Sign Here(10)

“These people will be your partners this week. Work together and wow me!” KQ said as she squeezed something out of one big toenail and flicked it on the carpet.

“Um, ma’am?” Cal said.

I winced. That wasn’t smart.

“What did you just call me?”

“I’m sorry, I was just trying to be—”

“Insulting? Obnoxious?”

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“What is wrong with you people? I’m probably younger than you.”

She definitely wasn’t.

“It’s just that,” Cal pressed on, “if we all look both ways, we can’t split up.”

She had a point. KQ flashed red and rolled her eyes. “Must I do everything for you plebs? Fine, count to three, like infants. Go on, Trey—start us off.”

“One,” Trey said, as if it weren’t an insult at all.

“Two,” I said, half-relieved I wouldn’t be in the same group as Trey and half-disappointed I couldn’t hang out with Cal during work.

The rest of the table finished, counting the way children do with sheep at bedtime.

“Great. So, now, the first three: you’re a group. The next three: you’re a group, and so on. If you can’t figure that out, you can go down a floor.” KQ stood up and shoved her feet into her heels. “Now, go on and make Hell proud.”

Trey spun around in his chair to face us.

“So, brainstorming dinner tonight?”

I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough, so I nodded. Cal nodded right after me, almost like she was waiting to see what I said.

“I know a great place,” Trey said, writing down an address, followed by his beeper number. If you were wondering where beepers went, Hell is the answer. They all went to Hell, and now we have to use them. “It’s on Fourth. Beep me if you have any problems getting in; the line can be long. But don’t worry, the bouncers know me.” Trey winked and pushed out of his seat.

“This is going to be horrible, isn’t it?” Cal asked as soon as he was gone.

“Nothing short of horrible,” I answered. Cal shoved her pens into their case, which wouldn’t close all the way. She tugged on the zipper. I reached into my pouch for a rubber band.

“It will never close,” I said, handing it over.





MICKEY





“SO, WHAT’S THE VERDICT?” Eliot asked the following day, when Mickey reached the bench and grabbed her water bottle. The other girls were ready, all giddy stares. They must have talked about it. What they didn’t know was that Mickey was ready too. She wouldn’t get stuck this time.

“Are you switching to our team? Or are you going to grow some tits?”

Water caught in her throat.

No boy had commented on her body before. Her voice, the way she ate, the way she scrunched her eyebrows when she read, the way she breathed at night—all of that was fair game with her brother. But never her body. She turned red, which made her angry, which made her turn redder. She opened her mouth, but her mind drew a blank. All of her comebacks fled.

“Congratulations, it’s a boy!” Eliot shouted, clapping. “At least now you can stop wearing that bra.” He jammed his fingers under the strap on her shoulder, pulled back, and released it onto her sunburned skin. “You don’t need a bra for bee stings, just Neosporin.”

Lily had bought the bra for Mickey earlier that month. She talked about “breast buds” with the department store clerk as Mickey shimmied and squeezed into one after another, and she shrugged absently when her mom suggested this one. But secretly, Mickey loved it. It was gray with pink straps, the delicate kind. She should’ve refused the bra, she thought furiously. She should burn it. She wanted to scream at her mother for doing this to her. She decided she would as soon as she got home.

But then she heard a new voice from over her shoulder. “Her boobs will grow, which is more than we can say for your dick, Marks.”

And then there was a shriek loud enough that the coach had to work not to hear it. Mickey looked up and saw Eliot bent at the waist, his shorts in a pile around his legs, his thighs so much whiter than the rest of him—so white they looked translucent in the setting sun. He pulled frantically at the elastic band of his shorts, but they were tangled in the Velcro of his shin guards. The group’s laughter turned on him beautifully, like a school of fish. Eliot burned red and squatted down, covering himself with his hands. Mickey could see his small pink ball sack peeping below his fingers. The way it hung there reminded her of the crust her dog used to get in the corners of his eyes.

“Catch ya later, dipshit.”

And then an arm landed across her shoulders, and they were walking. Mickey looked at the girl pressed against her, warm and smelling like baby powder deodorant. She knew her; everyone knew her. She was in the grade above Mickey; she transferred into their school in seventh. Her arrival caused quite the stir, with her long hair the color of honey on toast and her hips already taking the shape of something powerful and dangerous under her jeans. As far as Mickey knew, this girl had no idea who Mickey was, but she walked with her like they had been friends for years. Like she regularly pantsed boys on Mickey’s behalf. Mickey looked back at Eliot struggling to stand up, and she couldn’t help it: she let out a squeal of laughter. The kind of laugh Sean ridiculed. The kind of laugh she tried to change except for when she truly couldn’t.