Rock Bottom Girl(50)
“Don’t need your charity.” She was freaking juggling the ball back and forth from foot to thigh. I needed this girl and wasn’t above groveling.
“No, you don’t. But I need you and your magic feet.”
With a clean nudge, she sent the ball sailing at me. I trapped it with my foot and thanked God when I didn’t fall on my face. I scooped it up and managed a back and forth between my knees before awkwardly knocking it back her direction.
She took it from foot to knee to forehead. “Look, lady—”
“Coach,” I interjected.
She stopped, caught the ball. “I just moved here. I live in a foster home with an overworked foster mother who’s too busy working two jobs and being responsible for five kids to run me to practice and games. Happy?”
“Where do you live?”
She gave me a “not happening” look.
“I can give you a ride.”
“You’re working really hard for a stranger trying to convince me to get into her kidnapping hatchback.”
“I have candy.”
“They let you be responsible for students?” she asked with the ghost of a smile playing around her bare lips.
“They were desperate. But they’re starting to really appreciate my awesomeness.” Lies!
She was quiet for a minute, her teeth working her bottom lip.
“Look, I can drive you to and from stuff. I have no life. We’re coming off of six years of losing seasons, and we’re off to a stellar shutout start. You could help. Uniform’s free. You’ll just need cleats, and I’m sure we can figure something out there.”
“I don’t like charity,” she repeated.
“I don’t blame you. But look at it this way, you’d be doing me a favor. I have a lot to prove because I think the boys coach is a misogynistic wiener and no one expects much of me.”
She swiped the back of her hand under her nose. “No one expects much from me either.”
“Maybe we can surprise them. Together. With the candy in my kidnapper van.”
She sighed.
“Look, just come to practice tomorrow. 3:30 right here. See what you think. We’re enthusiastically not good. But you might have fun.”
“I don’t like mean girls,” she warned me.
I mentally worked out a plan to have Lisabeth Hooper kidnapped.
“Good thing your BFF the coach has the power to make mean girls run until they throw up.”
“Hmm.”
“Think about it,” I told her. “3:30 tomorrow. Free candy.”
She nodded and bounced the ball on the grass. “Libby, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby. I’m Coach Cicero. You’ll probably see me lurking around the gym, too.”
“Not creepy at all,” she said, that sort-of smile still hovering.
I decided to leave before I got down on my knees and begged, terrifying her into cyber school or something.
“See you around.” I gave her a wave and with great reluctance jogged back to the road. I had fifteen more minutes to go on this torture run, and I was going to spend it praying that Libby would show up tomorrow.
31
Marley
“What’s this?” Dad asked that night, his already high-pitched voice cracking in eager anticipation as he lifted the lid on the slow cooker.
“Pork roast,” I told him, checking the broccoli roasting in the oven.
My tiptoe onto the scale this morning revealed a mind-boggling, four-pound weight loss. My first not credited to the stomach flu or bad hangover in years. Not since I did that low-carb, lettuce and carrot diet for my co-worker’s destination wedding five years ago had I seen a purposeful drop like this.
Who knew chasing after a shirtless bad boy hunk in the predawn hours could be such great exercise? Oh, right. Literally everyone.
I was feeling…gosh, what was that warm, bright feeling in my chest? Indigestion? No. It was more glowy, less burny. Was that hope? It had been so long since I’d felt it, I didn’t even recognize it. I’d lived the last decade or so in constant fear of losing jobs, health insurance, the security of a relationship. I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel hopeful about the future.
Dad poked his head in the pantry and pulled out a bottle of wine. He waggled it at me. “You look like you’re in a good mood,” he squawked. “Should we celebrate?”
“Why not?” I said, pulling down two dusty wineglasses from the cabinet. My parents’ kitchen had been updated once. In the early eighties when Zinnia and I were rambunctious toddlers. The backsplash was a yellow and orange tile mosaic that absolutely did not match the brown Formica countertops. But as displeasing to the eyes as it was, it was the place I felt most at home.
Dad pulled the cork out with an enthusiastic pop and poured to the rim. I laughed and sipped without picking the glass up so as not to spill it.
“Oh, hello.” Byron the guest poked his head into the kitchen. He was close to seven feet tall and very, very pale. His hair was the color and texture of straw. It stuck out at odd angles, at least from what I could see without breaking my neck. His glasses were red, and his pants were three inches too short.
“Hey there, Byron! How’s your stay?” my dad squeaked.