I managed to kill seven minutes standing on line for a slice of pizza and an apple juice. I’m half-tempted to find a corner to lean against and eat on the run. The only person in this entire room I sorta know is June, and that’s only because my mom reached out to the school’s parent group to find me friends before we moved. June emailed me a few times before I got here, and insisted I show up for her New Year’s party.
The New Year’s party, scene of my first mistake with Cannon Jennings. He dropped a clue when we first met, told me he moved out here to play ball with his cousin. I was so charmed by his unbelievably handsome face that I didn’t put the facts together that playing ball was what I was here for, too. That we’d be playing ball together. Teammates.
I’m about to go for the wall-leaning option when my gaze lands on a waving hand. June’s smile is like a lighthouse in a really foggy sea. I don’t know why I feel so intimidated by the students here. I think it’s because the culture is so different. Back home, my friends were loud. And new people were rare. We all grew up together, and everybody knew everybody else. The only time things got sticky was when I started high school at Xavier. There was a sense of privilege there, a thread of extremely conservative traditions—that’s not how the Taylor household runs. We’re not hippies, but we’re definitely progressive. Hell, my dad sees no reason I can’t play D1 baseball. I know the realities, though, so I’m aiming for a two-year school, to keep baseball in my heart a little longer. If I have to give in and switch to softball for a full ride somewhere, then so be it.
June kicks a chair out to make room for me when I get close to her table. She’s chewing a bite from her sandwich, so she cups her mouth to talk.
“This is Lola.” She points above the head of a really pretty blonde girl with magazine-style beach waves.
“Hi,” she squeaks before puckering her lips around the straw of her soda. She smiles around it. She seems sweet.
“Hi, I’m Hollis. I like your hair,” I say, pointing at it.
“Oh, thanks,” she says with a giggle, pulling a few of the strands out to the side and glancing at her periphery. Her eyes are more white than blue at this point. She’s funny. “I have one of those curling irons that basically does all the work for you. I just hold my hand in the air while I eat breakfast, and voila!”
“Cool,” I say, unscrewing the cap from my juice. I turn it over to read the words on the inside, a weird habit I’ve been doing ever since I had my first Snapple. I like it when companies leave you with little positive messages. There’s nothing on this cap but an inspection number, though. Guess I’m glad it was inspected.
“I can do your hair sometime, if you want,” Lola says, bringing my attention back to her. I laugh out some of my juice and catch the dribble at my chin with my long sleeve.
“Sorry,” I say, coughing out the last of the choke. “I’m just, well, I’m a lot of work.”
I pull my hair down from the makeshift bun I made while waiting on the pizza line. Jagged curls flop in various directions, and several strands jut straight out from my shoulder. Lola reaches toward me with a fork and combs out the wildest pieces. I’m left stunned, eyes wide and brows high.
“Nah, my magic curling iron can do anything. We’ll try it sometime.” She tosses the fork-turned-comb onto June’s tray and sits back in her chair, seeming satisfied, and once again wraps her lips around her straw, drawing in a long sip.
“Okay,” I relent, running my fingers through my hair a few more times to get the wild strays away from my face.
“So, how’s your first day?” June asks. Once again I laugh, this time mid-bite. I cover my mouth with a napkin and finish chewing.
“Oh, it’s been epic,” I say, sparking their intrigue. Both lean in, eyebrows drown into Vs.
“Well, let’s see. I’m taking an English class that is the exact same curriculum I just finished in New York, and because of my late transfer, the only credited elective I could get into was culinary. I hate cooking, and I hate cleaning dirty dishes more.”
They both scrunch their faces to echo my disappointment.
“Sorry. That sucks,” June empathizes. They both lean back, I think a little disappointed in my definition of epic, but I draw them back in with my last bullet point.
“Oh! And do you guys know Cannon Jennings?”
The flat-lined mouths and blinking eyes staring back at me tell me they do, and that their impression matches mine.
“Right, well, so . . . he’s an ass.” I sum him up neatly, not going into all the details. I don’t need to bore my new friends—my only friends—with baseball politics and details of a sexist sports culture. My assertion seems to be on point, because within a blink they’re sharing their experiences with him.
“He literally patted me on the head once when I was sitting next to him at a basketball game. I was trying to get to know him and asked a question about the game. He turned to me with an open palm and patted me like a puppy.” Lola’s innocent features are suddenly fierce, a bit of a snarl to her lips; I like her even more.
“He led my friend Abby on for weeks, but then she got tired of his games,” June says. “It all worked out because now she’s filming a movie in Toronto, and thinks she’s totally meant to be with someone else.”
“You said games,” I echo, picking up on that word especially. “What do you mean, games?”
June shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich, glancing up in search of an example.
“Okay, so like, when he’s at a party or hanging out with the guys, he acts one way, but then when you get him on his own, he’s totally a different person. He held my friend’s hand and cuddled up to her at parties then ignored her existence the next day. Abby says he’s moody, and I think that’s the best description. Maybe he’s only chill when he’s buzzed at a kegger. I don’t know.”
Her examples fit the mold I’ve made for Cannon in my head. Our kiss was a caught-in-the-moment thing, but still, the switch he flipped between attitudes is unreal. Maybe his behavior isn’t all driven by the fact I’m encroaching on his turf. Maybe he’s just a douchebag.
By the time our lunch hour ends, I feel relaxed and a little more accepted. When I look around at the other girls, I still feel as though I stick out in this place, but that’s not going to change. I like high-top shoes without laces and baggy sweatpants, and shirts stolen from my dad’s college collection. I don’t wear bras, unless they are sports bras, opting for camisoles or nothing at all. I want to feel I can breathe under my clothes, and I don’t want to wake up early just to change the girl I am. The only rule I might break is letting Lola curl my hair, and mostly on a dare because I don’t think it can be done. Plus, her hair is pretty freakin’ bomb.
The end of my day is pretty easy. I opted for study hall instead of taking an early release. I did it to be able to take weight training at the end of the day. It was the only way I could avoid spending two full hours hanging out in my dad’s office. It’s bad enough being his daughter, I didn’t need to add to the optics by being glued to his side. I’m riding the high of decent lunch company and the comfort of knowing that tomorrow I will have a place to sit, when the warm fuzzies turn into blistering acid. Cannon is sitting in the back of the study hall room, hat brim tipped down over his forehead to shade his eyes, probably so he can sleep. I recognize a guy from the New Year’s party sitting next to him, one of the twins I’ve heard about. I’m about to slip by unnoticed when the guy’s eyes land on mine, causing him to sit up straight and slap Cannon’s hat from his head.