There’s something wrong with me.

I got to class late, but Mr. Shelali turned out to be a nice porker of an old man in glasses, so he excused me. I sat down in the back and played with my pen, feeling ashamed and stupid. I may as well have had a sign on my back reading “LOSER.” And this wasn’t my pen. This pen was sleek and black, with a gold-painted handle and the initials RJO. It had to be the upperclassman’s pen.

The upperclassman. I couldn’t get his face out of my head. He was so… handsome.

There’s something wrong with me.

For the past year or so I’ve been getting weird feelings, and having strange thoughts. It was the time in your life when you suddenly become away that there’s another gender besides yours. It’s like having a whole new world opened up to you. The concept of ‘cooties’ is gone, and these new people are such wonderful, beautiful creatures. You want to be with them, to touch them, to have them like you. It’s the boy-meets-girl dance, the ultimate opposites-attract system, which has been going on since the dawn of time.

But not for me.

If you ever share a locker room with my old teammates, it becomes painfully obvious why I refer to them as the ‘horndog brigade.’ With them it’s all girls, all the time. They’ve memorized the female anatomy, and as has been shown, they have their own language to discuss it. They’re forever declaring what they’ve done with girls, what they’d like to do.

And I have no interest in it. I don’t get all hot-and-bothered by an inch of bare female skin the way they do. Some of the things they talk about, all the physical contact and questionable behavior that goes along with it—they make me cringe. I mean, sure, I’d like to be kissed by a girl, hugged, maybe hold her hand, something romantic like that. But the things they discuss, things like… eh, never mind, you know what they are. Ew.

Maybe I just have more class than they do, I tell myself, or maybe I’m just naïve. Not every teenage boy in the world is a pervert, believe me.

Could it be I’m just not mature enough yet? There were still some boys who could pass for fifth graders, short, scrawny, and squeaky-voiced. Perhaps I just haven’t matured to the point where I’m into girls yet. Yeah. Hormones are mysterious, uncontrollable things, but I was a normal guy, so everything would work out fine eventually.

Except that’s only half of it.

How can I explain this? This conflict is forever playing itself out in my head, two warriors tightly engaged in a battle to the death. But trying to make sense of what I feel is like watching those two warriors go at it while being spun in circles like a top.

Handsome guys have more of a tendency to turn my head than pretty girls do. Maybe that’s one way to put it.

Take the upperclassman I’d collided with, for example. What little I’d seen of him was imprinted in my face: a thin face with long white cheeks blotched red from surprise and humiliation, wet brown eyes like melted dark chocolate, laced with dark lashes; silky, shining hair one shade up from black. Beneath me I’d felt the weave of a nice polo shirt—a blue Abercrombie one which I recognized from when I’d gone shopping—and a lean, chiseled body. He was definitely older than me. Perhaps not a senior, but a junior?

And as I fiddled with the pen, turning it over and over in my fingers and thinking all this, my stomach got that weird feeling.

He was definitely handsome, undeniably a good-looking guy. But not sexy, not ‘hott’. Not to me. That was for his female admirers to decide. Guys aren’t attracted to other guys. It’s just not the way it is. Not unless you’re really weird.

Good thing I’m normal.

I appreciated male beauty, but I wasn’t into girls yet. It sounds suspicious, I know, but it’s okay. They’re just harmless thoughts and I’m just paranoid.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I was in a down, self-deprecating mood, and I felt very alone. I wanted to go home. Please, God, I wanted to go home and never come back to this place.

The ringing of the bell and the announcements at 1:55 were of little consolation. I wanted to play soccer for the school and tryouts were this afternoon until 5, starting at 2:30. I love soccer, I really do. Nothing gets me pumped and excited like standing on a neatly cropped field with my cleats laced and socks snug on my calves. I was dreading these tryouts, though. Two and a half hours with better athletes than me, no one I know other than the horndog brigade, all of us competing for the limited spots on the team--Guh.

