Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters Page 3

  The coaches assign some girls to set up cones for drills, and I join a bunch of friends from my old team in line. Ana Blau, who was one of our starting forwards in eighth grade, leans in and whispers, “I still can’t believe Jemma is gone. You must be pretty psyched, huh?”

  I smile at her and shrug.

  Ana’s best friend, Keri, says, “Well, I’m psyched. It’ll be a nice change not to have to huddle under a sweatshirt in the locker room so she doesn’t make fun of my boobs or whatever.”

  “Let’s just say I think we will all have a splendid year and leave it at that,” I say loftily. Keri and Ana laugh.

  “You gonna go for left—”

  “Pay attention!” a mean-looking girl (who has clearly never come into contact with a much-needed pair of tweezers) snaps at us. Yeesh. This isn’t the army, for Pete’s sake. Chill out.

  A coach blows her whistle, so we shut up and get ready for drills. Passing to the other line down the field, sprinting and shooting on the goal, speed ladders … it’s exhausting, but I’m so pumped up with adrenaline that I kind of coast along. I think the coach who’s working with our group has noticed me, because she keeps putting me in the line with the faster runners each round. And I only missed once on goal, which is pretty good.

  After about a thousand hours of drills, we get divided up into groups for scrimmages; Ana is on my team, which is great, because I know how she plays. We get our pinnies—disgusting yellow mesh vests that go on over our shirts—and line up. I’m playing right wing, which is fine. The important thing is to stand out. I desperately want to avoid getting stuck on third string, which is basically the team for everyone who didn’t make JV. Usually all freshmen and maybe a sophomore or two.

  Third string does not fit into my plan for the year.

  We get the whistle to start, and the girl I’m guarding, Sara, is the fastest runner I’ve ever seen—I can barely keep up with her. Of course, she’s also about six inches taller than I am, which definitely gives her an edge.

  I decide to try a different strategy about halfway through the game and go way back toward my team’s goal instead of chasing her. When the goalie blocks a shot, it goes flying right to me. I stop it with my knee, snag the ball, and just GO GO GO down the field on the opposite side. Yessssss!

  I’m running like crazy and I just know Sara is on top of me but I pass to Ana and keep going and she crosses it back to me and I kick as hard as I can on an angle—YESSSSSSSSSSS!!!! I accept high fives from my teammates as I jog off the field. There’s no way the coach won’t consider me for JV now. Maybe even varsity, which would be crazy incredible. I’m so psyched I can barely keep still, but Ana and Keri and I sit together to watch some of the other groups play. I’m pleased to note that Ms. Crazy Eyebrows is not very good—hopefully she’ll end up on third string and I won’t get stuck being snarled at by her for the rest of the season.

  The following Monday, after a rousing debate in econ with Danny “Meat-Scented For Your Horror” Zifner over whether making a poster with colored markers is too juvenile (it is), I ditch my books and head with Em and Cass to the cafeteria for lunch. On the way, we see a crowd of kids around the bulletin board where they post notices and stuff, all looking very excited. Could they have posted team rosters already? The older kids started tryouts before the first day of school, so maybe …

  All of a sudden I’m really nervous. What if the coach didn’t notice me at all? What if I do make JV but I’m the worst one on the team and instead of starting I end up on the bench all season, totally humiliated? What if—

  “Let’s go look!” Em says excitedly, and she and Cass start to shove me forward.

  “Kels, this is your big moment! Get up there!” Cass exclaims. She and Em are giving me huge, encouraging smiles, so I take a deep breath, tell myself, This is your year of greatness! Pull it together, Finkelstein! and elbow up toward the board.

  Field hockey, football, and tennis are up there, too, so the crowd is pretty intense. Luckily they list girls and guys separately or I’d probably get squashed by some overexcited linebacker. I’m almost to the board when I spot Ana in the front of the mob, giving me a thumbs-up. My heart leaps—does that mean she made it, or I did, or both? Or is she just doing weird thumb exercises that are totally unrelated to soccer? I push farther forward so I can finally see the list. I quickly skim the varsity team—all junior and senior names from what I can tell. No surprises there. On to junior varsity …

  I MADE IT!

