Three

When I step out onto the rink for practice, on the third day of tryouts, I can almost see my reflection in the mirrorlike ice. I breathe in the brine-and-ammonia smell and feel hopeful that it’s a new beginning. Anything can happen.

Mercury lights, caged in protective steel webs, hang from the high ceiling above and slowly flicker on as Coach announces, “I’ll be making cuts and will post the names of the people who have made the team on the locker room door Friday morning.”

“Which locker room?” Derek asks. “Boys or girls?”

His friends smirk and elbow him in the back.

I glance over at Ben, but he quickly looks the other way.

Ignoring them, Coach Granato runs his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair and divides us into four lines for a scrimmage. “I’ll be trying out some different line combinations today, testing to see who works best with one another. Tough schedule this season. Opening game is in one week against last year’s league champs.”

I’m psyched that Ben and I are on the same offensive line and we’ll skate together. Because we know each other so well, it’ll give both of us a chance to show our strengths.

“Open in the middle!” Coach yells, as I move the puck out of our zone and flick it off my stick to Ben. He takes the shot. It’s blocked, but he slams the rebound into the net, hitting the pipes with a satisfying ring.

“Great finish, McCloud. Nice pass, Giordano,” Coach calls.

Derek skates by and mimics, “Nice pass, Giordano!”

I ignore him. I’m happy for Ben and that anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to fade away.

It gets even better.

Ben drills another goal and I end up with a goal and two assists. I’m so confident now that we’ll both make the team that I blow it during the last five minutes of practice.

Normally, one-on-one drills are my favorite. It’s a chance to go head-to-head and show speed and stick skills. But as we line up, I look across to see who I’m up against and my heart skips a beat—Derek!

The whistle blows and we take off after the puck that’s skimming along the ice about ten feet in front of us. Derek’s a powerful skater and probably outweighs me by fifty pounds, so it’s no surprise that he reaches the puck first and takes control.

Battling hard, I get my stick in there and steal it away. Now I’m on offense and Derek’s supposed to play defense.

Only, he doesn’t.

After I nail my shot and it sails into the back of the net, I realize Derek’s not beside me and hasn’t even bothered to defend against my scoring. He’s already up ahead, skating back to the end of the line.

I skate hard to catch up. Cutting him off in a spray of ice, I say, “You let up!”

With a disgusted look, he spits and pushes me aside, “Get out of my face,” he says.

“No!” Before I can stop myself, I slash my stick hard across the backs of his legs.

“What the?” Derek yells and spins around to confront me.

I brace for the blow, but it never comes.

“Derek! Joanna!” growls Coach Granato. “Knock it off and get back in line or you’re both finished.”

Derek shoves his glove into my jersey. “You’re finished,” he says, and then skates away.

My legs shake and my throat feels like sandpaper. He doesn’t think I’m worth defending against in the drills. He thinks I’m not going to make the team.

Any hockey player would’ve beaten the crap out of someone for purposely slashing at his legs. He doesn’t even think I’m worth fighting!

Somehow, this totally depresses me.

We finish up running the drills and coach says, “Jo, I need to talk to you after practice. The rest of you, I’ll see tomorrow.”

Ben skates over, looking anxious and pale. “I’ll wait for you to walk home,” he says to me.

*   *   *

When I step out of Coach’s office half an hour later, Ben is sitting on the floor in the hallway, with his back leaning against the gray lockers, working on his homework.

I don’t want to talk to anyone and I definitely don’t want Ben to see my eyes all red and puffy from crying. He’ll think I’m acting like a typical girl. Hey, can’t a person cry when she feels like it? My brother Jim cried whenever we watched E.T., and no one was tougher than Jim on, or off, the ice.

“What happened?” Ben scrambles to throw all his books into his backpack and gather his hockey gear. “Did he cut you from the team?”

“No, not yet. Coach and Lubic probably hope I’ll quit first and save them the trouble.” I don’t wait for Ben to collect his stuff, but keep right on walking toward the exit doors.

“Hey, slow down.” He jogs after me. “If he didn’t cut you, Jo, that’s good. You had a good tryout today.”

“Yeah, sure, I showed him. Coach said I’m a strong skater, aggressive, good stick skills, but he also said that having a girl on the team might affect team chemistry.” My voice starts to quiver and I can barely get out the last line. “Like the problems I’m having with Derek.”

Ben shifts his backpack and gear uncomfortably from one shoulder to the other, and asks, “What did you say?”

“That it’s Derek’s problem, not mine! Team chemistry? It’s hockey, not science lab.”

“Maybe he’s only trying to help,” Ben offers.

“What?” I stop walking and glare at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, but”—Ben sets his stuff down on the sidewalk and fumbles with the zipper on his jacket—“it’s true that some guys don’t like having a girl on the team,” he says quietly. “Derek’s not the only one.”

“Why?” I ask, feeling my throat tighten and the tears well up in my eyes again.

