“Vintner?” I asked. For the last few weeks my mom had been the main reporter on a sexual harassment case involving our young, handsome, and very well-liked mayor. It was obvious that she was excited to be covering it, but I could tell she was running low on steam; her face was pallid and puffy, and I was pretty sure she’d worn that shirt two days in a row at least.
She nodded. “Another intern came forward.”
“What a dick,” said Ruby. “I never trusted him. With that hair?”
My mom raised her eyebrows, and she smiled. “Indeed.”
I tried to contain my pride by shoving a handful of popcorn into my mouth.
“Well, I’ll leave you girls to your…arts and crafts?”
“We’re making posters for Ruby’s show.”
“Oh, right, you’re the rock star.”
It was amazing, really, how quickly embarrassment could replace every other feeling.
Ruby grinned. “You could say that.”
“Sick,” said my mom.
“Bye, Mom!”
She headed upstairs, waving and calling out, “Bye! Love you! Don’t stay up too late! Don’t forget to brush your teeth! I’ll leave your night-light on for you!”
“She’s kidding,” I clarified.
Ruby smirked. “Funny.” I couldn’t quite tell if she meant it, but there was no way I was going to ask. Instead we both checked our phones, or I pretended to while sneakily watching Ruby frown at hers.
“How is it almost ten?”
“How is this all I’ve accomplished?” I held up my poster, which read SV. Not even a full W.
Ruby laughed. “It’s okay. Let’s just knock out a bunch right now. And then I should probably go.”
I felt like Prince Charming, desperate for time to stand still so Cinderella could stay. But that’s not how it works, and when we’d made a reasonably decent thirteen posters, Ruby got up, and I walked her to the door, where she pulled me into a one-armed hug, the other holding her new advertising. Which made three times she’d touched me in one night. At that moment it didn’t feel possible I could get any luckier.
On the day of the Sweets show I woke at six for the ninety-minute drive to San Juan Capistrano, where we had a meet. Even then, the air was thick and soupy, and I sweat through my jersey by halftime in the first game. That left two and a half games to go, and only one backup jersey in my bag, and by the time I got home I was ready to trade the rest of my life for a long, cool shower. We’d won two of three, and I’d scored three times, which was the best I’d done in a while. I wanted to email UNC with a recap, but of course that wasn’t how things were done. With a radio silence as long as the one between me and UNC, you had to let them come to you.
After my shower I tried on eight hundred T-shirts before settling on a plain white one, and then I slicked my hair back with wax and put some black eyeliner inside my lower lid, hoping the overall effect was Kristen Stewart dirty and not just dirty dirty. I didn’t usually wear makeup, but Jamie had once called my eyes beautiful when I was wearing eyeliner, and I hoped Ruby would think the same. Downstairs I inhaled some reheated pizza and a Red Bull, and after yelling good night to my mom I rushed out. On the drive over I listened to my newest inspirational playlist, entitled You Can Do This. (It featured a lot of Taylor Swift.)
Jamie and I had made plans to meet at Triple Moon at eight-thirty that night, technically thirty minutes after the show began. There was an opening act, these kids who went to Torrey Pines and called themselves Pineapple Under the Sea, like from SpongeBob but ironic. Jamie said they were okay, which meant they were awful, so I proposed getting there a little late, hoping we’d miss at least half their set, and wanting to seem to Ruby like I had a life outside her.