Braced Page 10

  Her dad looks like he could be going to play golf, but I can tell by the flowers and Frannie’s tone that they’re going to the cemetery to visit her mom. I look at Hazel, but she’s looking at her phone.

  “Does it get hot in there?” Frannie asks, pointing to my brace.

  “Frannie—” Hazel stops texting and looks up.

  “What did I do?” Frannie asks. “I want to know, and I keep forgetting to ask.” She looks at me. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I have questions and I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”

  “I don’t mind talking about it.” I take another bite of waffle. I’m not full yet. I think I have room for two more bites, maybe three, before I officially have to stop. “It’s sort of hot. I sometimes want to rip it off and jump in a cold shower. I probably will when I get home. But it’s not always like that.”

  “Ugh. That sounds so bad,” Frannie says.

  “Yeah,” Hazel says. She’s not looking at her phone anymore.

  “They—the people in the hospital—said I’d get used to wearing it all the time, but I don’t know about that. I mean, maybe. My skin is a lot better now. My blisters are healing. I guess some things are easier now.”

  “Yeah,” Frannie says. “You never know. You can get used to anything, if you have to.”

  Frannie is probably right about that.

  I spend the rest of the day making brownies for the team bake sale on Monday, doing homework, and checking my phone to see if Hazel texts or calls. She doesn’t. She’s not on chat either. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. I don’t remember what she said she was doing for the rest of the day, and now I’m afraid she’s hanging out with the soccer girls or doing something I can’t because of my brace. If what happened at Biscotti’s hadn’t happened, I’d text Hazel and ask what she was up to, but I can’t do that now without seeming desperate.

  I shut off my phone and try not to think about it, which kind of works for an hour, but that’s mostly because I’m outside trying to figure out the best way to dribble and stick my brace out at the same time. I’m planning to test Frannie’s theory at our next practice. I figure out that in order to make it work, I have to bend my chest forward enough that the plastic part in the back of my brace sticks out, but not so far forward that I topple over or lose control of the ball. It’s a balancing act, but I think I can do it.

  As soon as I’m back inside, I give up trying not to think about what Hazel is doing and turn my phone back on. There are no little bells. No text messages or voice mails. Nothing.

  A few hours later, I get a call from Hazel’s house phone. “My phone was totally confiscated,” she says as soon as I pick up. “My mom at least had the decency to let me call you and Fran to tell you about it.”

  “Seriously?” Hazel’s mom has never taken her phone away before, which is why I didn’t even think of that as an option when I was worried earlier. “What did you do?”

  “Um, nothing. I mean, she kept telling me to put it away, but Kyle was texting me, and I wanted to see what he was saying, which was not a smart move because she took my phone away right as I got a message from him. I never even got to see what he said. She said I could have it back when I could learn to manage it better.”

  “When is that going to be?” I ask.

  “Apparently tomorrow after school,” she says. “I can’t even deal with her.”

  “Same,” I say. “With my mom, I mean.”

  “I feel like you and your mom never fight about anything,” she says.

  I laugh a little. “Yeah, right,” I say. “She got mad at me on Friday after you guys got out of the car because I was going to be out of my brace for an extra ten minutes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Hazel says.

  “I wish.”

  “Is it that serious?”

  “I mean, I need to wear it as much as possible, but it’s ten minutes, and it’s not even about the ten minutes. She refuses to admit that this whole thing is actually hard for me. She acts like I should be so happy that I only have to wear a brace.”

  “That’s really not okay,” Hazel says. “She shouldn’t be making it harder for you.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re right,” I say, because it sounds like the truth, and I think it might be. “Sorry about your phone.”

  “It’s okay. It might be better. Guys like it when you play hard to get,” she says. “Shoot. I’m getting the evil eye from the other room. I better go. I still have to call Frannie.” After everything that happened at Biscotti’s, I’m glad Hazel called me first.

  “Moms are the worst,” I say.

