Front and Center

  "Um, well, I think things between us might be okay. How about you?"

  "Meaning, what do I think, or are things okay?"

  "Yeah. Both of those."

  I smiled. I actually smiled. "Yeah. Both of those."

  "Hey! I just had an idea! You want to come over?"

  "To your house?" I asked.

  "No, to my private island. Of course to my house. I've got a ton of homework, and I was thinking, you know..."

  "That you needed my help. Just say the word, Brian. I'm happy to help students who, you know, aren't as gifted as I am."

  "Yeah ... How are you with organic chemistry?"

  "An Einstein. Totally."

  So I checked with Mom, who of course asked if his parents were going to be around and made me call back to make sure, and he said yes and didn't even seem to mind, and I grabbed my backpack and headed over. Not so Brian and I could start making out, thank you very much—I'm not the kind of girl who breaks up with a guy and then goes kissing another guy the very next morning—but because even more than being an ex-kind-of-boyfriend, Brian was my friend. He was a good friend, and I really needed some good-friend company right now.

  I'd driven past Brian's house before, and I knew already it was brand new and huge. But you couldn't tell from the outside just how huge it was. Right off the living room was a den big enough to hold hoops practice in. Half court, but still. With a ginormous TV and these huge puffy leather chairs all lined up, and his dad sitting there with a beer and the biggest remote I've ever seen, watching golf.

  "Hey there, D.J.! Great to see you!" he called, not taking his eyes too far from the screen. Like anyone would miss anything in golf.

  Then in the kitchen, which was about the size of our whole house, there was his mom—well, not in the kitchen exactly, but in this little room off the kitchen. Kind of like our office, only this one had really nice windows and a pretty view and all these books. And Mrs. Nelson sitting in front of a computer, typing away.

  "Hello, D.J. Help yourself to anything in the fridge."

  "Working on homework?" I asked. Trying to be friendly and all.

  She smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I'm speaking to the Western Wisconsin Lutheran Synod on Wednesday."

  "Oh," I said. Luckily Brian dragged me away before I had to talk any more about that. Golf and Lutherans—no wonder he'd wanted me over.

  We set up our books at the dining room table because Mrs. Nelson doesn't let him have girls in his room, I guess because she's not stupid, and I have to say it was awfully nice, awfully darn perfect, to work on A&P with Brian sitting right there beside me. Just one look at his organic chemistry made me super relieved I had A&P instead. We chatted while we worked, and I told him about how Mom's prom date had barfed on her shoes.

  "You're making that up."

  "Swear to God. She said she danced in them too. After."

  "Ewww! Could you imagine? It'd be all like squishing between your toes..."

  "Ew! Yuck!"

  He laughed. "You're the one who brought it up."

  "Well, yeah. But."

  "My mom had a huge fight with her boyfriend at their prom. They broke up right in the middle of 'Freebird.' She had to walk all the way home. She says she still has the scars."

  "Scars?"

  "From the blisters ... So. Which one is it going to be? Madison or the U of M?"

  And clunk, there went my good mood. "Neither," I said with a shrug.

  "Oh, come on. Really?"

  "There are tons of other schools I could go to. This place St. Margaret's in Minneapolis has a really nice program it looks like, and there's this school Ibsen College that even gets to play Madison sometimes, in money games."

  "Who wins?" Brian grinned.

  "Ha ha, very funny. Anyway, I'm perfectly fine with D-III. I just wish everyone else was."

  He sat there for a while, playing with his notebook. Gathering up those strips of paper that get left when you tear out a page. He sighed.

  "What?" I asked. Because he looked so serious.

  "I know you're fine with D-III. And you'll be an amazing D-III player, I'm sure; you'll probably be All-American. But you'll just stay the same."

  "And that's bad?"

  "No! You're great how you are. But with hoops, you know, you could go all the way. That's what people say."

  "People say all sorts of crazy things."