  I’m so relieved, I almost forget I’m in the middle of a surging crowd of kids, some of whom are looking decidedly pissed off. I’m leaning in for a second look to see which of my friends also made JV—and who didn’t—when, right beside me, I hear, “It’s total BS, doll. I mean, obviously you deserved to make varsity this year. The coach is a moron.”

  I turn to look and it’s this theater guy that I recognize from pictures of plays hanging in the hallway. He’s got to be a junior or a senior, and he’s wearing a lot of guyliner and all black clothes. And he’s talking to the obnoxious girl with the eyebrow wigs from tryouts.

  Crap. Does this mean she’s on JV with me?

  “Do you mind?” she snaps now, breaking my train of thought. “I’m trying to get to my locker!” Before I can even respond, she pushes past me.

  Well, I guess I know whom to root for to win MVP at the sports assembly this year.

  I wend my way back to Cass and Em, who can tell by my face that I made the team, and we all take a second to flail around with excitement. Then we remember that as freshmen we should call as little attention to ourselves as possible, and slink off to the cafeteria to meet JoJo.

  As I’m clutching my tray (carrot and raisin salad as a side? Really?) and scanning the tables for available seats, I see Ana and Keri waving us over. Ana made JV, too, which is so fantastic. Unfortunately, Keri got on third string. Not that it’s the end of the world—we’re only lowly frosh, after all—but I know how disappointed I would have been, so we do our best to cheer her up.

  I’m telling them about my exchange at the bulletin board, scanning the room till I can point out drama guy and our new super-friendly teammate. Ana says, “Oh, her. Yeah, that’s Julie Nelson. She sucks, but she’s a junior, which is the only reason she got on JV at all.”

  “She looks scary,” Keri adds, smiling for the first time. “And if she’s a junior, she’ll probably end up being captain. Good luck, you guys.”

  “She’s in my Spanish class and she is scary,” Cass informs us. “Also terrible at Spanish, obviously. But she’s really popular. I heard her parents are loaded and she has these big parties, so everyone basically worships her even though she’s a jerk.”

  “Ah, the mysteries of pseudo-adulthood …,” JoJo says, biting into something unidentifiable on her tray.

  “So now what? She hates me!” I groan.

  “Say something friendly to her,” Em suggests. “You know, be casual but nice. Look—she’s back in line, so go get a soda or something and say hi.”

  This seems a bit pathetic, but I figure it’s worth a shot. Everyone in the world likes Em, so I trust her advice. I get up and join the line, and when Julie is walking past me, I touch her arm to get her attention.

  She whips around like I burned her, glaring. She’s at least five inches taller than I am and has huge linebacker shoulders. Everything she’s wearing is straight out of a magazine, and she’s got a Prada purse slung over her shoulder, which makes her frizzy hair and ungroomed eyebrows even more baffling—you’d think she’d have a stylist or something. Maybe she’s afraid of waxing? Speaking of the eyebrows, they look even bushier than they did before. What if they leap off her face and attack me? Yipes.

  “Oh, hey, Julie, uh, I’m Kelsey,” I stutter. “Just wanted to say, um, I’m really psyched that you’re on my soccer team, and—”

  She stares at me like I just murdered her whole family and growls, “Oh, I didn’t realize it was your soccer team. I’ll be sure to keep that
in mind, freshman.”

  Then she stomps off, probably to tell the whole school about the conversation and make everyone think I’m some kind of stuck-up jerk. What the eff? I slide back in next to JoJo at our table and she goes, “Well, that looked like a successful chat. Do you want your carrot salad, by the way?”

  I hand over the disgusting salad. “I just said it was cool we’re both on JV and she had a total attack or something. What is her problem? And what do I do now—any more helpful suggestions? Anyone?”

  I look across the caf and notice Julie talking feverishly to her tablemates and pointing in my direction. Em squeezes my arm. “Maybe she just got dumped and is feeling extra sensitive.”

  “Who would date her?” JoJo asks through a mouthful of shredded carrot. “She wears too much makeup. And so does her pal Ned, for that matter.”