  “Truth,” she says. “See you on Monday.”

  WHEN I GET to school on Monday, I want to go straight to homeroom and hide, because I’m pretty sure that between the game and what happened at Biscotti’s after, everyone is talking about how pathetic I am and how bad I am at soccer now. I can’t do that, though. I’m here early to set up for the bake sale, and I’m not missing anything that has to do with soccer.

  I walk across the cafeteria and over to the folding table. Frannie has dressed it up in black and red with a handmade sign that says “Patisserie” to make it authentic. The whole team is standing around the table dressed in soccer uniforms, including me. It’s funny how wearing matching outfits really does make me feel like I belong.

  Frannie is busy organizing baked goods and ordering people around. I put the tin of brownies I made on the table as Hazel walks over.

  “Surviving sans phone?” I ask her.

  “Barely.” She smiles. “I tried giving my mom the silent treatment this morning, and halfway through breakfast, I forgot I was supposed to be ignoring her, because I needed her to sign a permission slip.” We laugh.

  Ladan walks over to us. “What happened to you guys on Friday? You just disappeared. We were all so worried.”

  Hazel looks at me like, I told you so. I get that “worried” is code for talking about us, and she doesn’t want to be clumped in with me. I don’t blame her for that.

  “I got sick,” I say. “It came out of nowhere. I’m so done with cafeteria hot dogs.”

  “Eww!” Ladan looks at Hazel and shakes her head. “So, anyway, we have to talk about you and Kyle and how you’re basically almost BF/GF.”

  I want to take back what I said. I didn’t even eat a hot dog. I just couldn’t think of anything else to say. But it’s too late to do anything other than stand here and feel like an idiot.

  On our way to class, Hazel whispers, “I don’t want to make you feel bad about what happened, but people would be over it by now if we had stayed.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “It’s nothing. I mean, don’t worry. It’s really nothing.”

  If it were nothing, she wouldn’t have to say it twice.

  Frannie, Hazel, and I have the first bake sale shift. We’re selling brownies and cookies and homemade macaroons from twelve until twelve fifteen.

  Kyle walks over to our table. He looks right at me and says, “Hey, what’s up?” like Friday never happened. Then he starts eating a brownie and talking to Hazel, like he doesn’t realize he asked me a question. I hate that he doesn’t care about the answer, and not just because he called me weird. I’m trying really hard to get over it for Hazel’s sake.

  “Hey, Rachel.” It’s strange to hear Tate say my name. It sounds like it belongs to someone else. Most of the time, I wish I had a cooler, more popular-sounding name, like Isabella or Madison. But in his voice, “Rachel” sounds important.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I was thinking we should, um, probably get each other’s numbers, so we can text while we’re studying for the science test next week,” he says softly.

  “Good idea.” I try to act chill and like this is totally normal, but it’s hard to tell if I’m pulling it off, because on the inside I’m jumping up and down and screaming. Also, I can’t tell if he’s talking super quietly because he’s nervous
or because he doesn’t want Kyle to hear him.

  “All right. Good. That’s good.” He nods. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, never mind.” Tate takes a deep breath like he’s relieved. Like he was worried there was a chance I’d say no. He walks around the table and slides his phone into my hand, because we aren’t supposed to have our phones on at school. It’s warm like he’s been holding it all day, and by the transitive property, it’s kind of like our hands are touching. I type in my number and save it as “Rachel Brooks” in case he knows another Rachel.

  “Did I tell you we won our first game?” Tate asks.

  “No,” I say, looking up at him. “That’s awesome. How many more games do you have to win to make the play-offs?”

  “Six.”

  “You can do it,” I say.

  “Thanks.” He smiles at me.

  I’m about to give Tate my phone so he can add his number when I see Coach Howard walking over to us. I turn off my sound, call my phone from his, and then hang up. I put my phone in my pocket and hand his back to him.

  Tate leans in really close and whispers, “Good call,” in my ear. Maybe he isn’t trying to hide from anyone after all.

