David Tovar? I asked, for some reason. As if it could be any other David.
Lol yes
Idk why I clarified, I wrote.
I would have agreed to any David.
Cool. Pick me up at 9?
I screamed a little.
OK, I texted.
I hugged my phone to my chest, eyes closed, already imagining the following night. Then my phone buzzed again, and I grinned, ready to read another conversation-extending sign-off from Ruby. But this time it was just the soccer group text again, a picture of heaps of spaghetti meant to make me question my choices. Which, now, I was.
Fine. I’ll be there in 20, I wrote, and ran out the door grinning.
* * *
—
On Saturday, I used my excitement for the party with Ruby as both fuel and distraction. It helped, under the eyes of so many coaches, to have my mind a few hours ahead, with something more than my athletic fate to look forward to. All the coaches I’d ever spoken to were there, including UNC and UCLA, though I didn’t look for them in the stands. I’d emailed both beforehand to remind them of my interest, as was standard protocol, but coaches weren’t allowed to talk to players at the tournament, or vice versa. This was fine with me, as it further helped me pretend they weren’t there. Before the first game began I did all the pressure-lowering techniques I’d learned in therapy, and they actually kind of worked. We won two of our four games and tied one, but I made some of the best plays I’d made all year, and got team-tackled twice.
By the time I got home I was physically exhausted but mentally amped. When I showered I was pleased to find I’d tanned fairly evenly, which made my teeth and eyes look brighter. I dried my hair before slathering it in wax, then began trying on every combination of T-shirt + pants I owned before landing on a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black Vans, plus my blue jean jacket, for variety. Then I had to fix my hair again, which took more wax, and then more water, and then spray, until it reached a stiff sort of sheen.
When I left, my mom eyed me suspiciously.
“Did you wash your hair?”
“Yes!” I said, but I ducked before the entryway mirror to double-check.
“Oh, so that’s, like, the look.”
“Mom. Please.”
“No, I get it now. You look dope.”
“Mom.” I opened the front door. “I’m going now. Bye.”
She waited at the door a moment before calling out another of her favorite jokes: “Don’t get pregnant!”
I tried to suppress my smile. I didn’t want to encourage her.
On the way over to Ruby’s I sang along to a playlist called Modest Expectations, formerly Everyone Is Counting on You. (Ronni’s revision.) It was a playlist I typically listened to within the privacy of headphones on the bench before soccer games, but I needed its (modestly) hyping effect now more than ever. World Cup anthems blasted through the speakers until I turned onto Ruby’s street and abruptly turned them off, figuring she’d be less likely to judge me for a silent car than one playing Shakira’s “Waka Waka.” Good thing, too, because this time, Ruby was waiting at the bottom of her driveway. She was tapping furiously at her phone, but she smiled when she looked up and saw me.
If what happened at the beach had happened any differently, I might have been positive Ruby was dressed up for me as much as she was for the party itself. She wore a cool oversized jean jacket over a black T-shirt and a stretchy, short black skirt I blushed to look at. On her feet, Vans high-tops. Her hair was pulled into a high, royal blue–tipped bun. When she opened the door and climbed into my truck the first thing I said was, “You changed your hair. I like it.”
She lightly squeezed her bun as if to remind herself of its color. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s darker than I wanted.”