I yelped and covered my mouth more tightly, and my body spasmed—my head lifting from my pillow—as I came.
If the way I did it wasn’t pretty, it didn’t matter, because it always felt pretty after.
I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my light brown hair was messy and I thought I might look . . . sexy. Was I sexy? Could you be sexy if you’d never had sex?
If I wanted Bobby to notice me, I had to look as sexy and maybe experienced as possible at tryouts the next day. I had attributes I could play up. My dad had given me a curling iron last Christmas and I’d mastered getting the longer sections of my hair to flare out around my face, sort of like Jaclyn Smith on Charlie’s Angels, but only sort of. Jeff Sipowitz had endorsed my butt, and I liked my legs. They were still a little tan from the summer, and there was a cute freckle next to my left knee.
Bobby was definitely sexy. Sexy like someone who could have sex with anyone, in real life, not in his head. He wouldn’t have to masturbate. He could go up to a crowd of women and ask, “Who’s next?” and someone would volunteer.
I turned on my radio and a Donna Summer song came on—“Love to Love You Baby.” I adored the breathy way she sang it, and now it felt like a sign: I hadn’t been writing off the boys at my school for no reason. I’d been waiting for someone I was excited about, in the same specific way Donna was for the guy she was singing to. I’d picked him, instead of hoping to be picked.
Okay, so picking our new adult teacher–slash–soccer coach wasn’t ideal. But I thought Bobby was worth choosing.
I’d find out, starting with tryouts.
Three
What I’d told Bobby was right. There were so many girls at tryouts the next day, I wasn’t even sure I went to school with them all. There had to be more than sixty girls there. Either everyone had discovered latent athletic ability overnight or, more likely, they also were fueled by their hots for Coach McMann, because way more girls had shown up for soccer tryouts than for The Sound of Music auditions.
It was an even bigger deal because the tryouts were inconvenient. We were supposed to get to use the north half of the practice football field across the street from school, and the freshman boys who normally played there would get the other half. But in seventh period, Assistant Principal Lawler came over the staticky intercom to announce that soccer tryouts had been moved to Oak Meadows Park, a mile and a half from school. The rumor was that one of the football coaches didn’t want a bunch of girls distracting his players.
Some girls had walked over from the school. Tina had driven me and Candace in her Buick, which her mom had given her when she’d bought herself a new Cadillac. Now all of us were waiting for Coach McMann. There were chemical clouds in the fall air from the rampant spraying of Baby Soft perfume and Aqua Net hairspray and Secret deodorant. Everyone was grooming like we were getting yearbook photos taken.
I had put on my favorite Lip Smacker (Dr Pepper flavored) but I didn’t want to go overboard. I thought I would stand out more to Bobby if I looked sort of athletic, like I could be his female counterpart. I wore my red shorts, but rolled them up at the top so they went even higher than usual and became what my sister would call asshuggers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that warm out. The goose bumps on my legs stood out beneath the layers of baby oil I’d massaged onto them.
“Susan, do you want Mr. McMann to feel you up or use your body as a Slip ’N Slide?” asked Wendy Kowalski, who seemed to have bleached her faint mustache for today’s big event.
“At least Susan only had to shave the hair on her legs,” Tina said snidely, strutting across the field in her gym uniform, which wasn’t flattering on most girls but made her look like a taller Wonder Woman with caramel-colored hair. She linked arms with me as she shot Wendy a dirty look. They’d been clawing at each other ever since they both ran for class secretary last year (in the end, they’d been edged out by Jeremy Rokowski).
Tina doesn’t like Wendy but says at least Wendy’s a bitch to everyone and doesn’t pretend to like her, the way a lot of girls do. Once I walked into the girls’ bathroom on a day Tina had really dressed up, in a new emerald blouse and dark green bell-bottoms, and two girls who were always fawning over her in public were talking about her. “Who does Tina think she is? It’s school, not a fashion show.” “Well, she’s not happy unless she’s showing off.” When I came out of my stall, they shut up, and I said, “You were saying?” and drew a line between them and me with the edge in my voice, even as I wished I could say something more cutting. Later, they came up to Tina in the cafeteria like a two-headed monster and said, “Love your outfit,” in a really phony way. But Tina handles catty girls better than me. She’ll say something like “Did you pick out that blouse yourself? Oh, interesting . . .” and it will sound like a compliment until you realize she didn’t say anything positive. She’s basically a genius.
We found Candace standing off to the side, retucking her white T-shirt into her denim cutoffs. She looked pinched and tense, and I realized her boobs looked different.
“Are you not wearing a bra?” I asked her.
“I taped them,” she said. “My brothers said it would hurt if I had to run and I was only wearing a bra. I really hope we don’t have to run.”
“Taped them?” Tina asked. “And that’s less painful?”
Candace put a palm over each of her boobs and shifted them. “I didn’t ask for these,” she said. “But they’re my responsibility.”
“For once, I’m happy to be flat,” I said.
“No you’re not,” Candace said.
I flipped her off, because it was true.
“What is Lynn wearing?” Tina used her chin to subtly gesture to Lynn Bandis, who was so built that rumors had gone around school that she’d signed a contract with Hugh Hefner to be a centerfold in Playboy as soon as she turned eighteen. She had on some gold shorts that looked like they had been spray-painted onto her body, and a crop top that exposed most of her torso as she did graceful stretches. Compared to her and Tina, I probably looked like the squat round Kewpie doll my dad had won for me at a carnival once. I’d thrown it away because it gave me nightmares.
“More than she has to,” Candace said. “Girl could walk around naked and no one would be upset about it.”
“It seems unfair,” I said, watching as Lynn touched her toes. Her best friend, Marie Quinn, who was wearing shorts similar to mine with a tight red T-shirt, mirrored her stretch. Marie wasn’t as pretty as Lynn, but boys liked her almost equally. They seemed like a set, Lynn and Marie, but where Lynn could be aloof, even icy, Marie had a quick sense of humor and never seemed tongue-tied around guys. “I don’t think Lynn ever went through an awkward stage. She was just born like that.”
“That had to be weird for her mom,” Tina joked.
“You look cute,” Candace said, snapping the waistband of my shorts. “Your butt is as nice as hers, if that’s how Mr. McMann is picking the team.”
“Bobby wouldn’t do that,” I scolded her, in the same grave tone I used with Randy, a seven-year-old monster I babysat.