  “What? Who’s Ned?” I ask.

  “The guy next to her in all black, Ned Garman. He’s, like, the big drama guy in the senior class,” Cass gushes. “I can’t wait to be in a show with him. He takes acting classes at—”

  “Oh, that guy. Right.” I take a bite of my lunch. Bad idea. “Seems weird that a Park Avenue princess is hanging out with a Gothy theater dude, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, they’ve been best friends forever. He’s loaded, too—just trying to piss off his parents, probably,” Keri says.

  I glance back toward Julie’s table. Ned is laughing hysterically at what Julie is saying and waving his hands around like a loon. “Great. He’s probably got an even bigger mouth than Julie does. Now I’m gonna have to be on damage control for the rest of the day and, possibly, my life.”

  “Probably she just feels bad about being one of the only juniors on JV and thought you were rubbing it in,” Em reassures me. “I’m sure she’ll forget all about it.”

  Cass jerks her head in Julie’s direction. “Or … maybe not.”

  Julie has gotten up and passes by our table with some friends in tow, including Ned. Julie sneers, “See you at your practice, Kelsey. Thanks so very much for letting me attend.”

  I feel like putting my head in a vat of tar and leaving it there forever. But I’m going to have to make the best of it. I mean, I set a goal for myself (no pun intended) and I’m not going to let some bitter junior with a grooming problem screw it all up for me. I will soldier on! I can overcome this hurdle!

  “Hey, Kels,” JoJo says, interrupting my inner pep talk. “Uh, is this you?”

  She holds up a copy of The Reflector, our school newspaper. On the front page is an article about the first day of the new school year. Under the headline is a picture of a bunch of kids posing with their arms around each other in front of the main building.

  What is JoJo talking about? I never—

  Oh, no.

  In the background of the picture, sort of lurching toward the door, is a girl. A girl who certainly bears a resemblance to me. A girl who is wearing a horrible blazer resplendent with a dragonfly pin. The same blazer that is now in a ball at the bottom of my locker.

  “Yep. That’s me, all right,” I finally admit.

  “Well, you wanted to be noticed.” JoJo is clearly trying very hard not to laugh. “It’s only the second week of school and you already made the front page!”

  5

  Em spent the rest of that week insisting that no one else would ever notice me in the background of the picture and that I shouldn’t worry about it. I personally found it hard to believe that a photo of a girl with gravity-defying bangs whose mouth is hanging open—not to mention sporting the fashion statement of the year, of course—wouldn’t attract some interest, but she was right. (Unless you count JoJo and Cass, who both have copies in their binders for easy reference and dissolve into hysterical laughter every time one or the other brings it up. Hardy har har.) Of course, I did consider hunting down the kid who took the picture and initiating a discussion on the journalistic ethics of candid photography, but since it’s credited simply to STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER, that seems like a lot of investigative work and I just don’t have the energy.

  Week three of my high school career starts off with my mother harassing me all through breakfast. “So, Kels—let’s dish! Who are you hanging out with at lunch? What’s up with Em and the other girls? Any new boys in your classes? How about that cutie Jordan, hmmm? Did you decorate your locker this year or is that ‘so eighth grade’? If I keep asking you these annoying questions, are you going to pull out your eyeballs and hurl them at the ceiling?!”

  I don’t know why she has this insatiable need to know everything about my life. I wish she’d just eat her toast and reminisce to herself about her own high school experience (which apparently revolved around thinking Matthew Broderick was cool and having the world’s most terrifying shoulder-pad collection) and leave me alone. I’m starting to understand why breakfast bars were invented—so you can eat and run away from annoying parents at the same time.

  I escape to school and manage to stay awake until 3:15. Then I head to my first official JV soccer practice. As I approach the field, I send up a silent prayer: Please, please let Julie Nelson have forgotten all about me so I can get back to being psyched about the team and having a killer season. And let me get picked to start. As left wing. Please?

  The other girls and I spread out on the field, stretching, lacing up cleats, and catching up on the gossip from the weekend. Our coach, Ms. Cantwell, comes over, tapping on her clipboard.

