya doing, doll?” she said through a mouthful of granola. “Feeling any better?”

“Yes, thanks,” Gigi said. “I'm looking for Coach Wedderburn. Do you know where she is before first bell?”

“She's usually in the weight room, but let me check,” Mrs. Meara said. She tapped at her keyboard
with her two pointer fingers, which were long and painted emerald green.
Probably for St. Patrick's Day,
Gigi thought. “Yep, she's in the weight room.”

Gigi hadn't known that Sterling Middle School even had a weight room. She asked Mrs. Meara where it was.

“It's that annex off the gym,” she said. “Not the closet. Or the other closet. The room in between. There should be a sign.”

Gigi thanked Mrs. Meara and set off in search of the weight room. It did not, as Mrs. Meara said, have a sign. But the two closets did, and she figured that the unmarked door between
GYM CLOSET
and
JANITOR CLOSET
led to the weight room. She knocked and waited.

“It's open!” Gigi heard Coach call out. She took a deep breath and entered the room slowly, not sure what she'd find on the other side of the door.

The space was bigger than she expected. Its floor was covered in dense foam tiles that fit together like puzzle pieces, and there were several machines with various levers and pulleys dotted throughout the room. It smelled like a less-strong version of their practice pinafores.

Coach was standing in front of a wall of mirrors, a ginormous spray bottle of glass cleaner in one hand
and a thick wad of newspaper in the other.

“Feeling better, Prince?” she asked, not bothering to turn around.

“Much,” Gigi said. She made eye contact with Coach in the mirror. “In fact, I wanted to ask you if there was any way I could still play in Sunday's game.”

“You
want to
ask me, or you
are
asking me?” Coach shot back, scrubbing the mirror down with the wadded-up paper.

“I am asking,” Gigi said. “My dad—he's been in Europe for weeks, but he's flying home on Saturday, and he's really been looking forward to seeing me play.”

“Huh.” Coach turned around to face Gigi. “You want me to let you play for your dad?”

“Yes,” Gigi said. “Well, and for me too.”

Coach surveyed Gigi intently. “Go on.”

“Look, I know I missed yesterday's practice,” Gigi said. “And I shouldn't have left. I was just having this really, really bad day and—”

“Stop right there,” Coach said. “‘Having a bad day' isn't a valid reason for skipping practice. We all have them. Doesn't give us the freedom to bail on our commitments, does it?”

“No.”

“I told you before you walked off the field that if you didn't practice, you couldn't play,” Coach said. “So you tell me. Why should I break that rule for you?”

Gigi shifted nervously from one foot to the other. She had a pretty good feeling that whatever answer she gave Coach shouldn't include the words “my dad.” Maybe asking her for a second chance wasn't such a good idea after all.

“Say what you're thinking,” Coach encouraged.

“I know I'm, like, the worst player on your team,” Gigi said finally. “And to be perfectly honest, sometimes I don't even
like
playing. It's just this thing I've done for years. But lately I've been trying out all of these new . . . I don't even know what you'd call them. Hobbies? Interests? And I haven't been so good at them either. At least with soccer, I can see that when I'm trying, I am actually okay, you know? And I think, maybe I can keep getting better. I want to keep trying.”

Coach nodded, as if Gigi had given her the correct answer. “Okay. Bring your gear tomorrow and plan to stay after school. You practice with my varsity team, and I'll let you play on Sunday.”

“Really?” Gigi said.

“Really,” Coach repeated. “But I need to see you
putting in real effort the entire time. Practice, the game itself . . . You check out even for thirty seconds, and I promise you I will bench your behind.”

“Thank you,” Gigi said, her voice barely above a whisper. She had the sudden urge to hug Coach Wedderburn but was fairly certain that Coach Wedderburn wasn't much of a hugger.

“Coach?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask why you're rubbing old newspaper over the mirrors?”

Coach laughed. “Rags leave streaks on the glass. This doesn't.” She pointed the newspaper ball towards the clock. “You better get on to homeroom. First bell's going to ring in a few minutes.”

Gigi practically skipped down the hall. She couldn't wait to call Miranda after school to let her know that her idea had worked. Well, after her private clarinet lesson, that is. She wondered if she'd get home early enough to try to Skype with her dad. Italy was six hours ahead of Delaware, which meant as long as she got in by five she should be able to catch him. But even if she couldn't, she was going to get to see him in two more days.

Everything, it seemed, was coming up Gigi.

“Ow!” Gigi cried. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“What?” Ms. Panettiere said. “What is it?”

It was after school, and Gigi was in the music room. After learning about the clarinet—its different parts, and the perfect mouth position and breath, she had finally played her very first note.

It had not gone as well as she had hoped.

“My lip!” Gigi said. “I think I broke it.”

“I doubt that,” the teacher said. “Here, let me see.”

Ms. P examined her lip, then reached for the clarinet. “I think it may be the reed.”

“What do you mean?” Gigi ran her finger over the lump that was starting to form on her bottom lip. “Something's stuck,” she said.

Ms. P said, “I believe you may have a splinter in your lip.”

“A splinter?”

She nodded. “From the reed.”

Of course there's a reed splinter in my bottom lip,
Gigi thought.
Of course.

Ms. P started to disassemble one of the clarinets. “Let me put these away and get you down to the nurse's office. I'm pretty sure Mrs. Fausnaugh stays until four.”

The nurse was locking her door, clearly ready to
leave for the day, when Gigi and Ms. P reached her office. By that time, Gigi's lip lump had grown to the size of a pea.

“We are so sorry to bother you,” Ms. Panettiere said, “but we have a bit of a splinter situation.” Then she mouthed, “It's in her lip,” tapping her own bottom lip for emphasis.

“This,” Mrs. Fausnaugh said, “I gotta see.”

After numbing her lip with ice and cleaning the area with some alcohol on a cotton pad, Mrs. Fausnaugh held a magnifying glass over the lump. “Looks like it's sticking out just a bit. I might be able to massage it out. Oh, man, I have never seen anything like this in my entire life.”

Gigi thought,
This cannot get any worse.

When Gigi's mother picked her up from school, she took one look at her face and said, “Dare I ask?”

“Lip splinter,” Gigi explained. “Translation: me and the clarinet get along about as well as me and knitting needles.”

“Oh, Gigi,” her mom said. “I know you want to be good at everything, but—”

“I'd settle for being good at
something
,” Gigi interrupted.

“Uh, you're good at a lot of somethings,” her mother said. “Cooking, baking, acting, party planning, wardrobe styling . . .”

“Those things don't count,” Gigi protested.

“Why not?”

“Because I love doing all of them.”

Her mother shook her head. “So let me get this straight. Being good at something only counts if you don't love the thing that you're good at?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“So what
did
you mean?”

“I don't know!” Gigi said. “It just seems like I'm really bad at all of this new stuff I've been trying out. Like maybe the only things I'll ever be good at are the things I'm
already
good at. Am I making any sense?”

Her mother didn't respond right away. Then she said, “I think you're being really hard on yourself. In the past two weeks, I've watched you not only step outside of your comfort zone, but move to a whole new area code. And no matter how you feel about all of these experiments, I want you to know that I am so incredibly proud of you, Gillian Gemma Prince. You are my amazerful daughter, and I would like you even if you weren't my kid.”

Those were some of the best compliments Gigi had
ever received, from her mother or anyone else. She reached over the emergency brake and hugged her mom tightly. Then she said, “Let's try to remember this moment the next time I do something wrong, okay?”

“Deal.”