Freshman Year Page 9

  “Really?” She seems so into girls, at least she seems pretty into the supergorgeous, tall black girl she’s dating. I can’t picture her liking a guy. “Why’d you stop?”

  She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and shrugs. “You know, it just happens. There I was, liking boys, and then bam! I fell for a girl. It’s not that uncommon. I mean, you’ve heard of being bi, right?”

  I roll my eyes again and try to act casual. “Yeah. Duh.” I want to ask more about that, but then I worry she’ll think I’m too curious. “Anyway, so how does it feel when you like someone? You know, a boy. Like, how do you know it’s more than just a friendly thing?”

  “Oh my God, Abbey, you’re so…”

  “Stupid?”

  “I was going to say cute.” Then she leans back on her elbows to get comfortable. I try not to glance at her cleavage, but she’s made it impossible with the shirt she has on. No wonder she has a girlfriend. Who wouldn’t want her? “Okay. Let’s see…first of all,” she says, after gathering her thoughts on the matter, “when you’re around someone, I mean a boy”—she looks at me and winks—“that you really like, you spend most of your time trying to think of something clever to say, but instead you say things that make absolutely no sense.”

  This sounds familiar to me.

  “And when you’re around him, it’s, like, not enough. It’s like, you want him even closer and you sit around conjuring up ways that might make him touch you. I used to steal my girlfriend Tai’s shoes and force her to chase me around the locker room and tackle me for them. You can borrow that one. It works like a charm.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say, thinking of Keeta chasing me down the rows of lockers. It does sound like fun.

  Garrett continues, “But if you really, really like someone, you—Hey, there’s Stef.” Garrett calls and waves Stef over to sit with us. “Abbey needs love advice,” Garrett says over the bouncing basketballs, but the entire freshman team still looks over and stares at me.

  “Thanks for that, G.”

  She pats my leg and laughs. “You’re welcome.”

  I smile as Stef approaches and we exchange holas.

  “Love advice? Jesus, you need to fix me first,” Stef says, as she sits down next to Garrett and sighs.

  “What happened?” Garrett asks. “Are you guys cool?”

  I don’t know if Stef wants me to be involved in the conversation, so I pretend to read my bio book.

  “I dunno, G. Half the time I feel paranoid that she’s cheating on me, and the other half of the time she is cheating on me. She’s so messed up.”

  “Did you find out who that girl was?” Garrett asks.

  “No, Nikki just said that some chick came by Hot Dog on Saturday, asked if Keeta was there, but didn’t leave her name or anything. Keeta said she has no idea who it was and I’m crazy.”

  I look up after I hear that last part, and for some horrible reason, Garrett glances over at me and our eyes meet. My face burns with shame and I bury my head in my bio book again.

  “Sounds like a supersized serving of lies, girl,” Garrett says to Stef.

  “I know, but it’s not just that, G. It’s everything. My mom is threatening to kick me out again and Keeta’s not allowed over. I have to sneak out to see her. Chale, odio esto.”

  “Qué gacho, Stef,” Garrett says.

  “Yeah, it sucks big time. Why does everything have to be so hard with her?”

  “Well, do you love her?”

  Stef pulls at her shoelaces and I hold my breath. “I guess I do, but I just don’t know if she is worth all this crap I’m going through.”

  “That’s something I guess you’ll have to figure out.”

  Garrett is good at love advice. But I have a feeling she’s good at everything.

  “I doubt she even cares about me anymore, let alone loves me.”

  “I don’t know. I think she does, Stef. At least when she’s with you she cares. That’s how Keeta is. You know she’s just as desperate for love as the rest of us. Except maybe she’s so afraid of not having it, she gathers it from lots of places so she’ll never run out.”

  Stef laughs. “Yeah. When she’s with me it’s fine, but what about all the other hours of the day?”

  “That is a lot of leftover hours, girl.”

  Stef nods, leans toward me, and says, “You can stop pretending you’re not listening, Abbey. It’s cool.”

  I come out from behind my book. “Sorry.”

