Heroine(29)

“This chick. What sport she play?”

I blank. I can’t picture Josie playing anything other than beer pong. “She wrecked her bike,” I say. “Screwed up her wrist.”

“She sounds like fun. We should hang out.” I’m pretty sure Carolina’s dry sarcasm is at work, but I can’t be sure after the adrenaline push my heart just gave at the thought of Josie casually inviting Carolina to pop an 80, and then Carolina informing Josie that she’s weak.

“Ha,” I say, hoping she doesn’t push it. “I don’t think you two have a lot in common.”

Which is an understatement.

“All right, later,” Carolina says, hanging up.

I’m about to stop her, about to ask if she thinks that the car crash was my fault, that her best friend is the reason why she has to worry about losing a free ride to a D1 school if she’s not up to snuff in time for the season. But she’s already gone, and I don’t know if it’s a conversation you have over the phone, anyway. It’s not a conversation I know how to have face-to-face, either.

I pull into my driveway, inspecting the story I fed Carolina for cracks, to see if it will stand up to a mom inspection. It should, technically. I never specified that I was staying with Carolina, and if she covered for me I should be in the clear this time. I’ll have to introduce the idea of Josie as a fellow therapy patient to Mom, who will probably be thrilled that I’m meeting new people.

As I lock my car door, I realize that if I’m already thinking about last night as this time, that means I’m going to do it again. I think about laughing with Josie, how her shiny facade slipped for a moment while she talked about Edith’s grandchildren. And Edith herself, filling her house with people she can care for, luring us there with cookies, and OxyContin. I think about the warm feeling that enveloped me there, like the sun beating down on the softball field, but coming from the inside, like maybe I belonged there with them, too.

I’m down with that.

Mom’s at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee when I walk in. She glances up, dark circles under her eyes.

“Rough one?” I ask.

“Fairly,” she admits. “Baby and mother both okay, though. So, in the end, a good day. How’s Carolina doing?”

“Good,” I tell her, pretty sure it’s the right answer. “We lifted together yesterday and she did arms, I did legs.”

“Was that smart?”

“We went light, Mom.”

She gives me a hard look over what I know is a cold cup of coffee, and I wonder how much she’s buying of what I’m selling.

“Seriously, I feel good.”

“You look good,” Mom admits, resting her chin in her hands. “You’re barely limping.”

“I know, right?”

“Well . . .” She gets up, begins clearing her space. “You’ve only got one more therapy session scheduled. If you think . . .”

“I think that’ll do it,” I say quickly, both because I know it’s not cheap, and because I worry that my miraculous delivery from pain might raise some eyebrows.

“Coach Mattix called,” Mom says from the sink, raising her voice over the water as she rinses her cup. “She asked if she could stop by next week, said she’d like to come over and talk before conditioning starts.”

“Right,” I say, wondering if Coach knows I’m doing leg workouts, and what she thinks of that.

“I know Ferriman cleared you for it, but Mickey . . .”

“Don’t, Mom,” I warn her. “I’ve been walking without the crutches and I feel fine. I started lifting with Carolina, and I’ve got two weeks before conditioning starts. I’ve got time to ease into it. I can do this, Mom.”

“I know you can, Mickey. Ferriman wouldn’t have cleared you otherwise. But he’s not the one that has to watch you stop a ball moving sixty-five miles an hour.”

“Seventy,” I correct her. “Carolina was up to seventy at the end of last season.”

“A lot’s happened since then,” Mom says quietly.

“We’re ready,” I snap at her. “Both of us are.”

I slam my door just to prove there’s nothing wrong with my arms either, and fall onto my bed. My hip lets me know I shouldn’t have gone up the stairs so fast, so I dig into the bag of Ronald Wagner’s pills, which is stuck under my mattress. Ten minutes later I’m warm and drowsy, pain no longer a problem.

My only issue is time.





Chapter Twenty-One


scar: a mark in the skin made by a wound, remaining after the wound has healed

Coach Mattix is a zero-fucks-given, all-bullshit-off-the-table type of coach.

She’s made me—and everyone else on the team—cry on more than one occasion, but the school has always had her back. The fact that she also coaches the girls’ basketball team and they fill the gym—and therefore the athletic association’s cash box—probably has something to do with it.

Mom and Dad have never had a problem with her style, but I haven’t ever given them reason to, either. I know Mattix is hard on us, but we’re tough as a result. I might not like it when she’s screaming at me for screwing up, but it does ensure that I don’t make the same mistake twice. People who do that aren’t on the team.