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“I have a curfew,” Analise flubbed out.
“I can take you home—”
“No, I’ll find a ride.”
He paused. “Okay. Meet you outside the gym entrance after the game? We can at least go to the party together.”
“Yeah. Great. Okay.”
That evening, Analise made sure the house was dusted, vacuumed, and she even scrubbed the plastic kitchen linoleum that curled away from its crusted glue in the corners, hoping to bank penance if she broke curfew.
Ulla came home when Analise was touching up her mascara and lip gloss in her room. She listened to Ulla’s predictable routine. The one where her keys clanked into the ceramic bowl on the consul table, bedroom drawers opened/closed, the toilet flushed, faucet ran, leftovers microwaved and carried into the living room for her nightly date with the television. It was then Analise would go to her, and Ulla would ask to see her purse, check for mace, condoms, and an extra bus token before saying goodnight. Analise would always be the first one to kiss her on the forehead, inhale the comforting mix of Herbal Essence shampoo and motor oil, and say, “Jag älskar dig, Mamma.” I love you.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Analise
Taylor scored the only two goals in the soccer match. Analise knew as much about soccer as she did about cars, enough to appreciate quality. She turned to Missy and said, “Is Taylor Barnes the best player on the team?”
Missy gave her a capital-L look and gnawed on a chunk of her rope licorice. With her mouth full, she said, “Taylor Barnes is the best soccer player in the entire state of Minnesota. What rock have you been living under? I heard he got an offer to play at Stanford.”
That pricked Analise. “Stanford?” she said, “Like California—Stanford?”
Missy rolled her eyes hard. “God, Ana, how bad did he hit you with the soccer ball? I don’t know of any other Stanford.”
“Is Dave any good?”
She hummed coyly. “Let’s just say Dave’s good looks more than make up for anything lacking on the field.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Speaking of which, don’t look now, but you are getting stabbed to death with Shaina’s eyes.”
Analise darted her gaze two bleachers down to Dave’s on-again/off-again girlfriend.
“Noted,” Analise whispered back and swallowed a shard of anxiety.
The referee whistled the game’s completion. Analise stood, clapping with the rest of the spectators, nervous about Dave. Classmates clung to Missy, and, oh, how Analise wished Missy’s charisma would rub off. She never knew how to banter or crack jokes. She’d been shy in her other schools and had friends who promised to stay in touch when she switched districts, but over the past two years, the phone calls stopped. Analise learned to memorize everyone’s names and stories and, when running into them in the hallway or at lunch, was always ready: How did your mom’s knee surgery go? Did your dog have her puppies yet?
Analise dismounted the bleachers, surprised at how many people knew her name and asked if she was going to Conner’s party with Dave. She waited for Dave on the bench outside the school’s locker rooms. The night breeze guided clouds across the stars. Analise’s nerves multiplied when she studied other girls loitering. Their spotless Vans shoes, the manicured nails typing away on Blackberries, swiping professionally-dyed locks of hair from their freshly glossed lips.
She stood from her seat on the bench and walked away before any of them noticed she was alone, hands stuffed into her dorky cross-country jacket, head bowed. But then she stopped and contemplated where to wait for Dave. She turned abruptly, focused on her brisk steps, and collided with Taylor.
He caught her with a chuckle, gently extending her from him. “I don’t want to knock you out a second time.”
She held her breath, certain her exhale would shudder. Because Taylor was showered, his hair in damp waves, and he smelled amazing. His smile was big, but his eyes should’ve held more, should’ve held pride and exhausted relief over winning. But they didn’t. He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped away, adjusting his Adidas bag.
Of all the questions her brain manufactured at that moment, she blurted, “Are you going to Stanford next year?”
Taylor blinked in obvious surprise. “Who told you that?”
“Missy.”
He twisted his mouth and shook his head at the ground. “I don’t know.”
You don’t know? Her chest constricted.
Dave called out her name.
Taylor mumbled goodbye and moved to the parking lot. She watched him, wondering if she was mistaking his gruff stride. Dave took her hand and shouted to Taylor, “Where’s the love, Barnes?” But Taylor ignored him.
At the party, Fall Out Boy played loud on the stereo but not loud enough to summon cops to break up the underage drinking. On the drive, in Dave’s Nissan Pathfinder, their conversation consisted of, for her part, air-headed giggles, sighs, and “uh-huh.” She’d tried cataloging what he was saying, but her mind kept drifting. Did I say something dumb to Taylor?