  "Yeah. But not about this." He stacked all the little torn-out strips into a pile, shaping a little pyramid with his fingers. "I know you're scared, and that's totally legitimate. But it's not reason enough not to do it. If you don't play D-I, you know..." He looked up and gave me a smile, this really adult-looking smile. Like we were both already wise. "You're brave, you know. You're a lot braver than you think. And if you don't do this, you'll never get the chance to become the player—to become the person, really—to become the person that this amazing girl named D.J. Schwenk was always meant to be."

  15. One Possible Benefit of a Subscription to Psychology Today

  IT WAS DIFFERENT FROM WIN, what Brian said. Different from Amber and Beaner and Dad and Coach and all the college coaches and the Red Bend folks, those knock-'em-deads and make-us-prouds, everyone spouting their own personal reasons for me to play. For Brian to lay it on me instead ... Maybe other folks had phrased it that way and I just hadn't heard, I dunno. But I sure heard it from Brian. And it made me feel about two inches tall. Because as bad as I felt about letting everyone else down, it felt worse to think I was letting me down. It felt—well, it felt like missing two free throws in front of ten thousand people.

  So now I was nailed, basically. Completely nailed. Because if I decided to go for it and play D-I, I'd throw up in front of ten thousand people and die of dehydration. And if I didn't, I'd spend the rest of my life wondering who I could have turned into if only I'd had the guts to try.

  And then, to make this experience that much more super-fantastic wonderful, when I got home Mom offered, like this was a huge gift I could never refuse, to take me out of school so we could shop for the semiformal. Which just reminded me that I wasn't going, and that I'd hurt Beaner.

  Normally I view shopping with about as much enthusiasm as I do tearing my ACL. But skipping school meant I wouldn't have to see Beaner, or anyone else either. So I remarkably enough said yes, and Monday morning we dropped Curtis off at the middle school and then hit the road.

  "So," Mom started, "it sure is nice to have some time together, just the two of us. I can't remember the last time we did something like this."

  Never? I thought. But out loud I just agreed it'd been a while.

  "What kind of dress are you thinking of? Cindy Jorgensen told me about this place that's got real nice ones."

  Sure, I thought, if you look like Kari. "I dunno. Last year Beaner wore shorts and a tuxedo."

  "Why am I not surprised? I swear, that young man is capable of just about anything—"

  "We broke up." Which stunned me just as much as Mom, the words popping out like that. I guess my mouth decided to step up to the plate before my brain had time to intervene.

  "Oh," said Mom. "Oh ... Do you, ah, want to talk about it?"

  "I think I just did."

  "Well, yeah..."

  "It was so hard! Why does breaking up with people have to be so hard?"

  "Because it shows you care about the person. And that's a wonderful thing. I'm sorry, honey. It hurts, I know."

  "But now he's going to have to find someone else and everything!"

  "He'll be okay. There's not a girl in the world who wouldn't want—I mean, most girls—I mean, he won't have any trouble finding a date—"

  "I know," I put in. Because she was trying at least.

  She thought about it. "You know, why don't we go shopping anyway? You'll need a dress sometime, you know."

  I wasn't so sure about that, but the alternative was turning around and going back to school. Any kind of shopping would be better than that.

  "Um,
where are we headed?" I asked when I finally noticed we weren't going in the mall direction at all. I'd been too busy listening to Mom's rehab gossip to pay attention.

  "Mall of America," Mom answered like she said it all the time.

  "What? That's like two hours away!"

  "Well, that's where Cindy Jorgensen said the good dresses are. And I figured, you know, it would give us some good catching-up time."

  Who was this woman? "Catching-up time?"

  "There's nothing like a car trip, you know, for a real nice visit..." Luckily, though, she didn't push it, asking about Beaner or Brian, which would have been ten times worse. She just went back to talking about Maryann, the PT who might or might not be interested in Win, although the way Mom went on you'd think they were already married with a couple of kids. And I refrained from mentioning that my only other trip to Mall of America, with Brian, had ended with my very first kiss. I don't care how personal car rides get, I wasn't going into that.

