Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters (6 page)

Oh. My. God.

It’s Jordan Rothman. He’s making a gesture to me like “up and over,” and I realize he’s going to go up the stairs on his side, cross over, and come down to meet me on my side.

I quickly run my tongue over my teeth to make sure there’s no oregano stuck in them—oh, God, why didn’t I check the mirror before I left home?—and before I’m even sure, he’s there, plunking down onto the bench next to me.

He’s still in his soccer uniform and he looks so hot I can’t even deal. What is it about guys who play soccer? They have the best bodies, period. Jordan smells like some kind of spicy men’s deodorant, and his hair is a little sweaty and flopping over his forehead. He’s grinning in that sort of sly way he has and his laser-beam eyes are focused directly on
me.

I am dying. Totally and completely dying on the spot.

I somehow manage to smile (naturally, I hope) and say, “Hey, Jordan, what’s up?” In my head I’m thinking,
Are you as happy as I am now that Jemma has been banished to parts unknown? Oh, and by the way, do you want to marry me?

He says, “Nothing.”

Hmm. Not much of an opening there. Why’d he come over here if he didn’t have something to say?

“That’s cool.”
Oh, brilliant reply, Kelsey. Perfect.

He points to my book. “Man, I can’t believe you’re actually reading that. Ever heard of CliffsNotes?”

“Yeah, it totally sucks,” I say, even though to be honest I kind of like it.
Um … is this going somewhere?
Not that I wouldn’t be happy to just sit here and stare at him until the train comes. Or forever. But still …

“So, anyway … me and my bro are having a Halloween party when the ‘rents are out of town. You should come. Bring your friends or whatever.”

I seriously can’t believe this is happening. It’s like the worst day of my life just became the
best
day of my life. Jordan Rothman just climbed a flight of stairs with the sole purpose of inviting
me
to a party? If the floor of the subway station weren’t so disgusting, I think I’d totally faint.

Clearly this is some kind of sign. This year
is
going to be amazing—I knew it! Sure, the goalie thing is a bit of a hiccup, but I think getting my first real kiss from Jordan on Halloween will totally make up for it. Ah, sweet romance!

The train blasts into the station, so I shout to Jordan that I’ll definitely plan to be there and manage to board the train without doing anything ridiculous like falling over with joy. I’m so psyched that I can’t even read my book during the ride but just sit there staring at an MTA safety poster and imagining what it will be like to be alone with Jordan in the dark.

After envisioning about ten fantastic scenarios, I get off the train and practically float all the way to marvelous Antonio’s, where I retrieve my phone from the darling, thoughtful cashier and turn around to go home again. Life is so delightful, I can’t even believe it.

It isn’t until I’m on the train again that I suddenly think,
Hey, I wonder what Jordan was doing in Brooklyn? He lives on the Upper East Side.

Weird.

9

Julie Nelson is Satan incarnate. If I thought I hated her
before
I was goalie, it’s nothing compared to now.

You know that dream where you have to complete a task—say, piling up rocks or something—but no matter how hard you try, you can’t finish it? That’s what soccer practice is like for me now. I stand for three hours a day, defenseless inside a giant net, while twenty girls kick hard rubber balls at me. And when I’m not doing that, I have to practice falling so I can (presumably) catch ground balls. Want to know what happens if you repeatedly fling yourself onto the ground? Your body is transformed into one giant bruise. I think I’m single-handedly supporting the Advil company at this point.

It’s horrible.

As if my broken body and spirit aren’t punishment enough, I still have to run at the start of practice, which makes approximately zero sense, since all I do is stand there watching my teammates dash around the rest of the time.

It was during our first game, which happened a mere ten days after I was given the news that my soccer career had been basically terminated, that I got to reevaluate a very important rule of the game: If, as goalie, you actually manage to catch the ball—which I miraculously did, exactly one time—the players on the opposing team are allowed to try and
take it from you
by kicking it out of your grasp. This is a rule I liked a lot better when I was on the other side of the net. All I could do was curl myself around the ball and hang on for dear life in a heap on the ground as a million cleats began swishing toward my head.