After school I raced to the boys’ locker room and was relieved to see that my gym bag hadn’t disappeared. Quickly I stripped of my school shirt and put on a junkier T-shirt from a soccer camp, a shirt strategically selected to show the other players that I was a veteran at this soccer thing. To serve the same purpose, I pulled my green and white soccer socks, displaying my town colors, over my battered shin pads. I laced my trusty cleats and squeezed my soccer ball. It had plenty of air.

I stowed my bags and went outside, following a group of boys who were also trying out. Once outside, Pete punched on my shoulder. “There y’ar, Redde! Thought maybe you’d chickened out.”

“Now, why would I chicken out? I’m ten times better than you,” I snapped, feeling nasty.

Pete only guffawed. “True, man, ya got me there” He patted me on the back. “If there’s any better forward or midfielder on this field, I’ll eat my shoelaces.”

I grinned. That was true—I was extremely good at soccer. I’d been the best in my town. But so had all these other boys. This was no time to get cocky.

An older boy in a navy blue baseball cap directed a bunch of us through the parking lot and up to a field. He had a shirt from the same soccer camp as me, I noticed. I tried to scan his face to see if I recognized him, but his head was down over a clipboard and the cap’s brim shadowed his face. We’d lined up at the edge of the field and he was going down the line signing people in. When he got to me he looked up at me and asked, “Name?”

And I promptly forgot my name, though my mouth was hanging open—it was him! The upperclassman I’d knocked down the stairs!

Oh God, Oh God, did he recognize me? Oh, God, what were the odds of him being here?!

“Arik Redde,” I mumbled, turning my face away and willing the ground to open up and ingest me.

“Erik?”

I hope my parents realize how much suffering I endure because they like to have kids with funny names. “A-R-I-K,” I clarified.

“Ah, ‘kay,” he murmured. He watched my face for a second more before moving to the next kid.

Could it be he didn’t recognize me? Oh, I hoped so! Please let me be just another faceless freshman, I prayed.

A man strolled briskly across the field, his fawn hair and white windbreaker flapping in the breeze. He looked about my Dad’s age, but with a trim, well-exercised figure. The planes of his face looked flat and stiff, with permanent creases in his forehead and around his smiling mouth. As he drew nearer I saw that his eyes were tiny and grey-blue, and spaced slightly farther apart than usual.

“Hallo!” he called in a loud, amiable bark. “I’m sure you’re all just ecstatic to be back to school again!” He laughed at our groans. I decided I liked him already. “Right! I’m Coach O’Donnell. You can call me Mr. O’Donnell. If you make my team—which I suspect mostly all of you will—you can call me Coach. And if you happen to be Roger here—“ As the upperclassman approached the man put a hand on his shoulder, “—then you can call me Dad. As I’m sure Roger will testify, all of you should thank your lucky stars every night that you don’t have to call me that!”

Roger smiled sheepishly, and everyone chuckled.

Wow, I thought, wow. Not only did I knock an older kid down the stairs and land on him, but I knocked down and landed on the coach’s son. I had to laugh. Ha! Haha! This is my life! Everyone point and laugh!

“Right! Now, before we stretch, let’s take a nice easy jog around the field,” Coach O’Donnell commanded, and we all took off.

Conflict: Do I hang back and try not to be conspicuous so Roger won’t notice me, or do I jog well and show off for the coach at something I’m good at?

I compromised and jogged in the mediocre middle. Life is so complicated.

After that we stretched and did a few drills, nothing particularly taxing. However, it became evident that I wasn’t competing with t he best of the best. Most were good, like my horndog teammates, but others were most definitely beginners.

We did a multitude of drills and exercises testing everything from passing to kicking and dribbling. Coach O’Donnell repeatedly singled us out and made us perform the exercise in front of everyone while he jotted down notes on his clipboard. This was nerve-wracking, but I did all right for myself. All my shots soared past the goalie and my passes connected perfectly to my partner’s foot. I wondered if the coach was noticing.

