I tightened my messenger bag against my back, while Chip unchained his bike and got helmeted up.
I led the way to Mindspace, this little coffee shop about a mile away from Chapel Hill High School, in the opposite direction from home. It only sat about ten people, so if you didn’t get there at the right time you might not be able to get seats.
I was categorically opposed to drinking coffee, but I actually liked the smell of the roaster they kept going pretty much all the time at Mindspace. And I liked the way the roaster kept the whole shop warm, especially on rainy days. The sound was a nice constant white noise that made it easier to study.
The best part, though, was that Mindspace carried Rose City Teas. It was the only place close to school to get a reliable cup of tea, unless I carried my own with me.
(I mean, I did carry my own with me, but it was nice not to need it.)
I got in line while Chip made a beeline for the Good Table: a polished mahogany dining room table butted up against one wall, with a bench on one side and mismatched chairs with red cushions on the other. Chip grabbed one cushioned seat and set his bag in the other to save it for me.
I ordered a cup of Ali Shan (an excellent Chinese oolong) for me and a Mocha for Chip, and grabbed a couple of napkins to wipe down the Good Table before we got to work.
“What’ve you got?” Chip asked as I pulled out my tablet.
“Algebra II.”
“Algebra II was the worst.”
“Still is.”
Chip nodded and sipped his Mocha. He pulled out his own tablet, popped in his earbuds, and got to work.
* * *
Here’s the thing: I’m still not entirely sure how I ended up doing homework with Cyprian Cusumano at Mindspace several days a week. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how we ended up friends.
Growing up, Chip had teased me almost as much as Trent did. And then somehow, after I got back from Iran, things changed. Chip started being nice to me. He said hi in the halls, and we hung out at practice, and we biked home together—Chip’s house was in the same direction as mine—and talked about soccer or homework or whatever.
One day after practice, when we both had American Lit essays to work on, Chip asked if I wanted to work on them together, and I had suggested Mindspace, and somehow, a tradition was born.
I kind of liked hanging out and doing homework with Chip.
I don’t know why, but I did.
That’s normal.
Right?
* * *
Chip and I got back to the locker room at six o’clock.
My stomach felt like it had a small neutron star in it.
He squeezed my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nodded and rubbed my hand against the back of my head.
I still wasn’t used to the bristly feeling back there. It felt good.
Relaxing, even.
“You look kind of green.”
“Just nerves, I guess.”
Chip grinned at me. “You’ll do great.”
“Thanks.”
I got changed into my kit—crimson and black for our home games—and sat on the bench to lace up my cleats.
Next to me, Gabe peeled off his sweater. I kept my eyes on my cleats, because Gabe was pretty good-looking, his stomach flat and brown with a little bit of hair right above his waistline, and it was kind of distracting.
Besides, I was dating Landon. So it was wrong to look at another guy. Wasn’t it?
“Is your boy coming to the game?”
My cheeks heated. “Landon? No, he’s got band rehearsal. Mom and Dad are, though. And my sister.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger. She’s nine.”
“Cool.” Gabe sat next to me to pull his own cleats on. I stood up and stretched, then turned away for a second to make sure I was arranged okay in my compression shorts.
Chafing was no joke.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
HOT BEVERAGE POD EXTRACTION DEVICE
My old gym teacher, Coach Fortes, was the one who convinced me to try out for the soccer team, but over the summer his wife had gotten a job in Eastern Washington, so he followed her there.
Coach Bentley had been hired to replace him (and to teach History and Citizenship). She was a Black woman with warm, dark skin, a shaved head, and the kind of face that could go from glowing praise to nuclear rage in less than a second, especially if she thought you weren’t giving a hundred percent out on the field.
At her last school she led her teams to multiple Oregon State Championships, and now she was determined to make Chapel Hill High School Soccer a name to be feared. She had the determination of a Klingon warrior and the analytical prowess of a Vulcan scholar.
As I warmed up, kicking a ball back and forth with Chip, she kept shouting at us.
“Faster feet! Faster feet!”
I nodded and sped up our drill.
I was pretty sure I liked Coach Bentley.
Really.
But she could be a little intense too.
Across the field, the team from Crestwood High School, Chapel Hill’s district rival, warmed up in their white away kits trimmed with green and yellow.
I never really got the rivalry thing, which I suspected was because of our schools’ football teams, but their mascot was the Spartan, so I was genetically predisposed to dislike them.
Persians (even Fractional ones) and Spartans (even fake ones) are natural enemies. Whole epics have been written about it. Some racist movies too.
Coach Bentley blew her whistle. “All right, Chargers, circle up!”
Circling up is this thing Coach Bentley has us do before practices and games. We convene behind our goal and stand in a circle, arms crossed, holding hands with the people on either side of us. And we each go around in a circle, saying something nice a teammate did for us.
Coach Bentley brought it with her from her old school. She said it’s to promote team unity and fight the cult of toxic masculinity in sports.
I ended up between Chip and Gabe, across from Coach Bentley, who went first: “When we started off this season, you didn’t know me and I didn’t know you. But you welcomed me, and now we’re about to win our first game. I’m proud of you all.”
We went clockwise from there: Guys described favors someone did, notes shared, advice on footwork, even being a wingman for getting a date.
When it got to Chip, he said, “Ricky loaned me his charger when my tablet was about to die. Thanks, Ricky.” Ricky, our left wingback, nodded from across the circle.