Oh, and by the way, you know what makes it extra easy to hang on to a slippery round ball?
Padded gloves.
Nothing like giant sock-hands to really give you an edge on the field.

After the game (we lost, of course), Coach Cantwell came up to me, thumped me on one of my mangled arms, and hollered, “Great reaction during that goal catch, Kelsey! Keep it up!” Keep what up, exactly? Following my fight-or-flight instinct?

I am so not cut out for this. I wonder if I could sign up for Ecology Club instead? I like nature….

On Thursday afternoon (also known as Day Thirteen of Goalie Hell), I’m in my last-period English class. Keith Mayhew, my not-so-secret admirer, has spent the entire period distracting me from learning about Puritan adulteresses by covertly sending me funny text messages that I read under my desk.

I’ve just finished scrolling through a quite well written and incredibly rude limerick Keith texted about our teacher when the bell finally rings. I shove everything in my bag and make a break for the door, but there’s no escape—Keith is right there as he always is after this class, trotting alongside me to my locker.

“So, Kels, y’know, you psyched for the game today? I bet you guys win this one,” he says, with about a hundred times more enthusiasm than I feel. “Just don’t think about the pain, y’know? Just throw yourself out there. That’s what I do! Y’know?”

Incidentally, Keith runs track. And unless there’s a new hurling-objects-at-sprinters category that I’m unaware of, I’m pretty sure I do
NOT
know.

“Yeah, thanks, Keith. Look, I have to get into my gear and stuff, so … see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Oh, I’m coming to watch you guys play—me and some of the guys, y’know? Show our school spirit, first home game and whatnot.”

Oh, no. The last thing I want is for anyone to watch
—

“Don’t look all worried. I didn’t make a big ‘Kelsey’ poster or anything.”

Wow. That was something he considered?

“Oh, I didn’t think … um, yeah. So, great, then. I mean, I think it’s not going to be that fun, though. So feel free to leave after about three minutes if you get bored.” I slam my locker closed and grab my stuff. “Seriously, Keith. You don’t—”

“C’mon, Kels, you’re just nervous, y’know? You’ll do great.”

If I hear the words
you
or
know
one more time, I may have to burn the school to the ground. No, that’s unfair—it’s not Keith’s fault. I’m just stressed-out and miserable.

I get to the locker room and change into my goalie gear—as far away from modelesque Lexi as possible, of course—and chat with the other girls a bit. We stretch and then huddle up for Julie’s pregame pep talk, which ends with a charming “And Kelsey, try to catch something today, okay? Thanks much.”

Sigh.

As I head for my net of despair, I hear my name being yelled. I look out to the bleachers and see Keith and some of his friends sitting with Em and JoJo. I wave at them, wondering where Cass is. Maybe she had an acting lesson? Or went to check out the guys’ game on the other side of the field?

The whistle blasts, starting the game, and all my teammates spring into motion. As Lexi smoothly commandeers the ball, I stand there watching as the action quickly zips to the other end of the field. Well, good. The opposing team is rumored to be pretty terrible, so maybe my teammates will spend the whole time harassing
their
goalie and I can take a nice nap. Or perhaps make a festive dandelion chain.

About forty-five minutes later, we’re making mincemeat out of them; the score is 6–0, and I haven’t had the ball anywhere near me yet. Since I’ve essentially been a spectator this whole time, I’m actually enjoying myself—cheering my head off for my team and anticipating the delicious celebratory cupcakes we’re sure to be eating after the game.

Suddenly, some horrible middy on the other team has the nerve to take control of the ball and actually gets past our defense. She’s running right toward me and no one is on her.

Hello? This is no time to get lax, people! Don’t you know there is no way I can stop her from scoring if she gets over here? Have we learned nothing from practice?!

I try to look intimidating as sweat rolls into my eyes. Great—now one of my contact lenses is all blurry. I ignore it and start sashaying awkwardly from side to side inside the goal. God, I suck at being goalie.

I can practically feel the girl breathing on me. My teammates are scrambling to catch up … they’re close … but not close enough.

The girl kicks.

She catches the ball with her toe instead of the flat of her foot—and it’s arcing like a basketball instead of going straight. I run underneath it, reach out, pray …

And catch it!

