Playing With the Boys Read Free Page B

didn’t help. She hadn’t known to bring clothes to “dress out” (since she didn’t even know what “dressing out” meant), so the gym teacher, Miss Sullivan, had given her an oversized shirt and a pair of boy’s shorts from last year’s lost and found to change into. Ew. Loaners . Lucy hadn’t wanted to put them on, but she’d had no choice.
     
     
    Now, as she sat on the hard wooden bleachers, virtually swimming in an XXL, she couldn’t have felt more conspicuous. The other girls were wearing little fitted tank tops with built-in bras, and Juicy Couture pants with cute phrases written on the butt, like ANGEL and SEXY. Lucy’s shirt read 2003 TURKEY TROT. Huh? It might as well have said BIG GIGANTIC LOSER. She folded her arms across her chest, hoping to obscure the giant orange-and-yellow turkey on her front.
     
     
    The bleachers rattled beneath her as a weird-looking emo girl stomped onto them and plopped down next to Lucy. Lucy’s eyes darted toward the girl. Forget dressing out. This girl wore tight black jeans, horn-rimmed glasses and a too-small button-down shirt. She had giant earplugs in her earlobes, black nail polish, and, apparently, as she scooted closer to Lucy, no regard for personal space. There were endless rows of bleachers, and this girl was practically sitting in her lap. Lucy gave a half-smile and tried to subtly scoot closer toward the boy next to her. He had a mess of dark curly ringlets that had practically achieved Afro-like status.
     
     
    As Miss Sullivan went over the rules of floor hockey, Lucy turned to the boy.
     
     
    “Hi,” she said shyly. The boy looked up from under his semi-curly, semi-Afro hair and gave Lucy a polite smile. He seemed to personify “dorky cool.”
     
     
    Miss Sullivan continued. “Now, when you hold your stick, you need to hold it tight....” This elicited giggles from everyone on the bleachers. What was it about kids in high school that made them interpret everything as sexual?
     
     
    “Sorry,” Lucy said softly to the boy. “It’s just, this girl is, um . . . kind of . . . in my lap. . . .”
     
     
    The boy looked around Lucy to the emo girl, who was glaring at them both.
     
     
    “Right.” The boy nodded as he scooted further down to make more room for Lucy.
     
     
    She smiled, grateful. “Thanks.” She debated whether or not she should say more, then did. “I don’t really know anyone—I just moved here,” she continued, then added, “I’m Lucy.”
     
     
    “I’m Benji.” He smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.
     
     
    “Excuse me?” Miss Sullivan called out, annoyed. “Would you two like to share your conversation with everyone?”
     
     
    Lucy turned red as she looked down at her hands, her go-to avoidance move: stare at your hands as if they are the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen and pray that the other person stops looking at you. She only looked back up when Miss Sullivan began dividing them into teams. As they were both called, Benji and Lucy stood up to take their respective places on the floor.
     
     
    Miss Sullivan handed them both floor-hockey sticks and only Lucy a pinny. Lucy slipped the red mesh on over her head. It reeked of sweat.
     
     
    “Cute,” Benji commented.
     
     
    “Let’s go, people,” Miss Sullivan instructed, “before the period’s over.”
     
     
    Lucy rushed to take her place on the floor, running smack into the emo girl, who was standing right behind her.
     
     
    “Oh, sorry,” Lucy said quickly. “I didn’t see you there.”
     
     
    The emo girl just stared her down. Lucy swore she heard her growl. Her head began spinning. She’d been in California exactly four days and she’d met a girl named Charlie, a boy named Benji, and a growling emo. Could it possibly get any more bizarre?
     
     
    “Pickle,” Miss Sullivan called out, “you start.”
     
     
    Lucy watched a spunky, athletic-looking African-American girl knock the hockey puck across the floor.