  “No worries. How’s your foot?” She takes a closer look and makes a sad face. “Keeta told me it was pretty bad. She wasn’t kidding.”

  “Yeah. I mean, no she wasn’t, I guess.”

  Then Stef elbows Garrett. “Hey, did you know our little newbie here has an upcoming date?”

  “Oh my God. How did you find out?” I whisper, feeling embarrassed for some reason.

  “What?” Garrett yells and slaps my good arm.

  “You mean you haven’t heard?” Stef says. “Well, let me tell you—”

  “Seriously, who told you?” I interrupt.

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters,” she says to Garrett, “is Little Miss Freshmeat is going to the Death Becomes Her concert at Club Congress with Jake Simpson.”

  “Ah ha,” Garrett says. “So that’s what all the questions were about? You have a little crushy-poo on Jakey-poo? God, what a relief. I thought for a second there you were going to declare your love for me.”

  “Dude, Abbey does not swing that way,” Stef says. “I mean look at her.”

  Garrett smiles and shrugs. “You would know, I guess. Though I do have a way of making the ladies beg for my love.”

  I look at myself and wonder how Stef can be so sure about me.

  “Don’t be offended, Abbey. All I mean it’s clear you like boys. You’re going out with Jake, right?” Stef says. “I think it’s great. At least he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who will cheat on you like some people we know. Which reminds me—are there any other girls in your little guitar class?”

  “No,” I say truthfully, “it’s just me and a bunch of lame-ass boys and, uh, Jake. Why?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out who that girl was that stopped by Keeta’s work this weekend.”

  I swallow loudly. “Well, we don’t talk a lot in class so I don’t know anything.” Sure, we stare a lot, but not many words had been exchanged until this morning.

  “No,” Stef says, “she wouldn’t bother talking to you. She apparently only talks to girls she can get into bed.”

  I’m too shocked to respond.

  “Oh, come on,” Garrett says and slaps the back of Stef’s head. “She’s not that bad.”

  “I call it like I see it, G.”

  They’re making me crazy with all their lesbian sex talk, and I’m feeling so confused about what’s going on in my screwed-up head. I guess that’s why I get defensive. “Well, it’s like I said, we hardly ever talk.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Stef says. “No worries, ’kay?”

  While Garrett and Stef laugh at the freshmen shooting layups, I do the opposite of what Stef tells me to do. I worry.

  I worry that Stef will find out it was me that went to go see Keeta. I worry that Garrett knows, just by looking in my eyes for that split second, that I have something to hide. And I worry that Stef and the whole entire school might see what I hope to keep secret forever: I can’t keep my mind off Keeta. I know I’m headed for trouble, and the worst part of all is that all the worrying in the world isn’t going to help me.

  Chapter Ten

  “Again!” Coach Riley screams at Garrett, who is our team’s point guard. “I’ve got no plans tonight, ladies, so we’ll be here until we get it right,” he says, as Garrett slaps the ball to send the play in motion, as if we ever suspected he had a life beyond the walls of this gym.

  Today Coach Riley is teaching us a new offense he calls Desert Storm, which involves a lot of screening, running the baseline, and fake outs. It’s completely confu
sing to my teammates on the court, but I have a bird’s eye view in the bleachers, as I sit on my butt taking notes because of my sprained ankle, so it seems easy enough to me.

  “No!” Coach screams when Tori goes the wrong way again. “Baseline!”

  While they run suicide lines, I doodle in my notebook and think about my day. In guitar class I did my best to avoid eye contact with Keeta because I’m trying not to be a whore who flirts with her friend’s girlfriend. Jake helped distract me by singing his new lyrics to “Let It Be,” which went something like, “When I find myself coming out of the bathroom, Abbey Brooks walks right into me. Seeking some direction, after I pee.” And then he played “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but changed the words to, “Abbey had a little booboo, her knee was as gross as road kill.” He’s pretty funny, I guess.

  Then we finalized our plans for Friday. “So, my bro is driving because I can’t drive yet,” Jake said toward the end of class. “But he’s cool. Can we pick you up at six? That way we can get some grub before the show.” Keeta walked by as Jake was laying out the night’s plans, and I got weirdly quiet, which then made Jake say, “I mean, if you’re still into going.”

