Interim(27)

Yeah. I didn’t think so.

~





She was the only girl in school who could juggle a hacky sack. He found that peculiar—that she pranced onto the field dolled up like a runway model and played soccer better than any of the boys. A bit sexist, but then he was a typical young guy who believed sports were better executed by other typical young guys. This particular afternoon on the school’s soccer field was the first he really noticed her—that monotonous slap slap slap! of the footbag against the tops of her cleats. She was alone. Summer practice was over—just one precious week left until the season started—but she stayed for more training. His eyes were glued to her feet.

Purple cleats. He realized he was a cleat chaser, and laughed. She looked up, the hacky sack nestled in the crook of her foot.

“Something funny?” she snapped, standing on one foot with her hands on her hips.

“No,” Brandon replied.

“Then why are you laughing at me?” Regan asked.

“I wasn’t laughing at you.” He walked toward her.

“Then what were you laughing at?” she pressed.

He paused, standing face-to-face with her.

“You’re really good.”

She frowned, not understanding.

“Soooo, you’re laughing at me because I’m good?”

He nodded. “Why aren’t you playing on the guys’ team?”

Her lips spread into a knowing smile.

“Oh, I see. You were laughing because you just couldn’t understand how a girl could be so much better at soccer than your lame ass friends.”

He burst out laughing.

“News flash, buddy. I’m taking this skill to college—” She tossed the hacky sack to Brandon, and he punched it back. “—on a full scholarship. Girl power. Holla.”

They volleyed while they chatted.

“I know you will, Regan. You’re cocky as hell, so I know you’ll get what you want,” Brandon said.

“I’m not cocky. I’m confident,” she countered.

“I thought that was the same thing,” he replied.

“Not even close.”

“So where did this skill come from, anyway? Why didn’t I see it in middle school?”

“I hid it. Plus, I wasn’t interested in organized sports. For a while I felt they were too fascist.”

“Is that right? You felt they were too fascist?” Brandon teased. “Pretty intense for a seventh grader.”

“I’m highly intelligent,” Regan replied.

“Oh, that’s right. You were too busy with your dork club,” Brandon said.

“Shut up. Our club was awesome.”

Regan caught the sack on her toe and punched it over Brandon’s head. Somehow, despite his mediocre skills, he was able to catch it in time to pop it back to her.

“I’m just jealous because you never invited me,” he confessed.

“It was a club for smart people,” she reminded him.

He roared with laughter, dropping the footbag.

“Start over,” she said, and he took it as a good sign. She didn’t want him to leave quite yet.

“You notice anything different about me?” he asked, tossing her the hacky sack once more.

She hesitated, and he knew she was debating if she should say it out loud.

“It’s okay. You can say it,” he encouraged.

“You lost a ton of weight,” she said, looking him up and down.

“I grew six inches over the summer,” he replied. “And decided to start getting in shape.”

She whistled low. “That’s a decent way to start high school.”

“I think so,” he said.

“Did you work on anything else over the summer?”

He furrowed his brows. “Like what?”

“Like your * personality?”

He chuckled. “Gosh, you just say it, huh?”

“No point in beating around the bush.”

He dropped the footbag again. This time he didn’t retrieve it. He let it lay on the grass—take a much-needed break.

“I picked on people because I was insecure,” he said softly. “You know, with my weight and stuff.”

Regan listened.

“I’m not that guy anymore,” he went on. “I’ve grown up.”