steps toward his table. He looked me up and down and then looked back at his friends. “Or really more like Soccer Skipper.”
They all laughed like he was fucking Richard Pryor or something. I didn’t waste an ounce of energy to flip him off or think of a response. I knew what I wanted to say, and stumbling over a witty reply wasn’t going to get me there.
“Are you here for another show?” Ken said. “Because there’s a strict No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service policy. But we can arrange something for another time.” He patted his upper thighs.
The entire team laughed again. I wanted to leave. I couldn’t breathe.
Now Ken turned in his chair and looked up at me, like I was lost. “Can’t you talk? Are you here by mistake? This is a guys’ soccer team. And we’re not looking for cheerleaders.”
“Our cheerleaders would be better looking,” one of Ken’s buddies said.
“She’s not bad,” Ken countered, and stared at my butt in a way that made me uncomfortable.
Stay focused, Susan, I reminded myself, clenching my fists at my sides. I wanted to do something cool, like put my hands on the table and loom over Ken threateningly. But with the way he kept staring at me like I was a five-foot-three Wojo’s milkshake, I crossed my hands over my chest instead.
“I know why you didn’t play us,” I said, my voice shaking. “You were too scared.”
“Yeah, right,” a guy in a baseball cap by the window said.
“We just didn’t want to hurt you,” Ken said, almost sweetly, as he put his chin in his hand and batted his eyelashes at me. Every bone in my body wanted me to knock him down and punch him for as hard and as long as I could.
I took a step back toward him and pointed my finger in his face so fast, he flinched. Just a little, but he knew he’d done it. “Nope. You were scared,” I said. “Just like you were scared Joe was better than you, so you took him out instead of trying to earn your position fair and square.”
Baseball hat guy said, “What’s she talking about, Ken?”
“He won’t tell you,” I said, as Ken squirmed. “He’s a cowardly turd . . . no, less than that. He’s a shit stain, just like the ones in his underwear.”
Now Ken pushed up from his chair so he was standing over me. “Fuck this,” he said, the smell of his onion breath curling sourly in my nose. “I don’t care if we hurt you. You want a game? You’re fucking on.”
I smiled my best Polly smile. “Great,” I said chipperly. I handed him a slip of paper I’d written out in advance with a date and time on it. “Your field again. And you’d better show up to play. Wear clean underwear this time, in case you need to go to the hospital.” I turned and walked to the door, praying they couldn’t see how wobbly my legs were.
“We’ll be there,” Ken said to my back.
I flipped him off over my shoulder without looking back.
I didn’t need to see his face. I’d wait to enjoy his expression when we beat him.
Thirty-Three
On Thursday, while she was styling her hair, I put a note in mom’s briefcase wishing her luck on her interview. Then I put on my soccer jersey. It was still as sweat-stain yellow and hideous as the day I’d gotten it, but today it felt like armor. It said, “Keep away from me, because I don’t care what you think.”
Tina came to give me a ride and, when she saw me in my jersey, said, “I thought you were done with soccer.”
“I’m done with Bobby,” I told her. Then I grinned. “But I got us a rematch against St. Mark’s.”
Tina landed a heavy foot on the brakes, stopping way before the intersection. “Are you crazy?”
“What have we got to lose?” I asked her.
“Teeth,” she said. “After the St. Skid-Marks thing, they’re going to want to kill us.”
“Yeah, they definitely do,” I said. “But we can’t let them scare us. The team needs this.”
“And I’m the first one you told?” Tina looked like she would throw me out of the car if this wasn’t the case.
“Yes.”
“Okay then,” she said with a little smile. She pulled away from the curb and continued to school. “You’re getting awfully bold, Suzie Q.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So spill—did you talk to your mom?”
Tina nodded, never taking her eyes off the road. “I started to.