  “Oh yeah, for sure,” I said to reassure him, though I haven’t even asked my mom if I can go. I’m hoping, like the playing basketball thing, I can just dump the idea on her as I race out the door Friday morning.

  After guitar, I took the painful journey to PE on my crutches of doom and sat in Mrs. Schwartz’s office filing emergency contact cards. I was just about to consider suicide by paper cut, but then I noticed the name on the card in front of me: Moreno, Reyna (Keeta). I considered stealing the card but then realized that could result in Keeta’s death if they didn’t know she was allergic to penicillin. So instead, I got all Mission Impossible and stealthily rolled my wheeled office chair to the copier and made a duplicate of Keeta’s card. Now I know everything! (Insert evil laugh.) Including her address, her phone number, that she lives with her grandma (no parents listed), and that her birthday is on August 13, making her seventeen, not eighteen like I previously thought. That means we’re only three years apart, two really, once I turn fifteen in November.

  “Brooks!” Coach Riley yells, bringing me back to the present.

  I jump in my seat and slam my notebook shut. God help me if anyone ever saw that I had written “Abbey Moreno” in the margins. “Yes, Coach?”

  “Can you tell Ms. Woodside where she is supposed to go after the ball gets passed to Ms. Church?” The scary vein in his neck is pulsating.

  “Uh,” I stammer and search through my notebook.

  Meanwhile, Ms. Woodside (aka Stef), is standing at the top of the three-point line with her hands on her hips. “I know where to go, Coach. You don’t have to ask Abbey. She’s not even playing.”

  Uh oh. Coach’s face turns insta-purple, as he marches over to Stef. Then he swings his finger in her face like a tiny baseball bat. “Are you talking back to me, Woodside?” he screams down at her, showering the top of her head with spit.

  Stef doesn’t even flinch. “Just stating the facts, sir.”

  My mouth is not the only one that’s dropped open, and I know my teammates are thinking the same thing I’m thinking: she’s insane.

  “On the bench, Woodside! Giuriato, you’re in.”

  Eva runs onto the court and Stef marches off. She passes the bench and heads toward the locker room.

  Like the rest of us, Riley can’t believe it. “Woodside, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Stef stops but keeps her back to him and the rest of the team.

  “If you walk out of this gym, don’t expect to be welcomed back in.”

  Without hesitating, Stef strips off the blue mesh practice jersey, tosses it on the floor, and leaves the gym.

  “Lines!” Coach yells at the rest of the girls.

  The team obeys, but I can tell by the way Garrett looks over at me that she wants me to do something. This isn’t the first time Coach Riley has kicked someone off the team during one of his practices, but he always lets them back after they apologize. Since Stef is our best outside shooter, I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow, but it’s not like her to act like this. I guess that’s why Garrett wants me to see if Stef is okay.

  I quickly get my stuff together and carefully approach Coach on my crutches. “Um, Coach Riley, I need to call my mom to make sure she’s still able to pick me up.”

  He waves me off and I go in search of Stef. After I enter the main locker room, I hear loud voices echoing through the empty rows. I hobble toward them but then stop and lean up against the wall outside the exclusive varsity locker room when I realize who it is. I know I shouldn’t listen, but I want so badly to know more about what it’s like to be them.

  “I don’t give a crap about Riley, Keeta,” Stef shouts. “Don’t you get it? My mom’s going to make me leave my own house.”

  “Stef, she’s not going to kick you out,” Keeta says, remaining calm. “She’s your mom. She’ll get over it.”

  “You don’t know that, Keeta. You don’t know what I have to put up with. Just because your grandma couldn’t care less about where you go and who you’re with, doesn’t mean it’s like that for the rest of us.”

  “What the hell, Stef.” Keeta gets irritated, but then quickly changes her tone again. “Look, I told you already. Move in with me.”

  Stef slams her locker shut. The wall I’m leaning against vibrates in my chest. “Why the hell would I do that? You’re nothing but a mentirosa, Keeta.”

