What about all of the fetuses who verbally committed when they were 12? I’d replied.
In a sport where girls typically peak in their teens, I’ve heard of gymnasts making verbal commitments at age thirteen or fourteen. Even Emery, as good as she is, is in limbo waiting for an official offer. As I know too well, anything can happen between then and senior year.
They’ve got nothing on you, she’d written back.
On the car ride this morning, Cassie was distracted by our impending AP Chem quiz. “I memorized the entire periodic table thanks to this stupid song I found on the Internet,” she’d said, and then proceeded to sing it before I could protest. Now that the quiz is done, she waits for me by her locker with relief on her face.
No better time than the present.
“What do you think about Rhode Island?” I say.
“Chilly.” She picks a piece of lint off of my sweater. “Lots of wind.”
“How about Rhode Island School of Design?”
She shrugs. “I’ve checked it out.”
Not a flat-out rejection. “Would you want to maybe move to Providence?”
Her locker shuts. Our smiling summer photos vanish. “Did the coach call you?”
“No,” I admit. “I e-mailed him.”
She clucks her tongue like I’ve admitted to returning to an ex-boyfriend. “And?”
“And…nothing. Yet!” I say as she shakes her head, willing me to stop. “He might be more interested after I compete.”
She tilts her head and considers me. “You were so excited when we went to Regionals.” It was a “we”– she took the trip, too–but the way she says it makes it sound like we had both put in the work to qualify. “Then that jackass couldn’t be bothered to send you a ‘get well soon’ card. Don’t give me that nonsense about NCAA recruiting rules. He could have said something by now, right?”
“Yeah.” I avoid looking into her eyes, because if I do, I’ll see that she thinks my hope is foolish. That I’m working up my body and soul just to crumble to the ground again.
I want to feel as invincible as I did when I stepped onto the floor at Regionals, knowing that I couldn’t have been more prepared. On that day, I knew that I was good enough, that all of those inspirational posters at the gym about hard work and opportunity weren’t a ruse to make us stop complaining during conditioning. Although I’ve been surgically repaired, I want to feel like that girl again.
And I want Cassie to believe that I can be.
She hesitates, and then pulls me in for a hug. “Stop looking so sad, Savs.” She smells different today– laundry fresh, but lacking the lavender. It doesn’t feel quite Cassie. “I’ll do a little research on the art scene there, okay? You want to go for the gold. I get it.”
I return the hug for real, and she laughs. “Okay, how about letting me breathe?”
I can’t wait to tell Marcos he was right. Cassie gets it. While it’s evident that she doesn’t love the idea, she supports me. I’ll be able to have both a college with a team and an apartment with my best friend.
When I see him at his locker, my heart skips as I take in his faded jeans and the way his green shirt clings to his shoulders. I’m already smiling as I approach him. “Good morning, sunshine,” I call.
He keeps his eyes forward until the last possible second. When he finally faces me, I gasp. His bottom lip is cracked. Deep blue and purple bruises swell under his right eye. “What happened?” My heart hammers. “Did you get in an accident?”
Marcos shuts his locker instead of answering. Okay.
“You look like shit,” says Juliana from the other side. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Andreas skids to a stop as he approaches. “Crapballs, did Victor use you as a punching bag?”
“What did you do?” Rena squawks. Her ringlets swing furiously as she shakes her head. “If your mama was here, she’d whoop your ass. I’m tempted to do it myself.”
“It does look pretty bad,” I say.
His back retreats down the hallway. “Really, guys? I had no idea. Thanks.”
Juliana rolls her eyes. “Good luck with that stubborn ass,” she says to me. She means it.
He slows down just enough for me to walk beside him. “You want to talk about it?” I say.
“Not really,” he grunts. “I’m gonna be answering questions about this all day.”
“You could start with me.”
That stops him. He leans against the glass Homecoming Court showcase, arms crossed. Reluctance and pain radiate off of him. “You’re not going to like it,” he warns without meeting my eyes. “Cassie’s gonna jump all over it.”
A fight.
I swallow back the worry. Marcos only fights when he thinks there’s a good reason. He’s not afraid to get physical when other people do. He’s loyal. He doesn’t trust most people, according to Andreas. He thinks Galadriel could beat Elrond in a showdown, he eats cereal for lunch because he can’t stand the smell of cold cuts, and he can argue endlessly with Andreas about the merits of Real Madrid versus FC Barcelona.
I might not like what he’s about to say, but I can handle it.
“Marcos, oh, my God! What happened?” Jacki Guzman halts, her cheeks flushed. “You know, my mom’s a nurse.”
Marcos flashes her a reassuring smile. It’s not the real one that reveals the crooked tooth. “I tripped. I’m not as coordinated as this one here.”
Once Jacki has walked away with several promises to provide him with homecare tips from her mom, he says, “My boss got into it with some guys at work last night.”
Immediately, I recall the night he said he’d called the cops. According to him, they’d done nothing. But he’d stayed out of it that night.
“They came in saying that all the goddamn Mexicans need to get out of the country and that they’re sick of seeing signs in Spanish because this is America. Meanwhile, they think we can’t understand them. My boss tried to kick them out, but that just made them angrier. One of them pushed him.”