Sign Here(9)

“Harrison, be aggressive!” the coach yelled, and Mickey snapped into action. She saw the ball coming toward her, and she squinted, imagining the swift kick it would take to knock the ball out from between the other girl’s feet, to send it the way Mickey wanted it to go. She darted forward, but the girl saw her coming and pivoted at the last second. Mickey kicked anyway, and her cleat connected with the other girl’s shin. She went down faster than the girls Mickey read about on the bathroom walls.

“What’s your problem?” the girl squealed.

The coach blew his whistle.

“Bench,” he said, pointing.

“You said to be aggressive.”

“Bench, Harrison,” he repeated. Mickey shrugged and kicked the ball square in the middle, sending it flying directly into the goal.

“That doesn’t count!” the goalie yelled. “We were on time-out!”

“I know,” Mickey snapped back, rolling her eyes. She fucking hated soccer.

The girl was fine, but she sat out the rest of the game anyway. It was obviously because the boys played on the next field over and she wanted to watch them—or, rather, be watched by them. Mickey picked at the seam of her uniform as she watched the other girl lean back, her training-wheel breasts lifted toward the sky as if it were the most comfortable thing in the world. Mickey leaned back briefly, just to see. It was not.

When the game ended, the girls lingered around the benches, gathering their things and making weekend plans. Mickey ignored them, searching the bin the coach made them put their cell phones in before practice.

“How did you get hurt?” a boy asked, sliding onto their bench. Mickey found her phone in the bin and unstrapped her shin guards.

“That psycho,” the girl answered, jerking her head at Mickey. “She basically attacked me.”

Mickey felt her face get hot, but she didn’t look up. She didn’t even unfasten her shin guards faster.

“Yo, what’s your damage?” the boy asked. Mickey laid one shin guard on top of the other in the grass. Her legs were tingling and slick with sweat. She hadn’t started shaving yet; Lily said she had to wait until high school. Three months to go.

“Are you deaf?”

Mickey recognized him from school. His name was Eliot Marks. She had no doubt he didn’t know her name.

“Not deaf, just not interested,” Mickey said. A chuckle passed along the bench.

“You’re not interested?” the boy said, incredulous. Mickey had learned that word—“incredulous”—from her father. She thought it when she looked at Eliot, older than she and taller, but not taller than Sean. If she needed to, she could go for his knees.

“Are you even supposed to be on the girls’ team? You don’t look like a girl.” One of the boys whooped, and the girls giggled in unison, like there was a button for it.

Mickey shrugged.

“Oh, what? You’re confused? It’s not that hard to figure out, you know. Just check your pants.”

Did you learn that from watching your mom? It was a decent—albeit unimaginative—comeback, but she couldn’t get it out. She flushed with anger, her eyes on the grass as she picked up her soccer ball and balanced it under her arm. Eliot took a step toward her, high on the other girls’ laughter, and threw out his elbow, knocking the ball from her grasp. Mickey looked back at the coach, but he was on the field with the ref, not paying any attention to them. The day was over; he was off the clock.

“Move,” Mickey said.

“Apologize for hurting—” Eliot stopped and looked back at the bench, holding out his hand to the girl with the training-wheel tits.

“Steph,” she said.

“Apologize to Steph.”

“Sorry,” Mickey mumbled, even though she hated herself for saying it. She didn’t mean it, and Mickey wasn’t a liar. Her grandpa taught her not to be.

“Check the bathroom on your way out,” Eliot said. “See if you’re playing for the right team.” Laughter followed Mickey off the field and out of earshot. Yet she could still hear it well after the group had moved on to other things, had forgotten all about her.





PEYOTE





“PEY, GET YOUR ASS in gear. Morning meeting,” KQ said, slamming her hand against my cubicle so hard, I spilled coffee down my shirt. “And clean yourself up; you look like the poor fucks in the blender aisle.”

To be clear, Hell is not a department store. When she says “blender aisle,” she means the aisle in the Downstairs in which people are put through blenders.

“Good morning, shitstuffers,” KQ said as we all took our seats. “I’m looking at our numbers, and they are a pile of crap.”

Even though I knew she wouldn’t, I still felt a drop of disappointment that she didn’t remark on my deal yesterday.

“Not a pile—they are an anthill of crap. A teaspoon. So, seeing as whatever it is you’re doing on your own isn’t working, I’m going to try something new.” KQ kicked her feet onto the table. “Look to your left, and then to your right. Who do you see?”

I didn’t bother looking to my left; I knew Trey was there. I could smell his cologne and coffee-tinged breath mints. I looked to my right and caught Cal’s eye.