Babe in Boyland (11 page)

I swallow hard. “Maybe.”

He sighs. “Yeah, well, anyway. That’s what I like, and I’m sticking to it.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“For what?”

“For being honest.”

He rearranges his pillow roughly, flips over, and faces the wall. “If we’re going to be roomies we might as well try to get along.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “We might as well.”

Chapter Eleven

I
n the morning, I wake up a little after six, creep silently to the bathroom, and take a shower in the far stall. Nobody else seems to be up yet, thank God. I towel off quickly and reluctantly pull on my double-ply too-small sports bras, the undershirt, and my tighty whiteys. Just add sock. Then I dress in the borrowed uniform and try for ten frustrating minutes to tie the tie. It’s incredibly complicated. All I manage is a lame, lopsided knot that looks like a kindergartener’s effort with a shoelace.

I come out of the stall, still rubbing my wet hair with a towel, wondering if I should use mousse in it or if that would seem too girly.

“You’re a morning person too, huh?”

I scream. Okay, totally out of proportion to the situation, but I can’t help it—I thought I was alone. Not only do I scream, I also jump like three feet into the air.

“Whoa.” Tyler gives me an alarmed look. “What the hell was that?”

“Sorry. Little twitchy, I guess.”

He stands at the mirror in sweats and a T-shirt, shaving. “Good thing I’ve got a steady hand or I’d have sliced myself to ribbons. Never heard a guy scream like that.”

I bite my lip. It’s too early to be a guy. I’ve never had a role I had to start playing the moment I rolled out of bed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” His eyes land on my tie and he cracks up. “What’s that supposed to be?”

My fingers fly to the mangled knot and I can feel my cheeks burning.

“Here, I’ll do it.” He puts his razor down, wipes his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder, and reaches out to fix it.

I mumble my thanks while he loosens the knot.

“See, it’s just over, under, up, around, up and through.” He demonstrates. “You got that?”

“Uh . . . sure. Thanks for letting me borrow your uniform, by the way. You mind if I use it this week?”

“It’s fine. This weekend I can show you where to buy one, if you want.”

I nod, feeling a twinge of guilt, since by then I’ll be long gone.

He must see something in my face, because he flashes me a knowing look and says, “Money a problem?”

“Oh, I—well, it’s not that, I just—”

“It’s okay. Not everyone here is rich, you know. I’m here on a scholarship.”

I feel like a liar, but I take the path of least resistance. “Yeah, me too.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. All it means is we’re here because of our brains, not our parents’ bank account.” He pats my shoulder. “See you at lunch?”

“Sure. Okay. And thanks again.”

Later in the day, after I’ve made it through my morning classes without incident and eaten lunch with Tyler, Max, and Earl without making a total fool of myself, I’m starting to feel almost confident. It’s one of those golden September afternoons, two parts summer, one part fall. The sky’s a deep, flawless blue and the air smells of apples mixed with ocean. It’s like the gods are saying yes to my crazy, harebrained scheme; they’re saying yes to my pursuit of answers; maybe they’re even saying yes to Emilio and me, though I’ve no idea how anything can happen with that, since—well, you know. Anyway, the point is I’ve almost survived my second day of school and a tentative trickle of optimism has started to bubble up inside me, the sense that I just might pull this off after all.

Then I look at my schedule. Suddenly the gods have stopped saying yes and have started making really obnoxious farting noises. In my face. With their armpits.

Fifth period PE.

I’m a pretty good dancer. I kick ass in yoga and Pilates. For some reason, though, in spite of the extreme hand-eye coordination that runs in my family, I’m a walking disaster when it comes to balls. I mean it: tennis, soccer, volleyball, baseball, football, cricket—any activity with a round or even semi-round object renders me a total klutz. We’re talking dangerous levels of gawkiness. Seriously! I went to a party in the eighth grade at a bowling alley, and the birthday girl ended up with two broken toes because of me. Needless to say, we’re no longer friends.

Something tells me PE at Underwood won’t involve dancing, yoga, or Pilates.

When I get into the gymnasium the first thing I see is Josh and his minions shooting baskets. I actually feel like I might throw up. Because of my height, people have been trying to get me into basketball for years. That is, until they see me try to play. Once they stop laughing, they generally agree that b-ball’s not my game.

To compound my anxiety, there’s the issue of the locker room. My stomach churns when I realize I’ll be expected to change in there. Luckily, the room is somewhat vast and cavernous, so I manage to find a dark corner where I can slip into the gym uniform I borrowed from Tyler without anyone noticing.

Coach Vroman is your textbook sadist. His beady eyes peer out from behind plastic glasses, obviously taking piggish delight in our pain. He leads us through a series of warm-up calisthenics, then unleashes a huge bag of basket-balls on us and barks, “Layups!”