  The mall wasn't crowded seeing as it was Monday, but there were still girls there trying on dresses, all of them shorter than me—the girls I mean, although the dresses were too. It's not like stores spend a lot of time designing for someone who plays a pretty decent linebacker. Plus the dresses were all way too frilly or girly or trampy, which Mom said with a sniff, putting one back without even holding it up. Not to mention the prices. If we were going to spend that kind of money, I'd rather be getting, you know, basketball shoes. Something useful. Plus some of the other girls were getting in huge fights with their mothers, using words and attitude I couldn't imagine using ever, which made the whole experience just that much more delightful.

  I stood there getting quieter and quieter, if by quiet you mean so depressed you can't even speak.

  "You know, hon," Mom said, "this experience could be kind of fun, if you let it..."

  Which made me feel so much better, knowing I was flunking our family bonding experience.

  Although you know what? Just five minutes later as we were walking around, Mom looked in the window of a store we hadn't even thought to go in and saw a dress. A pretty decent one.

  "It won't fit," I said, just to establish that baseline.

  But she made us go in anyway, and sure enough it didn't. But right there on the next rack, underneath a big red CLEARANCE sign, was one that did. It was really simple and dark, and pretty short—shorter than my uniform shorts, which are really long, but still. Mom pointed out that the length was perfect for awards banquets, and parties in the spring or summer even, if I ever happened to get invited to any of those.

  "Could I wear my b-ball earrings?" I asked. Which made her laugh, and she said she wouldn't wear anything else. And that good mood got us through finding shoes, which of course couldn't have heels because guess how much I like those. At one point I asked if I could just wear tennies and she shot me a look. But we managed to find a pair that weren't expensive at all, and then she picked out pantyhose, which I started to squawk about until she said I'd get horrible blisters otherwise, which shut me right up. Then as we were paying, Bill called Mom's cell and found out where we were and said we had to stop by the U of M, and Mom said she'd never seen the Barn, and before I could object, Bill said he'd meet us there.

  ***

  So with her driving and me navigating, we made it there finally, Mom doing her isn't-this-nice thing as we circled the campus. I couldn't tell if she was trying to get me to like the U of M or was just poking around for her own curiosity, but either way it was best to just keep my mouth shut and wait it out.

  Bill walked us into the basketball arena, asking Mom about our shopping because he hangs around girls enough to know the right questions about stuff like that. Luckily there was just a cheerleading practice going on at the moment, a couple cheerleading groupies sitting in the stands, but not hoops practice and no hoops coaches, either, to freak me out more than I already was. Mom just stood with her mouth hanging open, taking it all in.

  "It's so ... so..."

  "Big?" I offered.

  "So loud. What's it like when this place is full?"

  Bill and I both laughed. "Really loud," I said.

  "I'd think so..." She settled herself into a chair, staring around.

  I walked a ways away and sat down myself, picking out landmarks. There was the spot where Tyrona missed her free throws. There was the seat where I'd watched her. There's where I'd almost thrown up.

  I swallowed, my stomach heaving again just at the memory. It didn't matter what Brian said about my potential. Nothing—nothing—was worth feeling this sick for four years straight.

  Bill squeezed beside me, squishing himself into a chair. "How ya doing?"

  "Okay."

  "Win called me, you know. He thinks you might really bail on those offers."

  I shrugged. "He thinks right."

  "I was really looking forward to hanging out with you. The media people were going to make a big story out of it and everything, us both being varsity and all." "I'm sure you'll get famous some other way." "Aw, that's not what I meant." He looked across the arena. "You know, preseason my freshman year, I was so nervous ... I spent more time in the bathroom than I did on the field." "Throwing up?" I asked.

  "Oh, no. The other one. I was in that stall every ten minutes, it felt like. The trainers finally had to give me a special diet just to keep my weight on. That's how bad it was."

  I turned to look at him. "You're kidding."

  He picked at a hangnail. "Why do you think they call me Milkshake?"

  "What? That's just because of the farm, and Wisconsin—"

  "Yeah, right."

  I stared at him. "You never told me this."