“Super!” Coach O’Donnell exclaimed after the last boy finished up a throw-in exercise. “One more drill and then we’ll scrimmage. Everyone, pair up.”

I began to drift towards Pete, as we always pair up in soccer.

“Hey, you, Redde!” called the coach, his finger pointed at me. “I want you to work with Roger!”

“Aaauuuhhh…” I murmured in response, torn between hollering that I’d rather eat the dirt off my cleats and barking “Yes, sir!” like an obedient little soldier. Either way, Roger had jogged over, and he waited in front of me in all his godly older-student glory.

“Right-O, this is a drill to see how well your footwork is—one of you will play offense, the other defense, and I want you to take turns trying to get the ball past each other,” the coach explained. “If you’ve got any fancy-schmancy moves for this, let’s see ‘em!”

“Here, you go first,” Roger said, kicking the ball to me, and I caught it with the sole of my foot, nodding dumbly.

Head down, I rushed him front-on, and then tapped the ball to the side to slip past him—but he predicted that and he was there. I recovered quickly and rolled it backwards as he reached for it and slid it around to his other side, but he was there, too, and he kicked it, sending the ball flying backwards. I was stunned—this never happened to me. I could always get the ball through! This Roger J. O’Donnell was good.

I retrieved it and tried again, using a different tactic, but once more he blocked me, and this time he knocked me down.

Chuckling, he reached down to help me up, then stopped, peering down at me with thick furrowed brows.

“You know, I thought you looked familiar,” he said, a sly smile spreading across his face. “You’re that kid who knocked me down the stairs today, aren’t you?”

I gawked. No, Mr. Roger O’Donnell, sir, I’m nothing, a freshman, a faceless wisp of nobody-ness, pretend I don’t exist.

He didn’t wait for me to answer. With a laugh he hauled me to my feet. “Well, good, cuz, I wanted to talk to you.”

Talk to me? Oh, sir, don’t bother, I’ll start groveling and kissing your cleats this instant, just please don’t hurt me—!

He patted my shoulder. “Sorry I yelled at you and shoved you like that. I was just surprised, that’s all. It’s been kinda bugging me all day, ‘cuz I know it was only an accident. And it was kinda funny, don't you think?”

He smiled and I just stared, bewildered, like a deer in the headlights. He was apologizing? He didn’t seem to be sarcastic—he wasn’t mad?! He felt bad about shoving me?

“O-oh, I-it’s okay, really, I mean, I did kinda land on you, really I should be sorry—“ I babbled once my oral abilities returned to me.

He smiled again. “Well, good, ‘cuz I hate to start off on the wrong foot with a teammate. Right, now I’ll go get the ball, you try stopping me.”

I watched after him as he ran the ball down, heart fluttering. What an extraordinarily nice person! Oh, Roger J. O’Donnell, you are an angel, a wonderful, caring human being, permit me to throw myself at your cleats and worship you!

For the next half-hour or so I couldn’t seem to stop smiling, feeling like I had little happy faces revolving around my head. I only managed to block one of his attempts to get by me, but later when we switched back, I broke free from his defenses. He appeared to be impressed.

After that we re-grouped and then split into two teams to scrimmage. The coach placed me on center forward of one team, and Roger on right defense for the other. I scored three times against the left defender and then once past Roger. Pete, on left-forward, scored once also but was trounced by Roger. The right forward had no hope.

