“The cold snacks are in the chest with water and Gatorades,” he says. “The washrags can be soaked in the watered-down ice if one of the players is getting overheated. There’s also a first aid kit back here. Call me if you need anything.”
He waves his walkie-talkie at me, then heads back to the clubhouse. It takes me longer than it should to get the hang of the golf cart. The slightest tap to the gas has me shooting off, and the same small tap on the brake almost throws me through the nonexistent front windshield. And don’t get me started on the high-pitched whining noise that draws every eye to me when I put the cart in reverse.
The front and back nine holes basically start in the same general area, then head in opposite directions. I decide to go in numerical order, so hole one’s up first. From what I can tell, there are both lots of tournament players practicing today and a lot of random golfers getting in a game before the course is closed to anyone who isn’t playing in the tournament the rest of the week. It’s easy to tell who’s who, since there is about a forty-year age gap between the two groups.
I drive fast when there’s no one around, then take it slow and easy when I get near anyone. People are playing everywhere, and I don’t want to mess anyone up. There are several carts on the path driven by what must be a few of the players’ parents. Some of them are videoing their kids, while others are calling out tips, but the one who is quickly becoming my least favorite is the dad literally berating his daughter every time she hits the ball in a way he doesn’t like.
“Sierra, you shanked it! It’s like you’re not even listening to me!”
And somehow Sierra doesn’t react to him at all. She puts the club she just finished using back into the bag and heads toward where her ball landed.
“Freddy, you have got to stop yelling at her,” a woman from another cart says. “They’ll kick you out of here just like last time.”
Freddy bangs his hand on the top of the steering wheel. “I swear to God she’s doing it on purpose. Does she not know how important this tournament is?”
Does he not know how awful he is? I pull slightly off the path so I can get around them and then speed away.
Each hole is different. On some, there’s a long stretch to flag as the cart path snakes around, but on others, it’s only a few feet.
I find the guys from my school on hole four. There are a few parents following behind them, too, but none as loud as Sierra’s dad. And I finally feel useful when Cal and David both need waters. Just as they walk back to their bags, Locke heads in my direction.
“Hey! Need a drink? A snack?” I’m trying to be extra nice, since he gave me a heads-up about Coach looking for me, but it’s wasted on him.
“No, but do you have any Advil in there?”
I turn around and grab the first aid kit. It takes some digging, but I finally pull out a small bottle. “How many you want?” I ask.
“Give me four,” he says.
That’s probably over the recommended dosage, but I just give him what he asks for. “Anything else?” I ask after he throws the pills back and chases them with some water.
“Are you going to be here all week?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess. It’s up to Coach.” Even though I know I will be.
He’s quiet a second, then says, “Most of us here need to do well. Especially those of us graduating. Just don’t make it harder than it already is.”
And then he’s gone.
What was that about? Am I screwing up his game in some way I’m unaware of? Was taking twenty seconds to text me that Coach was looking for me enough to ruin his whole day?
I get back in my cart and drive off to the next hole. I’m not sure I can take a week of this.
“I wish I could have seen you fall out of that window,” Wes says ina low voice.
He laughs and I give him a shove in the side, which only makes him laugh harder.
“I’m sure I flashed those poor girls. At least they didn’t know who I was.”
“Not gonna lie, I’m a little worried about my day tomorrow,” Charlie says.
Yeah, we’re all worried about Charlie’s day tomorrow.
We’re at Nonna’s, hanging out in her kitchen, eating strawberry pie. I’m still “Olivia,” fielding texts from her mom and her friends asking where she is. And because she didn’t sign out of her social media apps, I’m getting messages from every direction.
I’m only answering Aunt Lisa at this point, but the notifications are piling up.
“Should I answer Bailey and Mia?” I ask Wes and Charlie. “They keep texting.”