  "You think it's something I'd brag about?"

  "You don't seem scared."

  "Huh. You should see Aaron before games—his hands shake so much, I have to lace his cleats."

  "Aaron? Nothing fazes him."

  "You don't get it, D.J." Bill shook his head. "Everyone's scared. So scared they can't sleep sometimes. Or eat. Or keep their weight on."

  "Then why bother playing?" I asked. It was a whisper, this question.

  "Because. You love the game. You love the people you play with. You love winning, maybe. You love that one moment when you get it right ... I dunno. Why do you play?"

  "Because," I whispered, "it's who I am."

  "Sounds like a good reason to me."

  "But what about all those people watching?"

  He grinned. "I wear a mask, you know. It helps that no one can see your face."

  Which was something to think about, all right. It would definitely relieve the pressure, that icebergs-in-your-belly feeling, if no one could see who you were. Or if you thought that at least. Maybe I should just play as someone else. Ha.

  Although maybe ... maybe ... that wasn't such a bad idea.

  ***

  The next day I couldn't wait to get to health class, which was a first for me, actually looking forward to that snoozefest. Ashley was back of course, taking notes as best she could with her left hand. Luckily second semester doesn't matter so much, not for seniors. The two of us had talked, finally, about Madison, and just like it usually happens with awkward conversations, it turned out to be not so bad. Kari had been right that Ashley was psyched for me, and also psyched that she'd just gotten into UW–Oshkosh, with a real sweet financial aid package too, and now had big plans to work her butt off at Oshkosh for a year and then transfer. So really—she explained to me—it was better this way, because she could still go to Madison but save a bunch of money in the meantime.

  "Are you going to play?" I'd asked. I was serious, but Ashley just laughed.

  "They're really good! Oshkosh is D-III, yeah, but they're still really good." She thought about it. "Although, you know, it really was fun, being part of a team."

  "You could be a manager," I pointed out. "A student manager. They're really important, helping out with practices and stuff. And tracking stats too, I bet."

&
nbsp; Ashley's head came up. "Statistics?" she asked. Her eyes got wide. "You mean like ... math?"

  Anyway, the day after my Mall of America/Big Talk with Bill trip, I was back in school same as always, and same as always I plunked down next to her and asked how she was, and same as always she said okay.

  "Great. Hey, listen. Remember winter break when you were talking, you know, about how I should pretend I was someone else?"

  Ashley nodded. "That Psychology Today article."

  "Yeah, that ... Anyway, um, what were you talking about?"

  Ashley lit up, totally psyched to put her enormously-large-even-if-Madison-doesn't-want-it brain to work. "You know how you tell Kari what to do during games?"

  I nodded, surprised she'd noticed. Maybe Ashley had more hoops sense than I'd thought.

  "So you know what you should say, right?"

  I shrugged. "Yeah, sometimes."

  "So what if instead of telling Kari, you just pretended you were her? Not Kari necessarily, but someone like her? And you just spoke out loud while pretending to be that person?"

  I thought about it. Ashley had a point, kind of.

  "Give her another name, even. Call her Darlene or J.J. or..." She frowned to herself. I mean, name-wise Darlene and Joyce and Schwenk are all pretty pathetic starting points. "Darly or Darey or Doyce—"

  I held up my hand. "What did you just say?"

  "Doyce? Darey?"

  I frowned. "Did you hear me? When we were practicing?"

  "Hear what?" She started to look hopeful. "When?"

  "Nothing. That's weird. Darey..."

  All of a sudden the teacher was right there in front of us. "Excuse me. Do you two have something to say?"

  "We were just wondering about homogenization," Ashley answered, not missing a beat.

  "What?" the teacher asked. What? I thought.

  "Because of the reported health risks of homogenized milk." Ashley made this You didn't know that? face. Gosh, she was smart to think so fast.

  "But if you didn't homogenize milk, you'd get tuberculosis," the teacher said smugly.

  "No, it's pasteurization that prevents TB," Ashley said. Without adding You stupid moron like she could have.