  After lunch, I sneak into the bathroom and save his number as “Tate,” because I don’t know any other Tates.

  I like the way his name looks in my phone.

  My trip downtown was a disaster, but it made me realize something: I’m done with gym. I can’t spend my one free hour doing yoga. I need time out of the brace that belongs to me.

  I do my homework in the kitchen and wait for Dad to get home. It’s quiet except for the regular sounds our house makes: the low hum of the fridge and the wind breathing and sighing outside the wall of windows. It’s dark by the time I hear the garage door and the sound of Dad’s heavy dress shoes clapping against the wood stairs. “Hello,” he says, like he’s surprised to see me waiting for him. “Where’s your mother?”

  “I think she’s sleeping,” I say.

  “I guess it’s almost ten.” Dad sighs. “Anything good for dinner?”

  I shrug.

  “Salmon?” he asks.

  I nod. “It’s not bad,” I say.

  “Mm-hmm.” Dad smiles and walks over to the fridge. He takes out the plate of food Mom made for him and puts it in the microwave. “How’s school?”

  “It’s okay.” I should wait a little longer before asking him for something. “It’s a little harder than last year. But not that much.”

  “Good,” he says.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  The air feels thick and I’m scared he’ll say no or “Ask your mother” before I even finish. “I was wondering if, um … You know how you wrote me that note so I wouldn’t have to go to gym?”

  “I know I have a lot of gray hair, but I’m not senile yet.” He smiles at me.

  I smile back. Dad is in one of his silly moods. “I was wondering if you could write it for the rest of the year. I want to have an hour every day where I can do whatever I want. I think it would really help me.”

  The microwave goes off—BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. They’re the longest, loudest beeps in the history of the world. Dad takes out his food and slams the door shut. He walks over to the silverware drawer, grabs a fork and knife, and sits down next to me at the table. He takes off his tie, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to give me his answer when Mom walks into the kitchen. “Hi, honey. Did you find dinner?” Pillow lines crisscross her face and her eyes are half-closed, but her blonde bob is still perfect.

  “I did.” Dad stands up and gives her a kiss. “It looks delicious.”

  Mom rolls her eyes because even she knows he’s lying. His dinner is healthy and overcooked. It’s steamed cardboard.

  “Rachel,” Dad says, turning back around like nothing could distract him from answering me. “You are playing soccer every day. When does that end?”

  “It doesn’t. I’m playing indoor, and then spring soccer.”

  “As long as you’re getting regular exercise and making time to stretch out of the brace, I don’t see why not. I’ll write you a note for the next few months.”

  “Thank you!” I say.

  “You don’t see why not what?” Mom asks.

  No, Mom, please don’t screw this up for me.

  “Rachel doesn’t want to go to gym anymore,” Dad says.

  “Why not?” Mom asks, like she’s about to overrule him.

  I take a deep breath. I try to stay calm and explain myself. “I want to have one hour a day I can look forward to without my brace.”

  The kitchen is silent. No one says anything. Dad is waiting for Mom, and Mom is going to say no.

  She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something and then doesn’t. She throws her hands in the air. “I went to gym,” she says. Then she walks out of the kitchen.

  Dad sighs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m glad you told us what you needed. It’s just—it’s hard for Mom.”

  He takes out his prescription pad and writes a note excusing me from gym. And now, because I asked for it, I have an hour that’s all mine.

  THE NEXT DAY at practice, Hazel shows up two minutes late with Ladan. They stand off to the side during warm-ups and whisper to each other.

  “Let’s pair off. One person from each group, go grab a ball,” Coach Howard says. “We’re going to work on agility before we jump into passing drills.”

  I jog over to the balls and so does Hazel. “Ready?” I ask her.

  “Oh, um, I actually already told Ladan I’d pass with her today. That’s cool with you, right? I mean, she asked me first, so … ”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay.” I nod. I know if I say, “No, it’s really not okay,” I’ll sound crazy. So I will not make it into a thing, or about me, because it’s probably not.