  “Okay, girls,” she grunts. “Welcome, congratulations, et cetera. Let’s get to work.”

  We all go to grab a ball from the big bags and start warming up. I do my best to avoid Julie Nelson’s evil eye.

  After a while, the coach calls us back in and we sit on the grass. “Is everyone drinking enough water?” she asks. We nod. “Good. That’s important. Now, let’s go ahead and pick a team captain. Responsibilities include assisting me, posting game schedules, blah blah blah …”

  I exchange a look with Ana. We know what’s coming next. Some girl raises her hand like she heard they’re giving away free money and practically shouts, “I nominate Julie!” Ana rolls her eyes at me, and I almost laugh, but since I’m trying to be on my best behavior, I manage to hold it in.

  The team takes a vote; every single person votes for Julie, including me. I feel like I’ve helped seal my own coffin, but I would definitely make things worse by being the only person not voting for her. So I’m hoping she will see the proverbial white flag I’ve waved and let bygones be bygones.

  Julie jumps up and starts making an acceptance speech like she just won an Oscar or something. As I’m thinking about what homework I have to do tonight, I notice a blond girl jogging over to our group from across the field. I’ve never seen her before, and believe me—I’d remember her.

  You know those moments in movies when the gorgeous babe walks past a pool or something and a song comes on and everything suddenly goes into slow motion? This girl could be in that moment. She must be in high school since she’s here, but she could easily pass for at least twenty-two. She looks like a model: perfect, delicate features, long blond hair, and a tiny diamond in her right nostril. Her legs are about as long as my entire body, and she’s smiling like someone just told her she won the “World’s Whitest Teeth” contest.

  She saunters over to Coach Cantwell and they have a short conversation. Julie is still droning on about how terrific she’ll be as captain when Cantwell interrupts her.

  “Okay, girls—this is Lexi Bradley. She’s a freshman like some of you and just moved here from Los Angeles. Now, she’s gonna be on JV with us even though she missed tryouts; she was All-American at her junior high school. Make her feel welcome!”

  Wait a sec. Did Cantwell say Lexi BRADLEY? As in Jemma Bradley?!

  Surely it’s a coincidence.

  “All right, count off for scrimmage!” the coach hollers, and Julie is suddenly looming into my field of vision.

  “Snap out of it, freshman! Don’t want your team star
ting without you, do you?” she sneers. Well, great. So much for the proverbial white flag.

  As I scramble to my feet, I overhear Lexi saying, “Yeah, she’s my cousin. I guess it’s kind of like I’m taking her place, right?”

  Cue adorable giggle.

  WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!

  6

  It only takes a single day for me to realize that Lexi is way too busy being admired to even notice me shooting her death-ray looks across every hallway and classroom. She has a lot on her plate, after all, what with crossing and uncrossing her endless legs in their $250 jeans, giggling, and flipping her perfect, evil, cascading blond locks.

  Not that I’m spending all my time watching Lexi. Most of the time I watch Jordan Rothman watching her. Day by day, my meticulously imagined future with him slips away from me like a helium balloon on a windy day.

  At lunch on Wednesday, Em says to me, “Kels, you should give Lexi a chance. I mean, she’s in my math class and she’s actually really nice. Besides, you don’t know that Jordan is interested in her. Or that she even likes him! Maybe he’s just trying to figure out the best way to ask you out and it’s taking a while to, you know …”

  “Well, Kels, you’d better get in there,” JoJo interrupts. “Lexi is hot.”

  Cass, Em, and I exchange a look around the table. JoJo looks up from her hummus and avocado sandwich when we don’t say anything. “What? Well, she is.”

  “She is definitely hot,” I agree. “It just doesn’t seem fair. No one our age should look that good! I bet she’s a narc.”

  I will admit (reluctantly) that Lexi really is a good soccer player, so she didn’t get on the team just for being gorgeous and popular. And she’s a forward, so at least I’ve kept my position—for now. I’m still hoping I’ll get to be in the starting lineup, but with the first game coming up in no time at all, you never know what could happen.