Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,58

he said. “Sell me on a song. What’s going to be the soundtrack for your first header?”

I thought for a second. “‘Gimme Shelter,’” I said, naming a Rolling Stones song I liked.

“Okay, but if I’m going to tell Rachel to put it on, you have to convince me. I’m missing WKRP for this.”

He had an eager look in his eye, and I’m not going to lie, it excited me. Was this what people meant when they said someone was a good listener? “That opening part. It makes me, like, imagine I’m high up someplace, looking down on my life, and suddenly I’m some kind of god who can command everything and wipe all the dumb shit away.” I’d never thought that hard about the song before, but as I explained myself, it felt accurate and true. More important, I realized I didn’t care if Joe thought I sounded stupid.

He studied me then, and I wondered if I was wrong and I should have worried about sounding stupid.

What he said, though, was, “What dumb shit are you trying to wipe away?”

I couldn’t say Coach McMann, and how I’d joined the team for him and how I still had dirty daydreams about him and wanted him to like me best. I didn’t want to talk about Candace having a boyfriend, and how it had only added to her acting like she was a relationship expert and I was a dunce. I could have said something about the divorce and my dad’s wedding, and Polly and my mom being friends, but while I think I might have actually trusted Joe to understand, I couldn’t explain what I felt about it all because I didn’t know. I couldn’t even say that the song’s effect on me was a lot like when I orgasmed, temporarily lifting the discomfort of being in my body, being a girl, being seventeen. I definitely couldn’t say that.

“I dunno,” I said, my grin a camouflage for my confusion. “Like, maybe what’s the point of learning headers?”

Joe raised his eyebrows. “Well, okay then. Rachel! Cue up ‘Gimme Shelter.’ It’s on Let It Bleed.”

Rachel grabbed the soda bottles and went back inside with a smirk on her face, and Joe grabbed the ball and headed for the goal. I followed him, wondering if I should have told him what I’d meant by “dumb shit,” and wondering why he hadn’t pressed for details, either.

The opening strains of my song drifted out from the window.

I listened, satisfied as the music did drain away the stupid shit. Most of it. The tempo quickened, and out of nowhere, Joe tossed the ball at me. Without thinking, I jerked my head forward, giving the ball a meaty thwack and sending it right over his shoulder.

And somehow, improbably, into the goal.

Joe peeked down at the ball behind him, and then back at me as a wide grin took over his face. “Well, fuck, look at you, Pelé.”

I touched my forehead, which vibrated with a pleasant sting. When I smiled, it felt like something I hadn’t done in forever.

“Now do you get the point of headers? Ridiculous, and satisfying.” He chucked me on the shoulder. “By the way, I love this song. And I get what you meant.”

“Thanks,” I said, believing that he did.

“That was my lesson plan. You passed. Are you hungry?”

I realized I was starving. “I could eat.”

Sixteen

We decided on Jr’s, because a hot dog special and a milkshake were calling my name. After I ordered, Joe said to the cashier, “I’ve got hers, too.” He passed over a ten.

“I’ve got money,” I said.

“You need money for your Wisconsin trip,” he said. “Plus, you nailed a header. This is my way of telling you good job.”

I’d never had a boy pay for anything for me. “Um, thank you?” I said.

“No biggie.” He waved me off. He was definitely not trying to make a big deal out of taking me for a hot dog. This was how friends paid for hot dogs, and I was making it weird because Joe was a guy.

“How do you even make money?” I asked as we waited for our number to be called.

“Nosy, aren’t you?” Joe said, but grinned. “Sometimes the band gets paid to play a party, but mostly I make cash helping out my dad on weekends—he paints houses sometimes—or at St. Mark’s.”

“You’re not an altar boy, are you?” I said, not remotely able to picture it.

“Ha, no way,” he said. “But there are a couple of nice nuns who