I caught something! And it was a ball! In your face, Julie Nelson!

My team freaks out, as do my friends in the stands. I turn my back for a sec so they don’t all see me grinning my face off—after all, I still don’t have any interest in being goalie—and suddenly, I’m flat on the ground.

I think my spine may be broken in several places. I can’t breathe, so I drop the ball, which rolls into the goal. I hear a whistle and the ref yelling, “Time-out!”

Then our center forward, a sophomore named Steli, is hauling me up to my feet. I can hear one of the other girls screaming somewhere behind me, “Are you crazy? She cleated her right in the back! That’s a totally illegal goal! What the hell, Ref?!”

“Did that girl
kick
me?” I wheeze.

Ana comes over and hands me some water. “Yeah, that bitch,” Steli is saying. “And she didn’t even get a yellow card! That team must be connected to the ref or something. You okay?”

“Yeah, I think I just got the wind knocked out of me.” I glance over to the stands and see Em and JoJo looking in my direction nervously, miming that they want to come make sure I’m okay. I wave at them to let them know I am. Keith is making a gesture I can only assume means “Don’t think about the pain, y’know?” but could just as easily mean “I’m a harmonica chicken!”

As my lungs start working again, I notice the scoreboard now reads 6–1.
What?!
“They gave them the goal? That’s so unfair!”

“I know,” Ana agrees, fuming. “Cantwell is arguing. We’ll still win the game, though, don’t worry. There’s only a few minutes left.”

I’m reconciling the fact that, since there’s no sub for me, I’m going to have to get back in the stupid net and finish the game, when Captain Julie comes storming in my direction. She looks furious, and I’m guessing it’s not because she’s upset that I got injured.

“Kelsey! Do you realize we could’ve had our first shutout if you hadn’t dropped the ball
again
? The team is counting on you to guard the goal and you
suck
at it!”

Very nice. Do I have to respond to this?

“Julie, Kelsey just got kicked in the back! No one could’ve held on to that ball,” Steli says, rushing to my defense.

“Was I talking to you? Get back to your position.” Julie glares at me. “You know, I took a chance giving you Katie’s spot as goalie and you’re totally screwing it up. I have no idea why Cantwell put you on JV. Seriously.”

I open my mouth, ready to throw caution to the wind (she already hates me, so what harm can it do?) and say something along the lines of
I didn’t want this stupid job, you jerk!
but before I can go through with it, the whistle blows and Julie stomps off back to her position.

And so ends another terrific day in the life of Kelsey Finkelstein, Goalie Extraordinaire. Hooray.

10

“But, Kels, there are
five
Village People,” Cassidy insists, reaching past me for another bottle of Smirnoff Ice. “We can’t just have four. That would be like … weird.”

I take a swig out of my bottle and grimace. It’s sickly sweet, but it gets the job done. Anyway, it’s what Cass’s older brother Nathan had leftover from some party last week, and it was free, so we’ll take it.

We’re in Cass’s room on Saturday night; we were supposed to go out and do something awesome, except we couldn’t think of anything. None of us besides JoJo has a fake ID, and even if we did, we don’t have enough money to go anywhere cool. Contrary to what TV producers seem to think, fourteen-year-olds aren’t exactly sought after in the world of NYC nightlife.

Besides—I just want to forget all about the horrible game two days ago and think about Halloween, Jordan’s party, and hooking up. Not necessarily in that order.

“Cass,” I counter, “unless you want to be the weird motorcycle guy or can find someone who does, we’re having four. Come on—no one will know the difference! And female Village People is such a killer idea. You know you want to wear a sexy feather headdress.”

Actually,
I
want to wear a sexy feather headdress. But sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get a concept together.

JoJo snickers. She’s lying facedown on Cass’s bed, sifting through a makeup bag full of Manic Panic bottles. She picks out an orange one and rolls it between her palms. “I’m being the Cowgirl,” she declares. “I found these crazy leather chaps of my mom’s in a random trunk last week, and they’re hilarious. What about you, Em?”

“I’m okay with whatever,” Em murmurs, her thumbs moving a mile a minute on the keyboard of her phone. She’s been texting James constantly all night.