“Thanks, Mom,” I say, placing my hand on hers, threading our fingers, and squeezing.
The game clock is ticking down quickly now. St. Augustine isn’t a very strong squad, and we’ve run them ragged. My dad lets Brandon take the final set of downs, and Nico joins Colton and several of the other guys—including my brother—near the middle of the field on the sidelines. Helmets off, they all seem light and happy, a different mood from the one that has dominated practices this week. They’ve worked hard, and tonight…it showed.
With only a few seconds on the clock, I stand and begin to straighten out my dress, suddenly even more aware of my curled hair, my lack of lipstick, my self-applied eyeshadow and blush. I can’t see my reflection, but in my imagination, I look like an ill-prepared clown. I start to fidget with my hands when I glance around the stands and see the other moms and booster parents—the crowd that just last week sat down here, with my mom.
I glance to my mom and see she’s looking at them, too.
“You’re better off without them,” I say.
She looks to me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I told them I was stepping down, too, but they made me promise to finish this godforsaken barbecue tomorrow,” Linda says.
“You don’t have to step down; I told you that,” my mom tells her friend—maybe her only friend.
“Lauren, I hate those women. I’ve been dying to be done with this. Way I see it, you’ve given me six extra weeks of my life back,” she says.
My mom smiles bigger now.
The clock hits zero, and the cheers aren’t as loud as normal with most of the fans already leaving, rushing toward the gym doors or to the field exit to take photos with their sons and boyfriends. I make eye contact with Nico, and he bunches his hand in a wave. His mom had a church event tonight. She made him promise her he would take photos of the two of us. I know my mom won’t leave without snapping a few of her own, so I’ll make sure she takes some with our phones.
I watch as Nico talks to Colton, and I see my father walk up next to him, along with my brother—the four of them making their way slowly through the crowd, up the walkway to the locker rooms, until they disappear into the darkness.
“I’m really looking forward to meeting him,” my mom says.
I smile at her, but let it slip a little when I turn away. I’m nervous about them meeting, because my mom has been so odd about it, almost like she’s overcompensating for her questions she has. She’s asked me about Nico’s family, his home, his brother, his niece, his car, his grades, his voice, his height, his looks—it was a piecemealed interrogation of sorts to get a picture in her head of what this boy from West End is like. I went on a double date with Izzy over the summer, and I don’t even think my mom asked the boy’s name. He was a friend of Izzy’s family, and that was good enough.
I joked, finally, telling my mom that we didn’t live in West Side Story, and we weren’t the Jets and Sharks. She rolled her eyes at me, but her constant questioning still came.
I lead her to the walkway outside the locker rooms, and I wait nervously while more people gather around us. My white dress begins to feel less and less formal as girls walk up in sequins and silk. Hair is done up in twists, and one girl has diamonds embedded into a braid that wraps around her head.
“That’s lovely,” my mom says, pointing it out to me. I smile and nod, all the while feeling my stomach grow tighter. My hair is straight, but curled on the ends. I thought I was really going the extravagant route by blowing it out.
My eyes fall to my feet, to the only fancy thing I have on—a pair of wrap-up wedges that zigzag around the top of my feet and crawl halfway up my calves. I take refuge in the fact that at least my feet look like they belong here.
Several of the players are starting to exit, and there are squeals and flashes from cameras as girls meet their boys. My eyes dart around, and I offer fake smiles to anyone I make eye contact with, concealing the rolling nerves playing out in my stomach and chest.
My father finally walks through the metal door, and when he spots us, he raises his lip on one side and runs his hand over his face while he walks over. He stops a few steps shy and holds his hand over his mouth, nodding.
“She looks nice, doesn’t she?” my mom says, reaching out and touching the skirt of my dress again, making it sway briefly along my legs.