  “That’s bs, Stef. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh really? Then who stopped by to see you at work the other day?”

  “I told you already. I don’t know.”

  “Whatever.”

  It’s quiet for a second, then Keeta says, “You’re the only one I want, Stef. Come on, you know it’s true.”

  My guilt quickly turns to jealousy, and I tell myself for the hundredth time this week that I’m an idiot for liking Keeta.

  Instead of falling into Keeta’s arms like I would, Stef laughs. “Keeta, don’t embarrass yourself. I read the letter you wrote her.” Then I hear the rustle of Stef getting into her backpack. “Here, you should have it back. It’s so damn beautifully written. Actually, better yet”—Stef rips it into what I assume are very small pieces—“she should never see it. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to put up with you and your lies.”

  “Why are you going through my stuff?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Keeta?” Stef yells.

  “Stef, hazme caso—” Keeta starts, but I don’t think Stef wants to listen to anything Keeta has to say anymore.

  “Keeta, just leave me alone.”

  “Stef, come on. Calmada,” Keeta tries again. “If you would just calm down and listen to me I can—”

  “Púdrete, Keeta! I mean it.” Then Stef starts to cry. “Go to hell.”

  “Dammit, Stef!” Hearing Keeta’s voice turn sharp and mean makes me want to run out to the gym. But with all my injuries, I’m incapable of moving faster than a wobbly-legged toddler. “God, you know what, Stef? Como quieras. Have it your way. I’m done with your drama,” Keeta yells, then swings open the door of the varsity locker room and leaves Stef with these final words: “I don’t need this crap, and I don’t need you.”

  I wish I had run earlier because now my only option is to hop over to a dark row of lockers and hope Keeta won’t notice me hunched in the corner, trying to will myself invisible.

  I almost look up when I hear an unlucky locker get punched, but I keep my head down until I’m sure Keeta is out of there.

  Without the two of them screaming at each other, the air is quiet and cool again like after a monsoon storm. But the silence is soon replaced with the sounds of Stef crying. I think about sneaking out, but I can’t just let her sit in there alone. She needs a friend, and even though I’m pretty sure I’m currently her worst option, the least I can do is try to help her. />
  I push the door open and see Stef sitting on the long wooden bench, gripping the edge so hard her knuckles are white. Her tears have decorated the cement floor below her with tiny wet polka dots.

  I whisper her name.

  “Go away, Abbey. I don’t want to talk.”

  “Okay,” I say and try to back out of the room on my crutches.

  “I just feel so stupid, you know? God, everyone warned me about her. They told me she was like this, but I just wouldn’t listen.”

  I take it she does want to talk, so I sit down on the bench next to her and lean my crutches against the wall.

  “You probably think I’m crazy.”

  “No, I don’t. I swear,” I say.

  “The thing is, Abbey, she always hurts me, but I can’t seem to get it through my thick skull.” She takes off her sweaty T-shirt, screams into it, and then throws it against the lockers. It lands in a damp heap on the floor. “I hate her and I love her and I can’t stand it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper and wish I could say something more useful, but I’m a little distracted by the fact that she’s now sitting here in her semi-see-through white sports bra. Her pale skin is bright red and blotchy like mine gets after working out.

  “God, Abbey, she doesn’t even know the half of it. My mom is making me go to therapy. She thinks I have mental problems because I like girls. She said if I don’t stop seeing Keeta, she’s sending me off to a boot camp in California for, like, delinquent kids. Can you believe that?”

  “No,” I say honestly and wonder what I’m getting myself into. It’s not that my mom is a gay basher or anything, but maybe she’ll feel differently when she finds out her only kid is gay or bi or whatever the heck I am.

  “What kills me is that letter. She compared some girl’s eyes to, and I quote, ‘two deep pools of blue sky, sprinkled with stars that sparkle even in the daylight.’ God, she’s never written me anything like that.”

  The floor is littered with torn-up binder paper, and I try to read more of the words on the scraps that lie at my feet. “Who was it to?” I say, totally not meaning to speak those words out loud.