“Well, for one thing … when you beat us.” Ben gives me a sheepish smile. “I mean, it’s wrong, but when I was a kid, my dad used to yell at me, ‘Don’t throw like a girl, don’t skate like a girl, don’t run like a girl.’” Ben puts his hand on my arm. “‘Quit crying like a girl.’”

I push him away. “Yeah? Well, your dad forgot one, Ben—don’t be friends with a girl.” I take off so fast that I’m practically racewalking down the icy sidewalk, brushing tears off my face with my mittens.

“Actually,” Ben calls after me, “he said that one, too—but I didn’t listen!” He catches up, bumping his shoulder into mine.

I pull away.

“Besides, Jo, you’re not like a girl, or a boy, to me. You’re you—you’re just Jo.”

“Shut up, McCloud!” I shove him so hard he nearly spills his backpack and gear all over the sidewalk.

Everything’s so confusing. I know Ben’s just trying to be honest, so why do I feel like pushing him away? All I want is to play hockey—big deal! There’re kids at school who smoke, do drugs, have boy/girl sleepovers when their parents are out of town, and have done a lot worse than trying out for a sports team.

We walk in silence the rest of the way home, avoiding patches of ice and each other. I kick at some dirty snow mounds and feel like a raging bull with steam from my breath coming out of my mouth and nose. The streetlights flicker on when we finally stop in front of Ben’s house.

“Don’t be angry,” he says.

But I am angry and mean, and so I cross the street to my house without even saying good-bye.

“Jo, come on,” Ben calls after me.

I stand on the uneven sidewalk, back turned toward him, and shout over my shoulder, “I’m moving out of this dumb town, you know.”

“Yeah, where to?” he says.

“Canada.” From the corner of my eye, I see him struggling not to smile.

“Why Canada, Jo?”

“Because, in Canada, I bet even the Ashleys and the Brittanys play hockey with the boys.”

He snorts and shakes his head.

“And kick their butts, too!” I leave Ben standing there and stomp up my porch steps, letting myself in and slamming the door so hard that I knock the stupid wreath off the hook.

*   *   *

The next day at school, Taryn informs me, “They’re taking bets.”

I shoulder-check my locker to force it open before the bell rings. It gets jammed at least once a day, making me late for class.

“What bets?” The door pops open and I quickly move my knee to block the avalanche of books, sweatshirts, and junk food wrappers tumbling out of the narrow metal opening.

“On whether you make the team or not,” Taryn says. “You’ll make it, right?”

I shrug, searching for my English book and remembering my talk with Coach yesterday afternoon. “I hope so,” I say, but I don’t sound very confident.

“Come on, Jo, you will. Besides, I’ve got two dollars down on you,” Taryn says, tucking her glossy black hair behind her triple-pierced ears.

“Thanks.” I find the book under the pile at my feet. “I’ll know tomorrow morning. Coach is posting the names.”

“Hey, have you considered feng shui for this locker?” Taryn asks, critically surveying the mess.

“No, I hit it here and it usually opens.”

She laughs. “Jo, feng shui. Say it like this: fung shway.”

“Fung shay,” I say, feeling like my mouth is full of Novocain.

“Close enough.” Taryn kneels down and sorts through the clutter. “It’s the Chinese art of positive organization, and right now, you’re a mess, girl. My mom runs a consulting business that helps people arrange their stuff so it brings them success and good luck.”

“Forget luck,” I say. “Help me shove this junk back in or I’ll be late for English.”

Together we scoop up highlighters, notebooks, and gum wrappers and cram them all back into the locker, but Taryn’s found a project. “First, I’ll paint the inside of your locker red in order to channel positive chi. Next I’ll get some stones and place them along the bottom for—”

“Stones? It’s a locker, Taryn, not landscape design!”

The bell rings, drowning out Taryn’s miracle makeover plans.

“I’m late!” I slam the door closed—bang! And give it a quick kick for good measure.

“Fung this!” I say as we laugh and race off to class.

*   *   *

We’re reading the play Julius Caesar in English and Ms. Freeman assigns parts that she wants us to perform in front of the sixth graders. I slump down in my seat, hoping to avoid eye contact and a role in the play.

Of course, Valerie’s hand is up. She’s laughing and calling, “Me, Caesar, me!”

I wonder if she has any idea that Caesar was stabbed to death. I smile, because around here, it’s usually Valerie who does all the backstabbing.

Valerie catches my grin and says, “What are you smirking at?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, and look down at my book, hoping the no-eye-contact routine works for Valerie as well.

No way.

“So Jo, is it true that you change in the boys’ locker room now so you can get undressed with the team?” Valerie asks in a voice loud enough for the entire class to hear.

Silence for a few tortured seconds.

I feel my face heating up.

“I change in our locker room,” I stammer, “the girls’ locker room.”

How lame! Valerie Holm accusing me of being a slut? Why didn’t I say, “At least my clothes come off just for hockey practice—what’s your excuse?”

