Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,93
Monday I went to see my guidance counselor, excited to hear what she’d say. My reservations about college, I realized, were partly due to my belief that it required some kind of specialness. Specialness that I didn’t have, that Powell Park didn’t have. Average people belonged in average places.
But if what Bobby said was true, and colleges were seeking out girls who played soccer, then maybe that was my specialness.
Ms. Hong had just taken a sip of coffee when I dropped in on her. When she saw me, she gulped it down and put her mug on the desk abruptly. “Susan?” she said, like she thought I’d walked into the wrong office. “I’m sorry, what can I help you with?”
I’d last seen Ms. Hong during the mandatory guidance sessions we’d had freshman year, and at the time I had made every effort to say as little as possible to her. I’m sure it was clear that I wasn’t thinking about my future. Or not any version of a future you could bring up with school staff.
“I was wondering if you knew anything about . . . soccer scholarships,” I said. “To college. I’m on the team here.”
Ms. Hong cleared her throat and I could tell she was trying not to smile. She opened her file drawer and pulled out a folder with my name on the tab. “I know you’re on the team. I have to admit, I was surprised to hear it. When we talked about extracurriculars a couple years ago, you made it pretty clear that you had no interest in joining any clubs or activities. I suppose Coach McMann made the team sound . . . alluring?”
I caught her meaning easily—she was about as subtle as a chain saw. But I decided to ignore it. “At first, I thought it just seemed like something fun to do. But I’ve gotten pretty good. And I know that it’s still a newish sport here in the States, so there might be opportunities to play at the next level.”
I’d practiced that part before I came in, and Ms. Hong stared at me like I’d started performing a singing telegram.
“Well, yes, there are scholarships, and I’ll happily help you,” she said. “A few smaller schools would probably be willing to look at skills outside of competition, but do you know if you have any games coming up? Some schools might want to send a scout to see you play.”
After Bobby’s request that we keep the game quiet, I couldn’t invite scouts to the St. Mark’s game. Plus, it was nerve-racking enough. “Not at the moment. But I’m only a junior, so I have a little more time, right?”
Ms. Hong nodded and, opening my file, said, “You do. I’ll start getting some options together for schools you might consider. And with that extra time, see what you can do about this English comp grade, okay?”
Ms. Lopez’s class. I grimaced, thinking how my “Great Disappointments” paper probably wasn’t going to bring up my grade. But it was only the first quarter of junior year.
“Sure,” I said before taking my special-and-not-average ass back to class.
Bobby had managed to get us a half hour in the weight room right after school on Monday and announced that we’d have a long practice that afternoon. But because daylight saving time meant sunset had crept up to four thirty and the park would get too dark, we also had a new practice venue: the boys’ football field. We had to wait for the boys’ teams to finish, but the field had lights, so we could stay as late as we wanted.
Tuesday, it rained, hard. Bobby sought us out and told us that since we couldn’t use the field, we’d meet at the Powell Park Recreation Center, which had an indoor track that surrounded an expanse of floor typically used for little boys’ basketball games. The practice wasn’t as strenuous as it would have been outdoors—the space was smaller—but the fact that Bobby was making sure we practiced hard leading up to the game felt like a vote of confidence. We worked on some defensive attacks and offensive feints as a team of seven-year-olds waited to play.
As we wrapped up, I saw Mrs. Ketchum, the mom of Kevin, one of my babysitting charges, watching us. She looked bewildered. As I waved to her on the way out of the rec center, she touched her own perfect curls and appeared wounded by the sight of my sweaty ponytail. She left