Rock Bottom Girl(129)

“Did you both come to that agreement, or did you break up with him?” she asked, side-stepping my bullshit.

“Oh, look at the time. I have to go disinfect the shower shoes. I have to go, Andrea.”

“Listen, as your part-time therapist and full-time friend, I feel like I need to tell you when you’re being an idi—”

I hung up the phone then took it off the hook and put my head back down on the desk. But it wasn’t the cool metal I felt. It was thick paper.

I sat up again with an envelope stuck to my head.

Coach.





I ripped it up, sending ragged slivers of paper across my desk. Inside, I found a We’re Sorry greeting card.

Dear Coach,

We’re sorry for disappointing you.

Love Always,

Your Team





Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why couldn’t anyone understand? I’d disappointed them. They’d given me their all, and I’d let them down.

A second smaller envelope shoved under my phone caught my eye.

It was addressed to Kidnapper.

Dear Coach,

My mom died of cancer when I was six. My dad made a series of poor life choices and has been in and out of prison ever since. I’ve been moved from foster home to foster home for ten years. But Culpepper, this school, this team was the first time I felt like I ever belonged.

You made me feel like I belonged.

I say this to make you feel like epic shit for going off the “woe is me” deep end. We lost a game. Big fucking deal. Win some lose some. You in your selfish downward spiral are forgetting about all the good you did this season. You didn’t disappoint me.

You forced me to join your weird team, make friends, and start living up to my potential. I don’t have parents who can thank you for guiding their kid. So I’ll thank you. Thanks.

Now, get your head out of your ass and apologize to the team for losing your damn mind.

Sincerely,

Morticia

P.S. I found the emergency snack cakes you stashed in your desk drawer and ate them. You’re welcome.





77





Marley





I made the three-hour-and-thirty-minute drive to Pittsburgh in complete silence. The Pennsylvania Turnpike was a monotonous stretch of rest stops, tunnels, and trucks. I’d survived Monday, using the locker room as my personal fortress of solitude. I’d ducked out the back when Jake had pounded on the door after the final bell rang.

My watch had vibrated as I jumped into my car and sped from the lot.

Jake: You can run, but you can’t hide. We need to talk. Stop being a chickenshit.





But I didn’t have anything to say. I was still sad, still broken, and I felt like an asshole for making an entire team of girls think that they’d disappointed me. I didn’t know how to apologize. How to make it clear that I was the one to blame.

Tuesday, I spent the entire day on my air mattress while my mom and sister shopped for our Thanksgiving meal. I felt like an ass.

By Wednesday morning, I was sick of myself, and the only thing I could think to do was actually go to the job interview.

Outreach was a nonprofit start-up that matched families in need with available social services while also recruiting individuals to make monetary donations.

Just the kind of thing the me from this summer would have been looking for. The current me, though, couldn’t be bothered to get excited about it. All I could think about was Jake looking devastated, the girls getting off the bus crying. An endless loop of disappointment.

I found the office in a cool, renovated warehouse and sat on a couch shaped like a pair of red lips. The walls were painted in bright primary colors. All employees were dressed casually in jeans and hoodies. They were walking around with iPads in one hand and lattes in the other.

No one was even close to my age.

Normally, by this point, my palms would be so sweaty I’d have to wipe them before shaking hands. But I sat here stiffly on overstuffed lips and wished it was all over so I could curl up on my air mattress at home.

Thad appeared and introduced himself. He wore skinny jeans and a hoodie and large blue-framed glasses. The rest of the team was a collection of hipsters, slobs, and people too young and optimistic to know that a start-up this cool was destined for some serious growing pains.

Numbly I answered the standard interview questions in their glassed-in conference room. The table was an oversized surfboard. The art on the walls was colorful and confusing. Someone rolled past the door on a skateboard.

It was exactly the kind of place I would have been looking for prior to my stint as a Barn Owl.

Thad explained the work schedule (“Come and go as you please; just get your work done”), the role (a stepping stone to head my own team in a year or two), and the mission statement before launching into the interview questions.

I’d done this often enough that I could almost predict the next question.

What do you see as your top strengths?

My ability to fail over and over again.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

Unemployed and single. History tends to repeat itself.

I wasn’t even nervous. Usually, I was interviewing in a panic. I needed the job. I was desperate for not just gainful employment but a bright future.

This time, though? I couldn’t even rouse myself to care. I hoped it made me seem cool.