  “Cool.” Hazel smiles at me and then dribbles away.

  “Do you have a partner?” I ask Frannie when she runs over to grab a ball.

  “What do you mean?” She looks confused. “Where’s Hazel?”

  I shrug.

  “Ignore her.” Frannie rolls her eyes. “She’s being weird today.”

  “You think?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Good. I thought it was just me.”

  “Definitely not.” Frannie smiles at me.

  I smile back. “I’m thinking about trying out your idea.”

  “This one?” She sticks her butt out and then passes the ball to me.

  I laugh. “Just like that.” I try kicking the ball to her with my left foot, because I need to practice on that side. It comes up short and a little misdirected.

  “I like it,” she says, running forward to get the ball. She doesn’t say anything or seem to mind chasing after it, so I don’t switch back to my right side. I work on my left kicks until Coach Howard blows the whistle and asks us to circle up around the goal.

  “We’re running three-on-three drills today. Everyone is going to play both offense and defense,” she announces. She splits us up into two groups and sends me to the line behind the goal.

  Coach Howard blows the whistle and I run to cover Hazel. I stay close to her and shuffle backward, keeping my eyes on the ball, waiting for her to slip up or lose her balance. When she goes to pass, I take the ball and dribble out. Ladan runs over and pushes me toward the sideline, until it’s almost impossible for me to dribble around her. She has me cornered, covering me on my right, because she’s figured out that that’s my sort of good side. I pretend like I’m about to take a chance and dribble left, and then when she goes in to take the ball from me, I lean forward and let my brace box her out. She steps back enough for me to pivot right and get around her.

  I can’t believe it actually works. I’m so stunned that I don’t realize Ladan is in front of me again, and before I can think of what to do next, she takes the ball away from me and passes it to Hazel. Hazel taps it to Frannie, Frannie scores, and they all high-five each other.

  “Good
work,” I say to Josie and Emily as we run back to the halfway line and wait for our chance on offense. Josie doesn’t even bother to look at me, but I don’t care. I spend the rest of practice running plays in my head, imagining what it will be like to use my brace to help me in a real game situation.

  After practice, I’m in my room trying to understand math and listening to the Jackson 5. When “ABC” comes on, I start tapping my hands against my stomach without even realizing it. My drumming sounds pretty good, and it’s really fun to find the beat and the tempo, so I keep experimenting with different patterns, moving my hands in circles and then side to side on the brace. I can’t believe I have a built-in drum and it’s been here this whole time. I’m so into the song and my brace drum that I almost don’t notice my phone buzzing. I keep the beat going with one hand and pick up my phone with the other.

  It’s a text from Tate! I look again to make sure it’s really him. It is! We are officially texting!

  Do you get to pick the baby’s name? It isn’t even a text about science. It’s about life, which is a way bigger deal.

  Doubt it, I say. No one’s asked for my opinion.

  Rude, he writes back.

  Their loss, I say. I have a lot of good ideas, like Tristan, because it’s unique and strong and cool all at the same time.

  Unique is overrated, he says. Trust me.

  Tate is good unique, I say.

  Thanks. That’s nice, he says. You should just give your parents a list of all the names you like.

  Good call. My back is aching inside the brace, so I move my homework and stretch out across the bed before typing the next part. Did I tell you that my mom told me it’s a boy? I ask.

  No way! Finally! That’s awesome, he says. Got to go. Dinner.

  K. Bye, I say.

  Bye, he says.

  I read our conversation over a few times before bed. Even though falling asleep in the brace is sometimes hard, it’s not as bad when the boy you like texted you.

  The next day, I make a list of my favorite baby names like Tate suggested. I’m planning to leave it on Mom’s nightstand, but I decide I should sleep on it for a few nights or weeks or however long it takes to be sure I’m giving Mom and Dad my best and most creative ideas, because this is a really, really important decision.