I’ve thought through what I need to tell my daughter countless times. I’ve replayed certain scenes from my past so often it feels as if I’ve imprinted them in the grooves of my mind. The details I need to share with Catherine are as familiar to me as if they unspooled just last week instead of nearly twenty-five years ago.
Once I unclip a pen from my apron pocket and finally begin to write, it’s as if I’ve stored the words in a memory cloud, and they’re now gently raining down on me. It makes the task I’ve dreaded for so long as simple as taking dictation.
I’ve been thinking about where to begin, and I guess I’ll start with the day I met your … See, I’m already getting tripped up. He isn’t your dad. A father changes your diapers and teaches you how to ride a bike and reads you stories. He never did any of that.
James. His name is James.
I met him on the hottest day of the year, in August, right at the start of my junior year of high school.
The main thing you need to know about my high school is that, socially, it was run by a Queen Bee named Brittany. Her mom was the ringleader of the school moms.
Apple from the tree and all that.
Brittany and I were friends up until the ninth grade, when I grew boobs first and got asked to the Homecoming dance before she did. Brittany didn’t authorize that turn of events, and next thing I knew, I was uninvited to a group sleepover at her house.
I didn’t mind all that much. Being Brittany’s friend was a lot of work. There were rules involved. You had to love Madonna but not Whitney Houston. You were required to sit at a certain table in the lunchroom. For some reason, wearing a sweatshirt inside out was a thing. Brittany did it one day, then the next day so did half the girls in our class.
Brittany might have been content to quietly exile me, but there was one other thing she didn’t authorize.
I was the best dancer on our school’s Poms squad.
You know how some people can hear a song once and play it back on the piano? It’s like that with me and dancing. I don’t even have to think about it—my body just mimics whatever moves I see and comes up with new ones all its own.
Did I mention Brittany was on the team, too? So were her wannabes. And of course, Brittany’s mom, Mrs. Davis, was the parent liaison for the team. Mrs. Davis organized the fundraiser that paid for our trip to the state competitions and sat in the bleachers with her gaggle of hangers-on at practices and games.
On that blistering hot mid-August afternoon, there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, and sweat molded my T-shirt to my body. We had to try out every year, even if we were on the team the previous year. Because our coach was out on maternity leave, Mr. Franklin, who was our school’s music teacher, had been pressured by the principal to take over as interim coach. Mr. Franklin didn’t seem very happy about it.
Over the summer I’d taught myself to do an aerial—that’s a no-handed cartwheel—so I threw one into my performance. A few girls clapped when I did it, then stopped abruptly, like they’d suddenly remembered they weren’t supposed to.
When tryouts ended, I went to grab my water bottle from where I’d tossed it onto the edge of the bright-green AstroTurf. My mouth was so dry it hurt.
I uncapped the bottle and tilted my head back, desperate to gulp down some water.
Nothing came out.
I dropped my empty bottle and walked back to rejoin the others, a smile on my face.
I never gave Brittany the satisfaction of a reaction. I didn’t do it whenever I found the word slut written in lipstick across my locker, or got summoned to the principal’s office because he’d been told I was selling weed, or overheard Brittany stage-whispering to her lunch table that my mother was a drunk.
That one was true, by the way. My mom—your grandma—was usually half in the bag by the time she finished her lunchtime wine, which is why I got a used car for my sixteenth birthday. My dad didn’t want her driving me or my little brother Timmy when she was under the influence, so I was the one who took us to and from school.
More on that later, though.
I stood at the edge of the pack of girls who’d tried out, dizzy from dehydration in the blazing sun, listening as Coach read out the names of everyone who’d made the varsity team. It was just a formality. Five girls who’d been on the team last year had graduated, and the best five girls from JV were going to move up. There were twelve spots on the varsity squad in total.
Still, every time Coach called out a name, Brittany squealed and threw her arms around the girl like they’d both won the lottery.
Coach went through eight names alphabetically, then got to the spot where my name should have been.
He called someone else’s instead.
I took a half step forward, a protest rising in my throat.
Don’t react, my mind commanded.
It held me back a millisecond before I spoke up. I decided to wait, to let this play out. If Brittany and Mrs. Davis and Coach Franklin—who I was already convinced was half in love with Mrs. Davis, judging from the way he kept sneaking looks at her—were trying to have me cut from the team, I’d find a way to fight it. I couldn’t do it here, not when I was so outnumbered.
Coach called the tenth name. The girl next to me turned to stare. I couldn’t tell if she was innocent or in on it. She was one of the JV girls who was moving up, which meant Brittany probably hadn’t gotten her claws into her yet, but just to be safe, I avoided her eyes and kept my face expressionless.
We were nearing the end of the alphabet.
Coach announced the eleventh name. It wasn’t mine.
Brittany’s squeal seemed even louder this time.
My cheeks were burning in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. I could hear a few girls murmuring, but I wasn’t close enough to understand what they were saying.
Coach banged his clipboard against his leg and told us that anyone who didn’t make varsity would be considered for JV. He said if we were on the varsity squad we should stay put. Everyone else could leave.
The girls who didn’t make it gathered their things and began to climb the bleachers. Brittany tilted back her neck and sipped from her water bottle, watching me from beneath her eyelashes.
I wasn’t going to retreat. If Coach was trying to cut me from the team, he’d have to tell me to go.
One of the girls who was moving up from JV—a seemingly nice one who wore glasses and smiled a lot—spoke up, telling Coach he’d only called eleven names.
Coach tried to look surprised. He was a terrible actor.
He made a production out of checking his clipboard and running his finger down the list. Then he called the names of all twelve teammates—and this time my name was in its rightful spot.
For whatever the reason—maybe Brittany or Mrs. Davis had whispered lies about me to him—Coach was messing with me to let me know the score. He was my enemy, too.
Still, when I tell you my whole body unclenched, it was an understatement. I wasn’t a great student—my mild case of dyslexia can make reading a chore—and I couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument or soar over track hurdles. Plus, I’m pretty sure being on Poms was the only thing that kept me from being swept to the bottom rung of the social ladder at school.
And it kept me out of the house every afternoon, which meant less time around my mother, who went from giddy to morose to mean in the hours between lunch and dinner.