The scrimmage and the clouds’ ominous threat of rain ended the tryouts—it was 5-1 us, and I was running high, feeling as if the world was mine to command. Rushing against the rain, we dashed back to the locker room to grab our stuff. Feeling cocky, I took my time getting my bags, then sauntered back outside with my gym bag over my shoulder like a pro. A fair amount of boys had left already, and the parking lot was filled with cars. I scanned it for my mother’s car, to no avail. A few minutes later I remembered that Mrs. Shannon was supposed to bring me home. By the time I’d run up and down the lot in search of her car and realized that she had already let, I was the only boy standing outside. My bravado fading to jitters, I ran the length of the lot again but found no familiar cars. And since this is my pathetic, laughable life, it started to rain. Feeling like a lost, forgotten child, I huddled on a bench and wondered what to do. I replayed the morning’s conversation in my head—yes, Mum had said Mrs. Shannon was driving me home, but Mrs. Shannon wasn’t here, and there was no sign of Pete.

Someone trotted up behind me and tapped my shoulder. I turned and squinted up into the rain at Roger.

“Hey, you have a ride?” he asked, and his father appeared behind him toting a sack of soccer balls.

“Uhh, well, my friend’s mom was supposed to drive me home, but, um, I think she forgot me…”

“Poor kiddo,” remarked Coach O’Donnell. “You want a lift home? I won’t let you stand in the rain for hours—where do you live?”

I told him my town and street address. “Oh! That’s very close to us! Hop in, we’ll drive you,” the coach declared with delight.

Debating for only a second, I decided I trusted him and followed the Coach and Roger to their truck like a little puppy. Coach O’Donnell tossed the sack into the trunk and Roger and I climbed in the back. As we pulled out of the lot, I felt a bit awkward, not knowing what to say, but happy and smiley to be with Roger. Because, after all, Roger was a Very Nice Good Person.

“Hey,” Very Nice Good Person remarked, jabbing a finger at my chest, “I went to that camp over the summer.”

“Me too!” Behold, common ground for us to talk about!

We discussed this for a few minutes, marveling over what a coincidence it was that we’d unknowingly played against each other during the summer and then wound up on the same high school team.

“Well, technically I’m not on the team yet,” I meekly pointed out.

Coach O’Donnell eyed me from the reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Oh, you’re on the team, Arik, no doubt about that.”

“Really?” I gasped, elated.

“Most definitely. I was watching you. I can tell you’ve played before.”

“I’ve been playing for eight years.”

“It shows. You’ve got some great skills.”

“Thank you,” I said, cheeks flushed with pride.

“Yeah, that’s why he paired you with me, ‘cuz you’re damn good for a freshman,” Roger explained, arms stretched out behind the back cushion.

“Oh, heh, thanks. What grade are you in?”

“Tenth,” he replied. “So I’m already on the JV team.”

“Oh! I thought you were older.”

“Eh, I stayed back in second grade because I couldn’t read,” he explained, laughing.

So that would make him about sixteen, I mused. Ancient compared to me.

“Yeah… I’m team captain, for some reason, so…” He leaned over, hand extended. “Welcome to the team, man.”

I clasped his hand and shook it, grinning widely. His palms were cold and sweaty from practice, but his grip was strong. He smiled at me, showing all his teeth, then whirled and looked out the window as his father called, “This the place?”

We’d pulled up by my house and, I noted with almost a bit of dismay, I’d be getting out of the car now. “Oh, yeah, that’s it!”

“Right-O, then…” Coach O’Donnell whistled, stopping in my driveway so I could hop out. “Have a nice night, Arik. Remember, first practice is this Friday.”

“I’ll be there!” I assured him, gathering my bags and ball.

“Later,” Roger said with a flick of his hand as a wave.

“Bye!” I called, waving wildly, and ran into the house.

My family was in the kitchen, and their heads turned at my arrival. Mum rushed over and hugged me. “Hey! So how was it? How did your first day go?” she squealed, taking my gym bag and leading me into the kitchen.

“Um, okay, I guess,” I said, grinning. “It’s really big and the teachers are tough, but they seem nice.”

Mum patted my hair. “Oh, that’s wonderful, honey! Did you make any new friends?”

I thought of Marguerite leading me around the school, and of Roger adopting me to his team. Mostly of Roger. “Yeah, I think I did,” I said, smiling.

Chapter Three...