Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,82

something.

After ten minutes, no one had scored, but not for lack of trying. Arlene and I plowed into each other going for the ball, and I said, “Sorry.” I couldn’t break the habit of saying it when I ran into someone or when they ran into me.

“Don’t be,” she said. “It was a clean hit.”

“I know, it’s a reflex,” I told her, then filched the ball and started kicking toward her goal.

“Hey!” Arlene said, but she didn’t sound mad.

“Not sorry!” I called.

I wished I could hold on to the feeling when Bobby called us in from our scoreless scrimmage. But besides that brief look of approval he’d given when he saw us running at the beginning of practice, Bobby had shown no signs that he’d forgiven us.

Finally, after a pause that stretched on for a long time, he said, “That was a great practice.” His smile suddenly appeared, the way a flower starts as a tight bud and blooms overnight. “You’re looking like a real team.”

Twenty-Two

The night of the Powell Park–Howard High football game, Marie invited us all to a party at her ex Jimmy Mortenson’s house. He was a St. Mark’s senior who was known around town because his family owned a car dealership. It had more prestige than Polly’s family’s car dealership in Elm Ridge, because it was bigger and advertised on channel 9. No one in Powell Park lived in mansions or anything, but the Mortensons’ house was on a corner lot and larger than most, even Tina’s. The basement had its own bathroom. (These were features deemed so impressive that I’d heard them talked about even though I’d never been there.)

A few of us had been nervous about attending another party after Wisconsin, but Marie assured us that it was only to blow off steam after we’d been working so hard. “We don’t have a game tomorrow, and we won’t get out of control,” she promised.

I was still reluctant. I’d sworn off parties. But I was also really curious to see the inside of the house, and I had nothing else to do.

Powell Park lost the football game 47–23, or something like that. Some of the other girls went to the game, but I skipped, fearing some awkward introduction to Candace’s football girlfriends. After the game, we met up at Wojo’s, with a plan to walk over to the party. It was cold, but Marie had instructed us to wear skimpy clothes, so no one brought a jacket.

The walk from Wojo’s was a few blocks, and as we got closer to Jimmy’s house, it was clear a party was going on because the street was filled with parked cars, and groups of people kept turning into the Mortensons’ front yard. The house was practically bursting at the seams, and shouting and music poured out of it; everyone knew cops never broke up this party. The Mortensons sold the force a lot of its Crown Victorias.

“Jimmy always makes the basement door the main entry. That’s where the beer will be,” Marie said. “Going through the front door is for people who don’t know any better.” She led us up a side path to the backyard, where a set of concrete stairs led to a door at the house’s lowest level.

“How very mole people of him,” Dawn said, as we waited on the steps with the other apparently in-the-know partygoers. Ahead of us in line, a group of guys wearing St. Rita’s jackets checked us out.

“Stare much?” Arlene taunted them, but she looked pleased.

When the crush of people finally squeezed through, it was our turn. As we walked inside, a stocky redheaded guy in a St. Mark’s jacket rammed into me with his shoulder. I opened my mouth to apologize, but then I clamped it shut. “You could say I’m sorry,” I said to him instead.

“I could, but I won’t,” he shot back, guffawing with his friends. His face was next to mine as he spat a loogie on the sidewalk beyond me.

“Fuck that guy,” Dawn said.

“I would definitely rather not,” I said. “And would recommend others avoid it, too.”

Jimmy was visible at the middle of the floor, holding court with a crew of girls around him. When Marie walked in, he seemed to forget the other girls as he winked at her.

“Do you still like him?” Arlene said to Marie.

“No, but I like to make him think I do,” Marie said plainly. “Let’s get a beer.”

We made our way to the keg, weaving around people I didn’t