I look around, mystified, then line up behind my class-mates. I don’t know how to dribble the stupid ball, let alone force it into a graceful trajectory toward the hoop. Everyone else—even Max, with his matchstick legs and his scrawny arms—manages to charge forward, leap, and release the ball somewhere near the rim. I watch as Emilio slams it right down through the net with a satisfying swoosh. I feel like a lowly worm peering up at them as they hurdle their bodies through the air.

When it’s my turn, I’m so panicked I can hear my blood pounding in my ears. I want to be anywhere but here—anywhere! What can I do, though? There’s no escape. I bounce the ball a couple times and use all my concentration to keep bouncing it as I move forward. Okay, running’s not an option, but I think I can walk and dribble at the same time. Bounce, catch, step; bounce, catch, step. Yes! I can do this.

I try not to notice that the entire gym has gone totally silent. Everyone’s looking at me, but who cares? I’m doing this! I’m walking, bouncing, walking, bouncing. I’m almost under the basket now! All I have to do is shoot! In my excitement, I throw the ball down with more force than ever, feeling bad-ass. It ricochets off the floor at an angle and slams right into my crotch.

All around me, the room goes, “Ohhhh!”

I look up. Every face is staring at me, contorted into winces. Right. Ball in crotch equals excruciating pain. I’m such an idiot! Too late, I double over in pain.

“Ouch!” I yell. I sneak a glance around. Nobody looks convinced, so I add, “My balls!”

Okay, maybe too much? Another glance around tells me something about my performance is off. Josh has his hand over his mouth trying not to laugh, and Emilio is shaking his head. The coach blows his whistle and waves me over.

“Sorry, Coach,” I say, jogging over to him. To my relief, the sound of squeaking tennis shoes and dribbling balls starts up again behind me. “My bad.”

“New kid, right?” He studies me like I’m a fly in his soup.

“Yeah.”

“Haven’t played much basketball, I guess.”

“Uh, not much, no.”

“You hurt?”

If an injury gets me out of this, I’m in excruciating pain. My hand flies instantly to my sock. “Yeah. Pretty bad.”

“You want to sit for a minute?”

“Okay.”

“Over there.” He nods at the bleachers.

I’m so relieved I could cry!

As I turn to walk away, he slaps me on the ass.

I spin around. “Hey!”

“Problem?” His sweaty face looks annoyed.

Just in time, I realize my mistake. The bizarre butt-pat ritual is totally normal among jocks. “No problem. Thanks, Coach.”

On the way back to the locker room, Emilio jogs up beside me. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pick up my pace, head down, making a bee-line for my locker in outer Siberia.

I don’t get very far, though. In fact, I’ve barely made it inside the door when a large pair of Nikes blocks my way. They’re planted in a wide stance. The tan, muscular legs would inspire serious admiration under different circumstances.

“What’s up, spaz?”

I look up slowly. Josh stares down at me, face glazed with sweat.

I swallow, trying to remember how to speak. “Hey.”

“Showers are this way.” He jerks his head in the direction of the group showers.

My eyes flick over to the showers involuntarily. A few of the guys are already in there, turning on the water, their naked butts shockingly white, and—
oh, God, I so didn’t need to see that!
I feel a hot blush creeping up my neck.

“Good game out there.” Josh leans in so close that I can feel little puffs of breath on my skin. “Man, your face is smooth as a girl’s.”

My hand shoots to my cheek. “No it’s not!”

“How old are you? Twelve?”

As more guys file in, the smell of sweat fills my head, mixing with the steamy, soapy perfume of the showers. Voices bounce off the tiled walls and ricochet inside my head.

“Mayer, leave him alone,” I hear someone say.

“Dude’s like preadolescent.” Josh goes on scrutinizing my face with a fascination that unnerves me.

Emilio comes over. “Give the guy a break.”

I step back, adrenaline pounding through my veins.

“You defending your little girlfriend?” Josh taunts.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Emilio chides. “Guy’s having a rough day.”

Josh eyes Emilio another second, but backs off. I scurry over to my distant corner of the locker room and change out of my gym clothes as fast as I can.

That night in the prop closet I tell Chloe and Darcy about my aborted attempt to reinvent myself as Michael Jordan. They find it hilarious, which totally pisses me off.

“Oh, yeah,” I cry, “laugh, why don’t you?”

They do.

“Hey! I’m the one on the front lines here. I’m knocking myself out trying to get answers to
your
questions. I don’t see you two doing much for womankind.” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at them.

Darcy comes over and slings an arm over my shoulder. “Poor babe! We know you’re suffering.”

Chloe shrugs. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me. A locker room full of naked Underwoodies?”

“Who were taunting me!” I remind her, indignant.