Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,9

I did it wasn’t pretty, it didn’t matter, because it always felt pretty after.

I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my light brown hair was messy and I thought I might look . . . sexy. Was I sexy? Could you be sexy if you’d never had sex?

If I wanted Bobby to notice me, I had to look as sexy and maybe experienced as possible at tryouts the next day. I had attributes I could play up. My dad had given me a curling iron last Christmas and I’d mastered getting the longer sections of my hair to flare out around my face, sort of like Jaclyn Smith on Charlie’s Angels, but only sort of. Jeff Sipowitz had endorsed my butt, and I liked my legs. They were still a little tan from the summer, and there was a cute freckle next to my left knee.

Bobby was definitely sexy. Sexy like someone who could have sex with anyone, in real life, not in his head. He wouldn’t have to masturbate. He could go up to a crowd of women and ask, “Who’s next?” and someone would volunteer.

I turned on my radio and a Donna Summer song came on—“Love to Love You Baby.” I adored the breathy way she sang it, and now it felt like a sign: I hadn’t been writing off the boys at my school for no reason. I’d been waiting for someone I was excited about, in the same specific way Donna was for the guy she was singing to. I’d picked him, instead of hoping to be picked.

Okay, so picking our new adult teacher–slash–soccer coach wasn’t ideal. But I thought Bobby was worth choosing.

I’d find out, starting with tryouts.

Three

What I’d told Bobby was right. There were so many girls at tryouts the next day, I wasn’t even sure I went to school with them all. There had to be more than sixty girls there. Either everyone had discovered latent athletic ability overnight or, more likely, they also were fueled by their hots for Coach McMann, because way more girls had shown up for soccer tryouts than for The Sound of Music auditions.

It was an even bigger deal because the tryouts were inconvenient. We were supposed to get to use the north half of the practice football field across the street from school, and the freshman boys who normally played there would get the other half. But in seventh period, Assistant Principal Lawler came over the staticky intercom to announce that soccer tryouts had been moved to Oak Meadows Park, a mile and a half from school. The rumor was that one of the football coaches didn’t want a bunch of girls distracting his players.

Some girls had walked over from the school. Tina had driven me and Candace in her Buick, which her mom had given her when she’d bought herself a new Cadillac. Now all of us were waiting for Coach McMann. There were chemical clouds in the fall air from the rampant spraying of Baby Soft perfume and Aqua Net hairspray and Secret deodorant. Everyone was grooming like we were getting yearbook photos taken.

I had put on my favorite Lip Smacker (Dr Pepper flavored) but I didn’t want to go overboard. I thought I would stand out more to Bobby if I looked sort of athletic, like I could be his female counterpart. I wore my red shorts, but rolled them up at the top so they went even higher than usual and became what my sister would call asshuggers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that warm out. The goose bumps on my legs stood out beneath the layers of baby oil I’d massaged onto them.

“Susan, do you want Mr. McMann to feel you up or use your body as a Slip ’N Slide?” asked Wendy Kowalski, who seemed to have bleached her faint mustache for today’s big event.

“At least Susan only had to shave the hair on her legs,” Tina said snidely, strutting across the field in her gym uniform, which wasn’t flattering on most girls but made her look like a taller Wonder Woman with caramel-colored hair. She linked arms with me as she shot Wendy a dirty look. They’d been clawing at each other ever since they both ran for class secretary last year (in the end, they’d been edged out by Jeremy Rokowski).

Tina doesn’t like Wendy but says at least Wendy’s a bitch to everyone and doesn’t pretend to like her, the way a lot