What We Saw(46)

“You’ll be glad we did it come Monday.” Rachel jumps up and grabs her own ankle, pulling it from behind to stretch her quads.

“Might as well get the puking out of the way while Coach Lewis isn’t watching,” teases Lindsey. Christy doesn’t even retort, just leans over in a hurdler’s stretch and moans softly into her own kneecap.

“Forty-five seconds, ladies, then we go again.” My breathing slows, but my pulse is still racing. I can’t get the image of Will typing hashtags out of my head.

Line drills consist of running the length of the field from one end to the other in increasing distances: from the goal line to the penalty box and back, then out to the middle of the field and back, and so on, bending down to touch each line with a hand as the trips across the field grow successively longer. By the time Christy touches the goal line at the far end of the field the first time, she is doubled over with cramps and drops to her knees. Rachel, Lindsey, and I tap the near goal line as this happens, and Rachel yells no as loudly as she can. If Coach Lewis sees anyone stop, she adds another drill.

I am already exhausted from two full rounds, but I turn and follow Rachel and Lindsey down to where Christy is kneeling and heaving. Lindsey and I both take an arm and pull her to her feet, dragging her toward the goal while Rachel shouts threats and encouragements, alternating stick and carrot:

You’re almost finished!

Can’t do that Monday, or Coach will make you run it again!

Don’t give up! Go, go, GO!

Christy collapses on her back, and I clear my stopwatch again. “Four more to go. We’ve got forty-five seconds on the clock.”

“I . . . can’t . . . ,” Christy says, panting.

“You can,” I say, offering her a hand. “Get up. Walk. Breathe. You’re the best goalie in our conference, but not if you can’t turn on the speed.”

Reluctantly, she gives me her hand, and I pull her up. “We’re running in twenty,” I say.

“I hate you,” gasps Christy.

“You’ll love her on Monday,” Rachel says grimly. “We all will.”

Then I count down from ten and we go again.

Miraculously, we all finish another four complete drills without seeing what Christy ate for breakfast, then collapse next to the goal breathing hard.

Christy pulls a handful of grass and tosses it in my hair. “What brought this on, Weston?”

I take a deep breath and blow it out through puffed cheeks at the sky above us. “My brother was driving me crazy.”


Rachel laughs. “Send your brother to my house. He can deal with my sisters and I’ll move in with you.”

“Deal. He can be such a moron.”

“He’ll fit right in,” she says.

“What’d he do?” Christy wants to know. “Don’t you two usually get along?”

The breeze is chilly, but it feels good blowing across the sweat on my forehead. I can smell the dirt in the bare spots around the field. This poor grass. We’ll rip it to shreds starting Monday, no matter how much they fertilize it.

I roll over on my side, propped up on an elbow, and run my fingers through the tufts of green. “He was posting stupid crap on Facebook.”

“Like what?” asks Lindsey.

“He and his friend on the JV team were ranking the girls in their class.”

Christy sits up fast, the gleam of nearby gossip in her eyes. “Who’d they say was the hottest?”

“Not the girl they were giving a seven to when I stopped him,” I say.

Christy laughs, and I shoot her a look. “What?” she says. “Boys will be boys.”

“That’s bullshit.” All three of us turn to look at Lindsey.

“Lighten up,” says Rachel.

Lindsey isn’t having it. “‘Boys will be boys’ is what people say to excuse guys when they do something awful.”

“What are you so upset about?” Christy asks. “They didn’t rank you.”

Lindsey faces Christy full on, sitting up on her knees. “Can you honestly tell me you’d find it funny if someone posted a rank on your profile picture?”

Christy just looks away and picks another handful of grass. “Depends on my rank.”

“Bring it,” says Rachel. “I’d be a ten.” She tries to make this a cute joke, flipping her ponytail.

Only Christy laughs. “C’mon. Don’t you remember when Dooney was doing that last fall? He and Deacon would sit at lunch and scribble a score for every girl that picked up a tray in the cafeteria line?”

A small jolt of memory. It was the very first week of school. I was paying so much attention to Ben I’d barely noticed Dooney and Deacon scribbling big numbers with Sharpies in spiral notebooks, holding them up in the air. I hadn’t even realized they were rating girls. What did they rate me? No wonder Ms. Speck marched over on her high heels and told them to knock it off. I’d forgotten all about it.

“That’s just the way guys are,” says Christy.

“Is it?” asks Rachel quietly. “Or is that just the way these guys are?”

“Yeah,” says Lindsey. “I can’t imagine my dad doing stuff like that with his buddies.”

“Ben would never act like that.” But as the words leave my lips, the tiny voice whispering questions clicks up one more notch on the volume dial.