If I Was Your Girl(9)

I nodded slowly. “I could do that, I think.”

“Well, all right then,” he said, smiling and scratching his temple.

Parker sauntered over from the bench and handed Grant his helmet.

“Game’s about to start,” he said. He glanced at me quickly and turned away.

“Sorry.” Grant shrugged. “Gotta go.”

He grinned as he trotted over to the bench.

Layla and Anna looked ready to explode when I joined them in the bleachers.

“I think Parker has competition,” Anna said, smiling brightly and twisting her long, blond hair in her fingers.

“Three words.” Layla raised a finger in the air. “Awkward. Dorky. Adorable. I loved it.”

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. I felt, at least for a moment, what it was like to be a normal teenage girl.

*

By the end of the first quarter I desperately needed to pee. I glanced behind the bleachers to where the bathrooms stood, two low, squatting buildings, one bearing the telltale stick figure in a skirt. I had only used a women’s room a few times since I’d been attacked, and the idea still made my heart race. But there was no avoiding it now.

“Want company?” Layla asked as I excused myself.

“No,” I said quickly. Layla leaned back and pursed her lips. “Sorry. I’m fine, thanks.”

I left the bleachers and headed for the bathrooms. When I pushed open the door, the smell of paint and bleach invaded my nostrils, reminding me how much cleaner girls’ bathrooms were than boys’. The stalls were empty, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. Outside two female voices whispered back and forth, their words too soft to make out. One giggled. I washed up quickly and as I exited the bathroom, I found Bee and Chloe rounding the far corner. They stopped midstride. I froze with my still-damp hands mid-wipe on my thighs. Bee nodded in my direction. Chloe’s eyes widened. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her side. She kept her eyes locked on the field, never turning them to me.

“Hey!” I said, forcing a conversational tone as if we’d just met in the halls. I couldn’t tell what they were hiding; drugs, probably, but I also didn’t really want to know. “Anna and Layla are near the benches, you can’t miss them.”

“Thanks,” Chloe said. She glanced at me as she walked away, her red curls bouncing and her face as stony and unreadable as always. “Glad you came.”

When it was just me and Bee, I turned to her. “I didn’t think you were the football type.”

“I’m not,” Bee said. “I come here to watch great apes in their natural habitat.” She unwrapped some gum and slowly put it in her mouth. “Enjoy the game.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if “great apes” applied to just the athletes or to everyone, and if that generalization of the popular kids included me. “See you later.”

When I returned, Chloe was between Anna and Layla, leaning back on her elbows and looking down on the game below. Our gaze met as I climbed the bleachers and she went stiff again. I waved, pretending it was the first time we’d seen each other. She mouthed thank you as I sat down.

As the girls went back to talking, my attention drifted to the field below. I’d never sat through an entire game before; football was something I associated with the great apes, as Bee called them, the people who’d dedicated their lives to destroying mine. But today, the sound of the girls’ happy chatter washing over me, sun glinting off the bleachers, and the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air, I couldn’t help enjoying it. At the end of the third quarter, when Grant ran the ball into the end zone, I stood and cheered until my voice grew hoarse.

I wondered what Dad would think if he knew I was watching sports of my own free will. I remembered when I quit Little League after the first game and cried in my room, how angry and disappointed he had been. This felt different from Dad and all of his buddies—always buddies, never really friends—sitting around quietly watching “the game” with beers in hand. This felt like something else, like friendship or acceptance or maybe fitting in. This felt like fun.





5

On Tuesday I found Bee behind the art building like always. She slouched against the wall, eyes closed, bobbing her head in time to the music blasting in her ears. My backpack thudded into the grass and I joined her. She opened one eye and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

“What are you listening to?”

“The Knife. They’re this awesome Swedish experimental … thing. Here, listen.” She handed me the earbud and leaned in so I could share. I held it to my ear. I expected a cross between ABBA and Daft Punk, but instead a low, soulful voice sang about doomed love.

“So I heard Grant’s all about you,” Bee said once the song ended.

“It’s nothing,” I said, even though the thought made my heart pound. “He just invited me to a party.”

“He’s a guy,” she said. “You’re new and you’re pretty. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“I’m not pretty though.”

“Oh my God, whatever, yes you are. Jesus. The only thing worse than attractive people is attractive people who refuse to admit they’re attractive.”

“I don’t think we’re making good use of our time,” I said, but I was fighting a smile. I doubted anyone but Bee could make a compliment sound so grouchy. “I mean, if we get caught I’d like to point to some projects we’ve done and say, ‘We used art class to make art.’”