Ruby took my hand, and I looked at it, my palm pale and open in hers. “Can’t we just like each other, and spend time together? You like hanging out with me, right?”
I nodded, wondering to what extent hanging out was the point. What she wanted sounded so simple, and impossible at the same time. But I would try. I was trying. I smiled, to prove it to her.
“I really like hanging out with you,” I said. I leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, running my thumb across her cheek. I didn’t admit it to myself then, but I was going for the kind of kiss that makes a person renounce her values and decide she loves you, and only you, after all.
When I pulled back I realized I still hadn’t told her about UNC, but something about the way she smiled at me made me decide it could wait. I watched as Ruby picked up the piece of paper with her name on it, and replaced it gently inside the shoebox. If she knew what the box memorialized, and to whom it was dedicated, she treated it with respectful indifference, like the gravestone of someone who’d died long before she was born.
I woke up on College Day feeling sick to my stomach with dread. For a solid twenty minutes I contemplated various theatrics that might allow me to plausibly stay home: a fever (no—the thermometer would easily disprove it), a cough (as easy to fake as it was obvious), diarrhea (presumably wouldn’t be asked to provide proof). My mom suffered fairly regular migraines, and while I had yet to inherit them, I could pretend today was the day they began. I could have the day to wallow in peace. But if I missed the game, the first of the school season, my team would be so disappointed in me, and they’d spend all night talking about it, and Ronni could only do so much to protect my shameful secret. Ultimately I decided suffering through the day was worth a paranoia-free weekend. If they were going to find out about UNC eventually (and they would), it would be better, in the long run, if they heard it from me.
So I got up, and I showered, and I got dressed in my favorite Westville Soccer T-shirt. It was from sophomore year, faded and soft, the letters of my last name partly eaten away by so many washings. That year, it had been only Ronni and me on varsity. That year, I’d had no doubt where I’d end up. Had I gotten worse since, or had I just been that wrong back then? I didn’t want to know.
The night before, after Ruby went home, I’d texted Ronni to ask if I could drive her to school the next morning for moral support. When she opened the door to my truck, I handed her the box of doughnuts I’d picked up for her and the other girls—part congratulations, part distraction—and she slid into the passenger seat, selecting the powdered-sugar doughnut with lemon filling I’d picked out for her. She took a bite before gently asking which shirt I’d decided to wear.
I unzipped my bomber jacket and pulled it open at the chest. Like a superhero whose superpower was being bad at soccer.
Ronni nodded. “Good choice.” She held out the box, and I grabbed a cinnamon sugar, my second so far. It was going to be a very long day, and I was grateful to Ronni for knowing I only wanted to say what I had to say to get through it.
The seniors on our team congregated in the hallway before first period, outside the captain’s locker, as was tradition. The other eight were already there when Ronni and I arrived, and they shrieked and clapped when they saw me carrying my big pink box of doughnuts. Halle and Kate lunged for it, claiming their favorites before anyone else could, and I handed it over, releasing myself from the spotlight. I breathed in and out slowly, trying to slow down time, to prolong those last few moments of ignorance. Then Halle, mouth dotted with sprinkles, used her free hand to lift up her sweatshirt, showing us her crisp, white