Rock Bottom Girl(69)

“Hey, Coach!”

I turned around and found the varsity team lined up behind me making the heart sign with their fingers.

“I think they know,” Vicky said, slapping me on the back.





41





Marley





We won our next match, an away game that Thursday. The girls were clicking on the field, and that was as gratifying as seeing those very nice final scores.

It was a different kind of bus ride home after a win.

I basked in the 4-2 victory to the sounds of happy teenagers who, for once, weren’t at each other’s throats. Things were going well for me. It was a new experience. And while I expected a shoe or a brick wall to drop on me at any moment, I was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

The cheerleader coach had paid me a visit to ask if I minded if she let her squad get a little more creative with their cheers at our games. The boys team had been throwing garbage at them during games. They were more than happy to switch to cheering for the girls. I was all for it.

Then there was the cute little wrapped package I found on my desk yesterday.

It was a whistle engraved with the words ‘Coach Marley.’ Courtesy of Jake. I had to give him credit. The man was an excellent gift giver.

I tapped out a text and attached a picture of the scoreboard.

Me: Another W in the books.





Jake: Nicely done, Coach. I’m thinking I should take my girl out to celebrate. Bonfire Saturday?





Oh, boy.

Culpepper had two kinds of bonfires. The high school kind where underage drinking and sex happened. And the adult kind where overage drinking and bullshitting occurred. I’d never actually been to an adult bonfire here. It was one of those moments when I had to take a mental step back and wonder when the hell I’d turned into an adult. And when the hell would I start feeling like one. Inside, I was still an overgrown, wounded teenager who had no idea how to function in the real world.

“Are you texting your boooooyfriend?” Phoebe asked, peering over my shoulder.

“Maybe,” I said.

She screwed up her nose and studied me. “Have you ever thought of like, I don’t know…trying?”

“What?”

“You know, like makeup, hair, shoes that don’t have to be tied? Something above and beyond moisturizer and deodorant?”

“Is Phoebe talking to you about making an effort?” Natalee’s head popped up over the seat.

“Hey, we were going to tag team this. Remember?” Morgan E. groused, sliding in next to the sleeping Vicky.

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked, not sure I really wanted an answer.

“Okay. Obviously Mr. Weston is into you, and that’s great. But you’re still kinda sad-circling around.” Natalee said, brushing her fringe of glossy black hair back from her face.

“Sad circling?”

“Remember that antidepressant prescription commercial with the sad circle?”

“Yes,” I said carefully. Was I a cartoon frowny face with a rain cloud over my head?

“That’s you,” Angela said, appearing one seat back in the aisle.

“Look. We know in the nineties, it was cool to be all apathetic and stuff. But that was a long time ago,” Morgan E. explained.

“Yeah, like a hundred years,” Angela snorted.

“Thank you for that, Angela.”

She smirked at me.

“What are you trying to say?”

“We think if you made an effort with your appearance, you’d be happier,” Phoebe insisted.

I wasn’t a stranger to makeup or hair products. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d dressed in nice pants and pretty shirts and worn mascara every single day. But it had all seemed pointless given my current circumstances.

I was just passing through. Just filling in. My fake boyfriend didn’t care what I did with my hair.

“Isn’t this sending the wrong message? Making yourself artificially prettier to be more attractive to other people?” I argued.

Natalee scoffed. “That’s adorable. And so wrong. You don’t make an effort for other people. You do it for yourself.”

“Duh,” Morgan E. added.

Okay. That was a lot different from my high school days. Everything everyone did back then was for the approval of other people.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I waved a hand in the air and then pointed at Natalee. “You’re telling me you don’t spend forty minutes every morning on your hair and makeup to look good for boys?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin with that erroneousness.”

I wondered if erroneousness was a word.

“First of all, it’s closer to an hour. Looking my best makes me feel my best. Guys don’t notice whether you have a smokey eye or the right shade of lip liner. They notice when you’re confident. Which serves a two-fold purpose,” Natalee instructed.

“If you’re confident,” Ruby said, popping up in the aisle, “you’re more attractive and interesting, and it’s harder for assh—jerks to mess with you.”

“True story,” Angela agreed. “If you’re confident, you’re not an easy victim.”