Rock Bottom Girl(117)

We were tied up 2-2, and I felt good. I felt fucking wonderful.

We dominated, our offense crowding the Buglers’ defense on their half of the field. The Buglers managed a breakaway, and Angela thwarted it with one of her patented sliding tackles that had the crowd on its feet.

It was magic happening on that field, and I had goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold…or Jake’s mouth for once.

Ashlynn made a terrific diving save. My midfielders ran their asses off, showing no signs of exhaustion. We were riding high on a magic wave of energy as the minutes in the second half ticked down. The Buglers defense was strong but showing cracks.

“We’re gonna win this,” I said, feeling it in my bones. Confidence. Belief. My girls were going to take home a Homecoming victory and walk into that dance as heroes. And I was going to slow clap for them until my hands bled.

We were down to the last two minutes of the game. The clock was ticking down steadily. Each passing second taking us closer to the end of regulation play. I wasn’t nervous. I had a team full of women who needed to shower, change, and do full makeup for the dance. We were not going into overtime.

“Barn Owls,” I shouted from the sideline, waving both arms toward the Buglers’ goal. It was our swing away signal. Full court press. All offense, all the time.

And just like that, the tempo of the game changed.

Rachel took off with the ball down the sideline while the rest of my forwards headed toward the goal. A tangle between two defenders sent the ball out of bounds on the sideline.

“Throw-in,” Vicky said. “Are you going to let her do it?”

Rachel was looking at me. “Oh, hell yeah.” I grinned and nodded, rolling my hands in a circle. “Heads and tails,” I called.

My front line backed off the goal and lined up. One of the midfielders jogged up to play decoy to Rachel’s throw-in.

“This could be the greatest moment in Culpepper sports history,” Vicky breathed.

This could be the greatest moment in my history.

We clung to each other on the sideline. The players on the bench stood and joined us, arms wrapped tight around each other. I could feel the confusion from the crowd behind us. They knew something was about to happen.

Rachel backed up off the sideline several paces. The ref blew the whistle, and she started running toward the line. Six feet out, she bent, planted the ball on the grass, and flipped.

The crowd gasped.

The momentum from the flip sent the ball in a high arch toward the Buglers’ goal. Vicky clung to me, her arm around my neck like a hungry boa constrictor.

My front line started running. The defense was left flat-footed and confused. And my girl Libby left the ground like an NBA dunker. With a deft flick, Libby headed the ball, changing its direction.

The goalie leaped into the air.

The entire stadium held its breath.

And then erupted when the ball found the net.

“Oh my God!” Vicky shrieked over the final buzzer. She shook me like a rag doll until my teeth chattered.

Game over. Victory Barn Owls. We did it. We fucking did it.

The field was pandemonium as players tackled Libby and Rachel at half-field. Fans poured forth from the bleachers, jumping the low fence and joining in the celebration.

It was a mob scene, and I stood all alone in the middle of it, soaking it in.

Then there were hands on my waist, and Jake was lifting me in the air, spinning me around under the field lights.

“You fucking did it, Mars!” My parents were behind him, his uncles behind them. My faculty friends. The team parents. Rachel and Libby and Ruby were lifted on shoulders as the boys soccer team joined the party.

And when Jake slowly lowered me to the ground, when his mouth found mine, when he kissed me twenty years after that first kiss, I felt like I was the winner.

Until they upended the cooler of ice water over me.





69





Marley





After the Homecoming that Shall Not Be Mentioned





I was simultaneously a hero and a pariah. My parents were baffled with my revenge plot and suspension. Rather than punishing me—a parental responsibility with which they were entirely unfamiliar—they took a “wait and see if she does it again” attitude.

With people Amie Jo had emotionally tortured and personally victimized—students, teachers, and the entire register staff at Weis Markets—my Homecoming stunt and subsequent suspension gave me mythical popularity.

Unfortunately, there were just as many Team Amie Jo members who felt that “poor, sweet, Jesus-loving Amie Jo” had been unfairly targeted because of her God-given popularity. Their party line was that I attacked her because I was jealous of her hair, her car, and her breasts. In that order.

Team Amie Jo numbers were growing thanks to her post-suspension goodwill tour. She joined the Culpepper Emmanuel Lutheran Church’s choir and handwrote apology notes with the I’s dotted with hearts. The pièce de résistance was a spa sleepover at the Hotel Hershey scheduled for this weekend. She invited every girl in our class.

Except me.

I suspected Dr. and Mrs. Armburger hired a publicist to spiff up their daughter’s image. And as my edge of self-righteous victimhood dulled, I was left with a low-level guilt. Revenge hadn’t been sweet. It had been a little icky. Okay. A lot icky.