No matter how badly I wished I’d come back at her, I don’t dare. I’m hoping that if I let her use me as a verbal punching bag for a few rounds, she’ll forget about my crack the other day and leave me alone.

I’m turning into such a coward.

It’s too late to say anything now, anyway, and even Ms. Freeman gives in and lets Valerie play the part of Caesar. Why do some people always seem to get their way?

Ms. Freeman turns from writing Valerie’s name on the board, adjusts her glasses, and scans the rows of students. “Now, I’m looking for our Brutus.”

I glance at Ms. Freeman at the exact moment she asks, “Jo, how about it?”

I’m tempted to say, “No thanks, I’ll pass,” but from the hopeful look on her face, I can see that’s not an option. So I shrug and agree to the part, consoling myself with the thought of getting even with Valerie on stage.

*   *   *

If you’re ever in doubt where you rank in the middle school social order, just take note of where you sit in the cafeteria. The Dereks and Valeries of our class occupy the rectangular tables on a platform along the back wall. From there, the athletes, cheerleaders, and rich kids look down on the rest of us, who sit at circular tables, ground level. Better known as the mosh pit.

Even though Ben and I play hockey and Taryn plays fast-pitch softball, there’s more to being in the popular crowd than that. It also matters which side of town you live on, the style of clothes you wear, what country club your parents belong to, and the cars they drive.

“Never judge a book by its cover,” Ms. Freeman always says, but she’s wrong. In middle school, everyone does.

Lunch is at 11 A.M.—even though most of us call that breakfast on the weekends. Taryn’s sitting at our table in the pit, unwrapping a tuna sandwich.

“What do you have?” she asks.

Taryn has had tuna for lunch every single day of school since first grade, even though she tells her mom at the beginning of every school year that she’s sick of it.

But Mrs. Wu cheerfully insists, “Tuna’s good for you. You don’t like it? Make your own lunch.”

Taryn would rather take her chances trading than wake up a minute earlier to pack a lunch.

I peek in my bag, relieved that Gramps didn’t try anything creative today. “A bagel.”

“What kind?” Taryn asks, leaning in for a closer look.

“Poppy seed with cream cheese.”

“Nah, I hate poppy seeds. They get caught in my teeth.” Taryn turns to Ben, who has a turkey sandwich he’s not about to part with.

He refuses the trade but offers her some advice: “Tell your mom that you heard about mercury poisoning from eating too much tuna.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “Be sure to mention brain damage and lower SAT scores.”

Taryn’s not listening. She has her eye on a slice of pepperoni pizza two seats down and moves in for the sale before the kid snarfs it up.

“Tomorrow we find out who makes the team,” Ben says to me.

We haven’t spoken to each other since yesterday after practice, and I don’t feel like talking about it now. What if one of us makes the team and the other one doesn’t?

With a mouth full of bagel, I just nod. Taryn breaks the awkward silence with a victory dance. She’s taken her chance on the lunch lottery and won.

“Yes!” she says, showing us the incredible trade for the soggy tuna—a chocolate cupcake with multicolored sprinkles.

Ben’s not easily distracted. “Who would you pick for the team if you were coach?”

I shrug and say, “Don’t know,” which is a lie and Ben knows it. Since tryouts began, every night before I fall asleep, I compare my skills against every boy out there. I have my dream team, but I’m not talking.

“Okay, I get it,” Ben says, as he stuffs the remainder of his lunch into his backpack. “I can take a hint.” He stands up.

“Ben…” I want to tell him not to go, that I’m not angry with him, just angry with everything. Unfortunately, as he turns his back to leave, something flies across the cafeteria and hits me on the shoulder.

Ben doesn’t see that that something is a meatball, part of the hot lunch menu that day. But he hears the howls of laughter from behind us on the platform where the cool kids sit. When Ben turns to see what the commotion is all about, Derek and his crowd are pointing and laughing at our table.

Ben’s face reddens until it nearly matches the color of his hair. Public ridicule—just about the worst thing that can happen, and Ben probably thinks it’s directed his way. Quickly, he walks out of the cafeteria without noticing the sauce dripping down my arm or the busted meatball on the floor.

“Hey! Somebody sneeze?” Derek shouts.

More laughter.

“Jerks!” Taryn says, as she hands me her napkin. She scoops the meatball off the floor, turns, and fires it back at Derek’s table like she’s throwing someone out at the plate.

Unfortunately, another of Ms. Freeman’s sayings, “The second one always gets caught,” is true. The lunch monitors converge on our table and drag Taryn to the office, protesting and trailing sprinkles from her half-eaten cupcake.

Surrounded by the deafening roar of cafeteria noise and with ten minutes remaining in the lunch period, I consider two important questions: Will I be able to clean this sauce stain off my favorite sweatshirt? and Why is it so difficult to swallow food when you’re eating all alone?