Parking lot terrorist:Good to know that you have no concept of boundaries
Me:You said to help myself.
Parking lot terrorist: To the pantry. Not to my most prized possessions.
Me:Relax, Taz. I would never be anything less than serious when it comes to NIN. Never heard this record on vinyl. It’s fucking magical.
Parking lot terrorist:You’re a NIN fan?
Me:Saw them in concert six times. And if you accuse me of going because I’m a fan girl…
Parking lot terrorist:Wouldn’t dream of it. I hate the guys who are like that.
Me:Same.
Me:Wait. Did we find common ground?
Parking lot terrorist: Common ground, us? You’re talking nonsense.
My hand lands on my mouth, and I realize I’m…smiling. The realization has me clicking out of our text thread. I put Wes’s most prized possessions back where they belong and hightail it off our common ground.
It isn’t until dinner that Thea appears again, thanks to the intoxicating smell of garlic bread. Her head swivels slowly from side to side, the way she would look before crossing the street. My heart hurts for her; I remember that gut-wrenching feeling all too well. The tsunami of nerves churning in my gut, waiting to know my punishment.
“They’re not home,” I call out from where I stand at the stove, stirring the spaghetti into the meat sauce. So many coaches tried to cure me of my love of pasta, but it has weathered every attempt. “We have about thirty minutes. You hungry?”
When Thea says nothing, I glance over my shoulder at her. She shrugs in response.Well, okay, then. I prepare our plates and bring them over to the table, which already has parmesan cheese, water,and cans of soda. Thea makes her way over once I’ve taken my seat, sliding into the spot across from me.
“Did you have a good nap?” I ask her.
She swallows hard. “Couldn’t fall asleep.”
“Because of what happened today?”
She drops her gaze to her plate, clearing her throat before she speaks. “One of the guys said some mean stuff to me. Everyone laughed, and I…snapped.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m sure your uncles won’t agree with me, but it’s good that you stood up for yourself.”
Thea’s gaze locks with mine, an eyebrow arched like she can’t believe the words leaving my mouth. I deposit my silverware onto the plate and lean back into my chair.
“Life is a series of moments where we either let things happen to us or we push back. I only regret the times I let people take my voice or when I ceded my decision-making to someone else. Those moments are the ones I wish I could do over. Sometimes it feels easier not to fight, but I can promise that you’d regret lying down. You’ll be laughing about this in five years. Don’t give it a single thought.” I let out a weak laugh. “Besides, boys can be shitheads. Forget what he said, all right?”
She blows out a breath. “Come on, Isla. It’s not like you could understand.”
My brow furrows. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” she snaps, her arm flying out to the side with the power of her statement. “You could never understandwhat it’s like to be torn apart like that, to have everyonelaugh…” Her voice catches, emotion climbing its way up her throat.
I wait silently to see if she’ll continue, but she picks up her silverware and starts to eat the food.
“No one thought I was beautiful when I was a teenager. Most of all, me. I was bullied for having the body of a boy. I trained so hard that I didn’t get my period until high school. Every part of me was flat, and because I was in televised competitions and in social media coverage, some guys thought that mocking me was fair game. Never thinking that I was a person, that words hurt me the same as anyone else. It sucked, but it made me stronger.”
“Really?” she asks, tone flat and skeptical.
“The girls were worse,” I admit. “They talked a lot of crap about how I'd never make it to the Olympics, never amount to anything. They thought I thought I was better than them, which wasn't the case. I was lonely a lot.”
I leave out that it's not so different for me now. At least I have my Athlala crew, who understand the struggle of being a female athlete in a world that often doesn’t give a shit about us, who don’t think we belong in sports. Especially not at our ages.
“You were?”
