“A winner?”
“Exactly. You want to be a winner. That means you need to get your head in the game. We’re never going to win anything this year if you’re strolling around the field like my grandmother.”
Sometimes I feel like Coach Wilkinson has seen too many sports movies.
“I’m sorry. I understand,” I say firmly.
“Good.” She gives me a curt nod. “Back to practice.”
I push myself hard, determined to show Coach Wilkinson that I’m giving it my all. Sure enough, she claps me on the back as I’m heading to the locker room. It’s not exactly praise, but I think it’s as good as I can expect from her.
But while we’re undressing, she comes into the locker room.
“Listen up! We’re going to be having extra practice every day this week after classes. Five p.m. sharp.”
The group erupts.
“What?”
“No!”
“But I have plans.”
“You can’t!”
Once everybody has stopped complaining, she says, “You got dinner plans? Cancel ’em. Our game in two weekends is against Norfolk, and we need the extra work. Badly. You’re a hot mess out there. I’m not going to name names”—her eyes dart toward me—“but I need everybody on the team to step up. Don’t like it?” She points toward the exit. “There’s the door. You’re welcome to get the hell out.”
Silence.
“All in agreement? Good. Meet me in the weight room at five p.m.”
I shoot Edward and Libby a group text message:
ME: Ugh. Have to practice late every day this week. Wilkinson sux. Don’t bother rescheduling dinner. Have fun. Xxx EDWARD: Damn. Ok.
LIBBY: Proud of you, Lotte! Should we bring back a takeaway?
ME: Rock star! Yes, pls.
At least they’ll have some time to bond without me.
Later that night, after practice finally winds down, I go over to India’s room, knocking on the door. Nobody answers, so I move on down the hall to Flossie’s room, where the door is open.
She’s leaning back on her bed, a sea of pillows behind her, writing something longhand.
“Hey,” she says. “Come in. Want some wine?” There’s a mug on the desk that I’d assumed was tea, surrounded by lit candles.
“Sure. Should I close the door?”
“Yeah.”
I enter, closing the door behind me. Flossie sits up, swinging her long legs over the quilted blanket.
“So. Donatella,” she says.
“Huh?”
“Your sister. She looked bloody fantastic.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“You did a tremendous job. You should be proud.” Flossie reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a pack of Camel Blues, popping one into her mouth and lighting it with one of the candles. “Want one?”
I lean over, plucking a cigarette from the pack. “Shouldn’t we open the window?”
“Sure,” she says. It’s clear she’s not going to do it, so I stand up and push open the panes, looking out onto the back forests of Sussex.
“What are we all doing this Saturday?”
But Flossie doesn’t seem to hear me. She frowns into her phone.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Libby and Edward are in town without you.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “Hockey practice went long.”
“So?”
“The three of us had dinner plans—so Libby and Edward could keep getting to know each other. We have late hockey practices the whole week now, so I told them to go without me.”
Flossie nods. “I see. That makes sense, I suppose.”
“What? You sound weird.”
She takes a deep drag of her cigarette. All she needs is bloodred lipstick and a deep side part and she’d look like a film star from the thirties. “I don’t know.” She exhales slowly. Libby hates it when I smoke. But most kids at Sussex Park smoke at least a little bit—except Edward.
“I’m not sure I understand why you’re so keen on Edward and Libby getting along,” she says. “Explain it to me.”
“She’s my sister.”
“We’ve established that.”
“And he’s my boyfriend.”
“Aware of that, too . . .”
“I guess I just thought they would get along.”
“Yes, but Charlotte, there’s a world of difference between making sure your sister and your boyfriend get along, and setting them up on a romantic dinner. Sure you don’t want to book them a hotel room and send a bottle of champagne while you’re at it?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “You think it’s too much? Maharajah is hardly romantic.”
“How many options do we have in this town? We’re not in London. It’s a real restaurant with tablecloths. They don’t serve burgers, pizza, or fish and chips. And it’s your date spot with Edward. I’d say it qualifies as romantic.”
“You’re freaking me out. Should I worry? Ow!” My cigarette has burned down to the nub, burning my index finger. I toss it into the water-filled mug on the window ledge that she’s using as an ashtray.
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
I look at her suspiciously. “Do you know something?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t. But even if I did, I wouldn’t get involved. Your love life, your problem.”
I start picking at my cuticles. “Well, that’s lame,” I say sullenly. “I’d tell you if something were going on with your boyfriend.”
“First of all, I don’t have a boyfriend. Maybe this summer, we’ll see what we can put together on the Mediterranean cruise”—Flossie’s family charters a yacht off Sardinia every June—“but until then, I have zero interest in teenage boys. Secondly, if something were going on with my boyfriend, I’d know.”
“Where is this coming from? Did somebody say something?”
Her eyes flick toward her phone.
“What? Who texted you? India? What did she say?” Any pretense of keeping my cool is gone.
“It wasn’t India, it was Alice. She says she saw Edward and Libby in Maharajah. From behind, she thought it was you at first.”
“Is that all? Jesus, you freaked me out. Libby and I look alike. Our hair’s the same color—I think she’s even wearing my clothes tonight. I lent her my favorite blazer.”
Flossie doesn’t look convinced.
“Did she say anything else?”
“That’s all.”
“So why are you so concerned?” I’m beginning to feel exasperated.
“Charlotte. Alice thought Edward was with you. Doesn’t that imply something?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . maybe they were too close. Maybe he was looking at her a certain way.”
My stomach clenches.
“I don’t know,” she continues. “I don’t want you believing something that’s not true. But something feels off. Maybe you should have your guard up.”
“My guard up against what?”
Flossie looks at me impassively. She waits several beats before lighting up another cigarette. “I’m sure it was nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking. Edward and Libby . . . it would be laughable.”
We move on to other subjects, working our way through a bottle of wine before I decide it’s time for bed. But while washing my face, I can’t help but turn Flossie’s words over and over.
Back in my room, I text Libby:
ME: How’s dinner going?
No response. I wait twenty minutes and text again: