The Game Can’t Love You Back

“Doug staying away?” he asks.

  I inhale sharply, rub at the back of my neck. Stare at the ground some more. “Yeah,” I murmur.

  “Your mom give any more thought to pressing charges?”

  “Nah.” I glance up, just for a second, then look down again. “She doesn’t want to get involved in all that. Lawyers are expensive.”

  Coach looks at me some more. “You and Olivia doing okay? You need anything?”

  “You did enough.” I’m quiet for a minute. “We, uh, saw your car out front those first few nights.” I chuckle, but it sounds as forced as it feels. “More dependable than the cops. So thank you, but…” I stand up and push the chair in. “We’re good.”

  He gets the hint and drops the subject. He stabs one finger at the mustard-colored paper on top of the pile. “You gotta do something about your English grade. You’re walking a real fine line between a D and an F. You start failing, I’ll have to bench you until you bring it back up.”

  I exhale loudly and shift my backpack between my shoulders. “Come on, Coach…”

  He raises both hands. “Not up to me, Abrams. It’s school policy. And like I said, you’re walking a fine line here. When’s your next test?”

  I don’t answer him for a while. I don’t really know. “Thursday?” I guess.

  He hands me a paper. “Go to tutoring today. There’s a session during your seventh-period study hall.”

  I shake my head and smile. “Man, you have my schedule memorized?”

  Coach cocks an eyebrow and smiles back at me. “Yes, I do.” He flips through some more papers. “Eve Marshall’s a peer tutor, you know. And I understand she’s a really bright girl.”

  I laugh, exactly three times, even though I’m far from amused. It feels like my head could explode. I stare at him, my you must be shitting me expression written all over my face. “No thanks. I’ll find someone else. Anyone else.”

  “She’s a teammate.”

  “She’s a bad joke.”

  The humor drains from Coach’s eyes. “She’s a teammate,” he repeats. “And it’s pretty damn obvious that you’re having more difficulty with that concept than most.”

  I stare out the window. Okay. So it’s obvious.

  Coach sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “All right, it’s no longer a request, it’s an order,” he says firmly. “You will schedule a tutoring session with Eve. She has a ninety-eight percent average in English, and she has Mrs. Jabrowski, too. I’ll even set it up for you.” He picks up his phone.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I mutter under my breath, kicking at his desk leg as he makes the call.

  Pushing the receiver away from his mouth, he tells me, “Because sometimes you have one hell of a time getting out of your own way.”

  My forehead falls into my hands and I groan aloud, even though no one’s listening and no one cares.

  This has to be some kind of really messed-up reverse psychology, I decide. I wasn’t scared by his reality check about missing out on a scholarship. But threaten me with the prospect of ongoing “tutoring sessions” with Eve Marshall?

  You can bet your sweet ass I’ll never fail an English test again.

  Chapter 7

  March 7

  Eve

  Making my way down the 200s hallway, I glower at everyone I pass without really meaning to. Seventh period is only minutes away, and I can’t avoid it any longer.

  I hate peer tutoring.

  There are those extracurriculars I truly enjoy, the ones I live for: soccer, basketball, baseball. There are those extracurriculars I endure for the sake of rounding out my “college résumé”: chorus and Spanish Club and mock trial. And then there is the one extracurricular, year after year, my guidance counselor has guilted me into doing.

  Peer tutoring.

  “Please, Eve, we can never round up enough student athletes,” she begged me. “You’re such a good example. So wonderful with time management, with all the things you juggle. You’re a natural.”

  I’m not. Not really. I work my butt off for my grades; there’s nothing natural about it. In my family, straight As is the expectation, and I do what it takes to bring them home. But God only gifted me with one thing, and it has to do with how my body works, not how my brain works. My teachers don’t really see it that way, because I’ve mastered my game face and just keep grinding. Secretly, I stockpile extra-credit points, just in case. I actually use study halls to study, even when I’ve got the material down pat.

  It’s tiring, for sure. Far from natural.

  I pass Jamie Abrams, camped out in the alcove by the water fountain, in some half-teasing, half-inappropriate embrace with his go-to girl, Naomi, I think. I don’t look at him, holding on to a few final seconds of denial, pretending we’re not approaching room 207 for any type of shared purpose.

  This is not happening, I tell myself as I walk through the door.

  But really, why is fate so cruel? It’s not my damn fault that he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together—why is it my job to help him get by?

  Oh riiiiight, the whole “teammate” argument again. Because he’s really treated me like one.

  The only reason I stopped protesting this super-stellar little arrangement is because it dawned on me that in the peer tutoring room he would have to look at me. He would have to talk to me. He would not be able to dismiss me. And I could guess how much he wouldn’t want to be there. It seemed like a way to exact some revenge for what he did to me on Friday night. This time, he would have to listen to me.

  It would be more torturous for him than me. So after ten minutes with Mrs. Parente in the guidance office, I gave up the fight. But right now … I wish I hadn’t.

  I want him to acknowledge me. I want something to be on my terms. But I don’t really want to look at him. And I don’t want to talk to him.

  There are already several groups of students paired off inside the classroom, but when the bell rings, Jamie still hasn’t walked through the door. I busy myself pulling two desks together, leafing through my English binder, like I’ll find any tool in there that will help me get through this.

  Finally, six minutes later, Jamie comes strolling through the door. He takes his time crossing the room and drops unceremoniously into the chair across from me. “English. Good times. Let’s get this party started,” he announces breezily.

  Without looking at him head-on, I try to read his expression. He doesn’t seem overtly hostile or aggravated. What the hell was Naomi able to accomplish in the ten minutes between classes to wipe that usual smug, combative expression off his face?

  He’s sitting too close for comfort—his cologne overwhelms me; I smell his fresh minty gum every time he snaps his jaw. The realization of this proximity makes me angry, as always, at how he seems to viscerally ruffle me. I shake my head and flip through my binder again, all business.

  “Can you at least bother to say hello first?” I blurt out. “Look me in the eye?”

  “Can you?” he snaps back immediately, sitting back against his chair and crossing his arms. “Without … snarling?”

  “I asked you first.”

  He chuckles, snaps his gum some more. “Man, you are…” Jamie looks almost amused. “Never mind.” Snap, snap. “It’s not worth it.” He smiles, but his expression doesn’t warm. “Hello, Eve.”

  “Hello,” I respond. Begrudgingly. I hadn’t really been expecting him to comply with the request. “We only have forty-two minutes left,” I say, looking up at the clock. “What do you need help with?”

  Jamie chuckles. “Look, I don’t need help. You don’t get it.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “This your first quarter with Jabrowski?”

  I nod.

  “She hates athletes. You’ll see. If you haven’t figured it out already, you will.”

  It occurs to me he’s probably just spoken more to me in the last three minutes than he has in a week on the diamond. It also occurs to me that he’s just acknowledged me as an “athlet
e.” Which I guess is something.

  “She’s just a miserable person, and she seems to enjoy making other people miserable,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “She totally plays favorites with the kids who aren’t involved in anything. Gives them special treatment. And is extra hard on athletes. Acts personally offended when we have to leave early for games, talks to us differently and stuff.”

  I shake my head. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Trust me. You’ll see.”

  Then he comes toward me again, suddenly, leaning on the desk with his arms crossed, his face only inches from mine. His eyes make me think of the sea—not warm, tropical waters, but the gray-blue of the Atlantic during a storm.

  I grip my pencil tightly. “You’ve just wasted another minute with that bullshit theory.”

  He offers up a small, prim, sarcastic smile. “Sorry, Miss Marshall. I’ll try to focus.”

  “What do you have coming up this week?” He’s not in my class, and I can’t remember if all the eleventh-grade sections are on the same unit.

  “The final To Kill a Mockingbird essay test. The only good thing about it is that we’ll finally be done with the damn book.”

  “To Kill a Mockingbird’s not so bad.” I shrug. “Better than Shakespeare.”

  Jamie shakes his head. “I can’t get into it. I’d rather read it myself than be tortured by Jabrowski reading it aloud. That stupid, fake Southern accent she puts on makes me really angry.”

  I have to look away, because out of nowhere, surprisingly, I’m biting back a smile. Jabrowski’s terrible accent makes my blood boil, too. Sometimes I’ve had to actually clamp my lips together to keep from begging her, out loud, to stop it already! But no one else in my class seems the least bit perturbed.

  “Plus, it’s totally a book for girls. I don’t get how it’s supposed to appeal to guys. It’s a book about this little … brat.”

  “You can’t call Scout a brat,” I protest.

  Jamie cocks his head and smirks at me, long lashes fluttering at the edges. “You like her. Go fucking figure.”

  I literally feel my hackles go up. “What’s that mean?”

  Jamie takes it upon himself to flip through my English notes until he finds the character list, which includes a few descriptive phrases for each of the key players in the story. “‘Scout,’” he reads aloud, “‘a tomboy with a combative streak.’”

  He looks so damn haughty and self-satisfied, I start worrying that my combative streak might propel me to push his chair over. Assault on school grounds would not be good to add to my student résumé. I try to refocus. “Yeah, well, you can’t not like Atticus Finch. Even if you hate Scout’s character, guys always like Atticus. He’s, like, the quintessential father figure.”

  A dark look that I can’t read displaces the arrogance in Jamie’s expression. “Think we’ve just wasted another four minutes,” he says. “Can we just focus, get this done? I want to pass this test.”

  “Sorry, didn’t realize you were so motivated.”

  He looks at me again. “Trust me, I have my reasons.”

  I shrug off his cryptic comment and pull out the results from the Google search I ran earlier. “I have a list of common essay questions about the book we can go over. There’s a ton of themes and symbolism in To Kill a Mockingbird, but there’s definitely some popular ones that teachers always hit on, it seems like. That’s a good place to start.”

  Jamie nods blankly. I can’t tell if he’s really listening or not.

  “And from what I’ve heard, the hard part of Jabrowski’s essay tests is that she tries to fit so many damn questions onto the test. It’s easy to run out of time. So … organizing your answers first is really important. It keeps you on track. Before you start writing, take a minute to make sure you have your ideas for your introduction, supporting details, and conclusion in mind.”

  I look up again, to gauge his understanding, and find those restless eyes trained on mine. I swallow hard and look back at my page. “So … the mockingbird itself is always included in any question about symbolism.…”

  For the next half hour, we talk—well, I talk—about symbolism and themes. Jamie listens, and every few minutes, begrudgingly, jots down something that I say.

  Then the bell rings, and with a tersely muttered “Thank you,” Jamie shoves his notebook into his backpack and makes a beeline for the door. Despite managing to keep the peace for one study hall, there’s certainly no pretense that we would head toward the locker rooms for practice together.

  Still, I’m only steps behind him as we approach the corner heading back toward the main lobby. The two of us see the scene unfold at the same time.

  “What’s up, freak show?”

  I recognize the guy doing the taunting—Jeremy Kirkpatrick, senior lacrosse player from South. The lacrosse team is a gigantic, collective douchebag.

  And I recognize the target of the taunting as well, the girl who bumped into me last week, the girl with the bright pink hair, piercings, and ear gauges.

  She’s ignoring him, taking a long drink from the fountain.

  “Freak show, I said what’s up,” Jeremy continues as his douchey buddies watch and laugh. “How can you not hear me with those big holes in your ears?”

  Bent over the fountain, she closes her eyes and swallows hard. She doesn’t open them, her body freezing, like she’s trying to play possum.

  But Jeremy’s bent on a reaction. “Freeeak show … oh freak show…,” he keeps calling.

  I can’t take my eyes off the girl. Stand up, I’m mentally willing her. Stand up and walk away.

  But every muscle in her body is rigid and her eyes are still shut and she’s no longer drinking the water. It’s running in rivulets down her chin, soaking her black T-shirt.

  Then, in an instant, in my peripheral vision I see Jeremy’s body slammed into the wall behind him. I turn my body and see that his T-shirt is bunched up in Jamie’s fist, and Jamie’s about to slam him into the wall for a second time.

  “Leave her alone,” he growls at Jeremy. He drives his spine into the wall a third time for good measure. “Leave her the fuck alone.”

  Jeremy is clearly spooked, but he shakes Jamie off and tries to laugh. “Dude. Chill.” He pushes Jamie away, straightening his polo shirt, and moseys off with his friends in tow. “Crazy-ass East kids.”

  Jamie keeps his furious eyes trained on Jeremy’s back. “Pussy.” He spits on the ground before turning back to the girl, who is propped up on the water fountain with one thin, shaky arm.

  Even though a small crowd has gathered, Jamie collects the girl in his arms and pulls her close. I catch him checking in on her. “You okay?”

  She nods minutely, trying to escape his hug like a child unwilling to be comforted.

  I watch, confused about a couple of things. First off, she doesn’t look like his type. And second … he’s being so nice.

  But he’s not nice for long. He’s glaring again, at the tall, lanky guy who comes running up, holding the waist of his loose black jeans, tugging the girl out of Jamie’s arms. “Where were you at during all this, Justin?”

  He doesn’t wait for a response before turning back to the girl. “Just keep away from those assholes, huh?” She nods, and he picks up his backpack from where he dropped it before assaulting Jeremy. Then he heads off toward the gym, not bothering to look back, like nothing ever happened.

  Chapter 8

  March 14

  Jamie

  It’s our first home game today. Well, it’s only a scrimmage, but everyone’s acting like it’s the real deal. Late last night or early this morning, spirit girls stealthily decorated our lockers with gold and black balloons and crepe paper. Lise came running up to me this morning, like she could barely wait to present me with a paper bag full of sugar cookies decorated to look like baseballs. JV and varsity are both wearing team T-shirts for the school day.

  It’s the first time our newly combined team is dressed like a team. I
see Eve and Scott walk into the lobby together in their shirts. It’s like she’s finally made the ultimate concession, identifying as a Pirate. But when they walk past, I catch that she’s tied those ever-present braids with gold-and-black hair ties. Gold-and-black hair ties are hardly part of the team uniform. Huh. Maybe she actually enjoys baseball more than she enjoys protesting something.

  I don’t say hi to them, though, turning my back before I’m put in a position where I have to. One of our coaches must’ve just discovered the Sports Illustrated feature, because it’s hanging on our team bulletin board inside the locker room now. I don’t think I can get away with tearing it down. At the same time I turn my back, I close my eyes. I can’t let that girl get inside my head today. I need to focus.

  I sit in the back of my classes, keep my head down during the day, and avoid Naomi at lunchtime. Avoid Kaitlyn during study hall. By 2:40 when the bell rings, I’m totally in the zone. Inside the locker room, everyone’s pumped—there’s a natural unifying effect in forcing us to compete against someone besides ourselves, and Overbrook is always one of our biggest rivals. The starting lineup is a mash-up of South and East players, and some of the guys from East are obviously pissed, but it’s hard to deny that Coach was fair about it.

  Plus, I’m starting. And the road to the trophy begins today, officially or not.

  After changing into my uniform pants, I head over to the trainer’s office for some pregame stretches. A few of us are in there, shirtless, when Eve marches in with the thermos to fill with ice as part of her equipment duty. She’s not going to be able to lift it when it’s full, no way.

  I swear her cheeks redden when she takes in the scene in the room, a bunch of us half-naked, but she says nothing as she carries the huge orange thermos over to the ice chest.

  But Brendan decides not to let her off the hook.

  He’s stuffing his cup inside his pants but pulls it out to hold it up as he calls to her. “You remembered yours, right, Marshall?”

  A few of the guys guffaw, but I just shake my head. There’s no time for this shit today.